Mac’s widowed and celibate state had been a source of humor among his fellow ranchers since he’d returned home and taken over as First Baptist Church’s minister. He’d grown up branding and riding with most of them, so he was given no mercy despite his ecclesiastical status.
“I believe I don’t even want to go there,” I said, slipping my hands in my back pockets.
Mac took a little more kidding as he swung off Peck, telling them all what they could do with their suggestions by the curve of his upper lip.
“Oh, man, better watch out. He’s giving us the Elvis sneer now,” an old cowboy said, spitting a long brown strand of tobacco juice two inches from Mac’s size thirteen cowboy boots.
Mac looked at me, a huge grin on his face. “You know what the only trouble with some Baptists is? They just didn’t hold them under long enough.”
The men roared in laughter. It was obvious he was well liked by these men, many of whom attended his church on a semiregular basis.
“Walk with me,” Mac said, leading Peck away from the still laughing men. “We can talk while this old fleabag cools off.”
“This won’t take long,” I said. “Dove just suggested I talk with you about this . . . thing I’m working on.”
“No problem,” he said, looking down at me from his six-foot-four-inch height. His gray eyes were calm and soothing. “I’m done for the day anyway.”
We walked down the road toward the trucks and horse trailers. Behind us, the men cheered on Roberto as he attempted to pen the same calf that had escaped from Mac.
Mac laughed and scratched his horse’s warm neck. A former Baylor tackle who’d turned down the pros to serve a more demanding coach than any in the NFL, he’d come back to San Celina shortly after Jack died. I attended his church sporadically at first, but had become more regular in the last few months, something he teased me as being one of his more successful spiritual accomplishments.
He was a hometown boy, six years older than me, someone I’d known all my life. Someone I’d even had an adolescent crush on when I was twelve and he was eighteen. Since that time we’d both been married and widowed and I’d remarried. At thirty-six and forty-two, we’d developed an appreciation for our friendship and I could even, occasionally, think of him as a spiritual advisor. That is, when I wasn’t teasing him about past peccadillos such as the time he and my uncle Arnie, his best friend in high school, were caught by the vice-principal reselling his grandma Oralee’s beer for a substantial profit to their fellow football players.
“So, what’s up?” Mac asked.
I told him a quick version of Maple and Garvey and what I believed about Maple. “Dove said Oralee might know something about all this and that I should ask you.”
“Why not ask Grandma herself?” Mac asked, his broad, handsome face perplexed. He tied Peck loosely to a ring and started unbuckling his saddle.
“Dove said she was only talking to you these days.”
Mac’s face remained confused as he hefted off the saddle and blanket and shoved them into the trailer’s small equipment locker. “I don’t know what Dove’s talking about. Grandma Oralee is doing fine. I saw her yesterday. Just go on over to the retirement home. She’d be tickled to see you.”
I chewed on my bottom lip and rubbed Peck’s cheek. Why had Dove sent me to Mac then?
“Anything else going on?” he asked, his voice casual. He took out a well-used curry brush and with practiced strokes cleaned off Peck’s sweat and dirt-encrusted back.
I couldn’t meet his eyes. Dang that Dove. She was making sure I received spiritual advice whether I wanted it or not. I shrugged. “Not much. Elvia’s wedding been keeping me busy.”
He continued currying Peck. “Wasn’t yesterday your anniversary? Second, right?”
I nodded and didn’t answer. He would remember since, after our Las Vegas elopement, he’d married us for a second time five days later to appease Dove’s spiritual requirements.
“So, what did you two do?” He grinned. “Remember, I’m your minister. I want the G-rated version.”
I gave him a halfhearted smile back. “Oh, you know . . .”
His face grew concerned. “What I know is you since you were a knock-kneed kid. And your expression tells me something’s wrong.”
I started to answer, then choked. I shook my head at him dumbly.
“Here,” he said, handing me the curry brush. “You clean off old Peck here and I’ll just rest my bones.” He sat down on the trailer’s bumper and looked away from me.
I started brushing Peck’s wide back, and with each long stroke, the story gradually came out. By the time I’d finished, Peck’s coat was gleaming, his eyes rolled back from the sheer pleasure of my touch, and there were tears in my eyes. Mac never uttered a single word until I held the brush out to him.
“Let’s take Peck for a drink,” he said.
Down at the small creek that ran alongside the Martinez’s long driveway, while Peck drank deeply, Mac asked, “So, what do you plan on doing?”
“What can I do?” I said bitterly. “Seems like he holds all the cards in this game.”
Mac patted my shoulder. “I think you might have an ace or two.”
I didn’t answer.
“You knew this marriage wasn’t going to be easy. You and I discussed that at great length, if I remember correctly. Of course, that was after you’d already married him.”
“I know.” I was going to leave it at that, not wanting to hear any “I told you so’s” but couldn’t resist adding, “But I expected stepchildren and ex-wife problems, maybe even some old Vietnam stuff, but I never expected him to say he might still be in love with someone else. What could I do to prepare for that? I feel so stupid. This is so unfair. If he didn’t love me, he shouldn’t have married me.”
Mac stroked Peck’s shiny flank. The horse lifted his head and sniffed at the air, his ears twisting like little antennas. “He loves you, Benni. Take my word on that. This is just a little burp from his past.”
“Burp! More like an extended beer belch.” Then, I couldn’t help giving a small laugh. “Could we have managed to find a grosser metaphor?”
He laughed with me. “You know, he married you. That says a lot. I’ve seen a lot of variations on male-female relationships and I’ve come to one simple conclusion. If a man is willing to be legal partners with a woman and make her the beneficiary of his life insurance and all that he owns, that, my dear friend, is trust and that is a lot of what real love is about. You can certainly love someone without trusting them, but I’m not entirely certain you can trust someone without feeling love for them.”
“That’s kind of a practical way of looking at love,” I said.
“Real love, mature love, is as much practical as passionate,” he said. “It’s not just the Song of Solomon, it’s also First Corinthians 13. Pretty easy to understand. Very concrete adjectives and verbs. ‘Love is patient, is kind, is not proud, not easily angered, keeps no records of wrongs.’ ”
“Right, easy as eating pie,” I said.
He raised his eyebrows. “I didn’t say it was easy to do, just practical.”
I sighed, embarrassed by my snappish tