by SL Hulen
The mention of Nandor made Victoria shiver, but just then Khara took her arm. They walked in the middle of the road, Heather following, ascending the small hill to the main house.
“When I am gone,” Khara began with a forsaken look, “you must promise me that you and Robert will be together.”
With a heavy heart, Victoria nodded weakly.
From the way the conversation quieted as they entered the living room, it was obvious their surprise visit was being discussed. Victoria hoped that discretion was among Celeste’s many good traits.
“Everyone, meet Victoria Barrón; she is a dear friend of my niece, Bea. And this impeccably dressed young woman is Khara.”
A woman not much older than Maggie sat on the couch, cradling a baby covered loosely with a blanket. Soft sucking sounds could be heard from underneath the yellow gingham cover. She inquired in a gentle voice, “How long will you stay?”
“My visit must end in thirty-nine-and-a-half days,” Khara answered; “perhaps even sooner, if the gods are willing. May I?” she asked, eyes glued to the small bundle. Touching the small, pink foot, she asked, “Does she have a name yet?”
“Of course; it’s Angela, because she’s my little angel. Isn’t she the sweetest thing you’ve ever seen?”
Behind her, Victoria recognized Celeste’s hoarse whisper. “Khara’s been too sheltered for her own good. But we’re going to fix that, aren’t we, cookie?”
“Our job is to help her get home—that’s it. Trying to change her is a bad idea.”
Soon afterwards everyone gathered around the dining table. Ignoring what Victoria had just said, Celeste occupied herself with educating Khara, seating her next to her own place at the far end of the table and explaining the intricacies of flatware placement.
At last, Victoria could concentrate on the green salad and caramelized onion tart on her plate. The first bite of the creamy onion mixture made her forget everything.
“Isn’t Celeste amazing?” a wild-haired man asked as he dropped into the chair next to her. “If a meteor was on its way to annihilate earth, I’d spend my last minutes eating one of her dinners. I’m Walt by the way,” he introduced himself, “veterinarian and friend for more years than either of us wants to admit. What brings you to the mountains and how do you know Celeste?”
“Nice to meet you; I’m Victoria. Celeste’s niece and I were in college together. She suggested I show Khara the high country, so here we are.”
“Celeste seems quite taken with her. Where’s she from?”
“Egypt.”
“You drove up from El Paso?”
“Last night.” His questions were distracting her from the food. “You say you’re a veterinarian?” she shot back, leaving the talking to him. His untamed silver hair, square jaw, and craggy brow gave him a surly appearance that was gentled by the calmness in his eyes. “I wouldn’t have guessed it.”
Walt glanced sheepishly at his jeans, which were tucked sloppily into cloddish boots, and straightened the leather vest embellished with flames and skulls. “I came up on my Harley. The official reason for my visit is to check on Shamrock, but timing house calls advantageously becomes downright critical when you’re an old bachelor.” He forked onion tart into his mouth and chased it with an entire glass of chardonnay. He leaned closer and whispered, “I doubt that poor dog will make it to winter, and I worry how Celeste is going to handle it when she finally goes. It pains me to see those two shuffling back and forth.”
“They seem to do all right,” Victoria contended and, between bites, added, “I’m trying to figure out how she manages it all.”
“Her body is crumbling,” Walt stated flatly and clinically, belying the ache in his heart. “All that standing in the kitchen just makes it worse. Even with Lila’s help, she does far too much for someone in her condition.”
“I had no idea it was that bad,” Victoria admitted, putting her fork down. “It doesn’t seem right.”
“Nobody said life was fair.”
“No, but she deserves better.”
Walt smiled and began eating as if there were no tomorrow and drinking more than he ate. He excused himself by the time the ice cream was served and Victoria suspected that he had found a comfortable corner and fallen asleep, and was somewhat grateful for his absence because it afforded her the opportunity to watch the others.
Celeste cackled while enlightening her guests about the events of the day. Emma, the Ferrari-driving cat, couldn’t be bothered to learn about two young women occupying the cabin. Celeste had insisted that she be more polite, to which Emma had retorted, Polite to whom? Honestly, I don’t know which women you’re talking about.
Emma’s excellent grammar helped offset her poor manners, Celeste asserted. “Why, just a few summers ago, she ignored the great tenor José Carreras. He stayed with us one night— old friend of Carl’s, you understand. Because he wasn’t the self-promoting type like Pavarotti or Domingo, Emma was convinced he was here to repair the plaster in the upstairs bathroom and treated him abominably.”
Victoria could not help but grin. No one, including Khara, so much as raised an eyebrow; they let Celeste ramble on as if they believed every word. In fact, Marcia, who ate with one hand and held her daughter with the other, commented with a perfectly straight face, “The purple-sequined collar you ordered for her came today. Didn’t Emma order it to go with her thong?
“That she did,” Celeste answered, grinning. “The way she sashays around, it’s no wonder Kingsford Charcoal is out of his mind for her. And she won’t give him the time of day.”
Marcia giggled. “What a superficial girl she is.”
“I think,” Celeste confided, “she’s a bit of a racist. Even though I’ve pointed out on numerous occasions that some of her stripes are not much lighter than Kingsford’s, she won’t hear another word about him.”
Khara stated, with authority, “He cares nothing for Emma, he loves Heather. He has even asked if I would speak to her on his behalf. He thinks she’s the most beautiful creature he’s ever seen.”
“Ah!” Celeste exclaimed, startling everyone at the table. “Don’t let that little minx hear you talk about another cat like that or there’ll be trouble!”
So the conversation went until long after midnight. Uncomfortable after sitting so long, Victoria rose to clear the table. Distracted by Celeste’s explanation of the grandfather clock, Khara didn’t even glance her way.
“Every mark on the clock’s face corresponds with an hour. The larger hand shows minutes,” Celeste explained.
Victoria could almost see the wheels in Khara’s mind spinning. “But how does the clock relate to the path of the stars?” she inquired.
“A clock renders the need for watching the stars useless.” Khara’s face fell, and Celeste patted her leg sympathetically. “Think of the possibilities, child.”
After a rather glum silence, Khara followed Victoria into the kitchen, watched the sink fill with hot water, and reached for the white cotton dish towel. “It seems like a job for two,” she replied to Victoria’s raised eyebrows.
When the last dish was put away, Victoria and Lila helped Celeste to her room. Marcia and the baby were gone, and Walt snored contentedly from the chair closest to the dying fire, Shamrock at his feet. “See you tomorrow,” Victoria whispered to Chris, the caretaker.
At the opposite end of the house, Khara waited, brushing her hands against the dangling crystals while humming a melancholy tune. They let themselves out the back door without a sound.
At this hour, the cabin seemed infinitely far away. Victoria’s steps quickened, and soon she’d left Khara behind.
“Hurry up, I’m freezing!” she called softly.
As usual, Khara’s attention was on the sky. Victoria shuddered, wondering if she was waiting for her guardian to return.
“What are you doing?” Victoria asked, inching closer to the safety of the cabin.
“Let me show you,” Khara invited, her gaze fixed on
the sky. “In the sand desert, we stood,” she moved to the left several steps, “here.” Remembering how the shadow had stretched out its arm, Victoria understood; Khara was duplicating their position the previous night in the dunes.
As the giant shadow had done, she pointed north and slightly to the west, asking, “What lies in that direction?”
“Desolation.” Seeing that Khara was unhappy with her answer, she added, “The reservation.”
“I must have a map,” Khara demanded abruptly, arm dropping to her side. It was then that Victoria noted that her friend was now wearing a silver tank watch. “A gift from Celeste,” she explained. A loud meow came from the road. Invisible except for his yellow eyes, Kingsford Charcoal materialized.
“Tomorrow, Heather will know of your feelings for her,” Khara promised him.
She looked at the watch again, checking it against the stars. “That the stars would ever be useless is false wisdom,” she muttered, shaking her head, “in any age.”
In her voice, Victoria recognized profound pain.
She showed Khara the upstairs bedroom, but they agreed to share the room on the first floor and leave Celeste’s memories as they were. Victoria felt strongly about this, though she could not say why.
An antique iron bed, its head and footboard decorated with scrollwork and painted the same green as the patio furniture, almost filled the tiny room. Between the windows on the opposite wall stood a wardrobe containing extra quilts, and Victoria tossed one onto the bed. There were other treasures— thick towels, a small basket filled with felt slippers of assorted sizes.
Victoria retrieved the clothing from the front room, found a long-sleeved t-shirt and flannel pajama bottoms, and stole into the bathroom to change. Unlike Khara, who dropped her clothes at a moment’s notice, Victoria needed privacy. She splashed icy water on her face and brushed her teeth using one of the toothbrushes thoughtfully provided. A number of tubes with extravagant labels in French filled the medicine cabinet. Choosing one that smelled of roses, she squeezed a dab into her hand and lavished it onto her face and neck Then it was Khara’s turn. She returned with damp hair, smelling of the same rose crème, and dressed in a delicate cotton gown.
“Also Bea’s,” she replied to Victoria’s look of curiosity. “Before she married, she came here often. Celeste misses her terribly.” They crawled underneath the quilts and turned the lamp off. “Victoria?”
“Yeah?”
“What’s an angel? Marcia described her daughter as one.”
“Didn’t Father Donato explain them to you?”
“I suppose he would have if we’d had more time.”
“I think the best way to describe them is as sort of messengers. Yes, that’s it; they’re messengers from god.”
“Will you show me a drawing of one?”
“Tomorrow. And we’ll see about getting you a map.”
“May the gods watch over you for all the hours of the night.”
That night Victoria slept too deeply to dream of Robert Chilton or her past, or of the monstrous black aberration that had approached them in the sand. In the intense quiet after Khara’s invocation of protection, she drifted peacefully to sleep.
Chapter Thirty-one Mieley
Mieley switched on the television in his hotel room and tried to relax. He’d spent another grueling day watching Victoria Barrón’s office, apartment, and her uncle’s home for some clue to her whereabouts—seven days had passed, and so far, nothing. Still, Mieley did not allow himself to despair; he knew something would give eventually.
Judging by the confused faces of the staff, they knew nothing. The office kept regular hours, though it had been a week since a client had been shown past the reception lobby. Observing Elias’s home, which was situated on a wide lane, presented more difficulties. It was the kind of street where people knew each other’s habits and might notice a strange vehicle, so he waited until dark.
Why would Victoria Barrón abandon her practice? It made no sense. On more than one occasion Elias had complained about her choice of profession; so much injustice, not enough money, he’d explained.
Maybe that was it, he thought; she was in it for the money. The Egyptian and she were partners. As an attorney, her part had been to negotiate the sale. Perhaps… He was wasting time. Tomorrow he would try a different tactic.
Chapter Thirty-two Victoria
The snapping of brush outside the bedroom window woke her. Victoria found the quilt on Khara’s side of the bed smooth, the top folded back neatly. She grabbed a sweater and rushed outside only to find the old turkey returning with his harem. The ungainly parade passed alongside the porch before disappearing back into the brush.
To the east, she spotted Khara, bent in prayer, still wearing her nightgown. Victoria watched her touch her forehead to the earth, and then rise and catch the first rays of the sun in her arms in a kind of benediction that always stirred something deep inside her. She fought her instinct to join Khara on the grass and returned inside.
After closing the door softly, she leaned against it and closed her eyes. In the half-light of early morning, the events of the last weeks had not yet begun bombarding her thoughts. She was not being threatened or pursued. Very slowly, because she did not trust it completely, she allowed this twinkling of calm to envelop her. But it did not last, and too soon she opened her eyes.
On her immediate right was a dinette table and two chairs. Opposite the front door, a bar-height counter hid a tiny kitchen. Behind the counter she found drawers stocked with basic kitchen necessities. Within minutes the percolator had filled the cabin with a splendid aroma. Filling two mugs, she added powdered cream and some sugar.
She met Khara at the door. “Try this. It won’t be so strong now. And where is it written that you have to pray on wet grass? Your gown is soaked. Here, put this on.” Peeling off her sweater, she placed it around Khara’s shoulders.
With cold fingers, Khara grasped the mug and observed, “What an excellent mother you’ll make.”
“Don’t start that again.”
“I can picture it perfectly. Maybe you’ll have four or five children—I predict mostly daughters, but perhaps a son. They will be tall and have eyes the color of the sea. Just like—”
“Yeah, right.”
“Come outside, Victoria. Let us enjoy this glorious morning.” She led the way to a porch step that groaned as they sat down. No lights could be seen in the main house yet. “Even the gods do not live among such beauty. It is enough—”
“To make you stay?” A small lump of happiness rose in Victoria’s chest.
Wrapping the sweater tighter, a long strand of hair fell across Khara’s face. “That is not possible. I suppose there is no harm in staying a few more days, but what of your obligations to your clients?”
“I think I’m due. Besides, there’s a computer in town. I can check in as often as I need to,” Victoria replied, standing.
“Where are you going?”
“To get dressed and start breakfast.”
Khara gave her a sidelong glance, but said nothing. By the time Victoria put her dress on, tied her hair into a ponytail, and slipped on Lila’s shoes, the farm was beginning to wake. While neatening the bed, she heard the caretaker’s heavy steps on the porch followed by a quick “Morning.” Through the window, Victoria watched Chris throw grain into the lake for the trout and put dried food out for a pair of ducks that hurried to the porch like hungry beggars. Cats came from every direction when he called.
Lila sat beside Khara to finish her morning cigarette. Due to Celeste’s delicate health, smoking in the main house was strictly forbidden. She held it out to Khara, who wrinkled her nose and turned away, and then shrugged and watched her husband.
Victoria joined them outside. “What would you say to having some help with the cooking?”
“You?” Lila asked, astonished.
“Walt says Celeste’s standing so long is bad for her back. While we’re here, I can help o
ut. I’m not completely helpless in the kitchen, you know.”
Lila blew a last puff of smoke out hard.
“I can follow instructions.”
“Come on then.” Lila carefully placed the half-smoked cigarette under the leaves of one of Celeste’s prized hostas and took off for the main house.
A clinking sound welcomed them as the wind pushed into the dining room. “Celeste needs good food, and a lot more of it than you’d think, to keep up her strength.”
“Bacon and eggs are my specialty,” Victoria lied.
“Now you’re talking. And scones are her favorite. Walt never made it home last night, which makes breakfast for six.”
“I’ve never made scones.”
“Neither had I,” Lila confessed. She set a large stainless-steel bowl in front of Victoria and gathered butter, blueberries, and buttermilk, as well as flour, sugar, baking powder, and spices. Then she whisked the dry ingredients together and after grating a lemon naked, added the rind. “Mixing the buttermilk in this way helps keep the dough tender.”
Under Lila’s practiced eyes, Victoria rolled the soft pile into a rectangle, dropped the blueberries on top, and then folded the dough into thirds. When it was finally cut into wedges, sprinkled with sugar, and put into the oven, it seemed nothing short of a miracle.
The sumptuous scent soon brought the others. Walt was first, tucking in his shirttail and smoothing back his silver hair while sniffing the air. Victoria concentrated on not overcooking the eggs while Lila pulled out a chair for Celeste.
“You’re a dreadful guest, cookie,” Celeste told Victoria.
Victoria chose her words carefully. “I thought if I helped out with meals, it would free you up to teach Khara the finer points of American traditions.” When Walt gave her a strange look, she added matter-of-factly, “Khara’s studying the impact of Westernization on less advanced countries.”
With an air of complicity, Celeste asked, “Speaking of my guest, where is she?”
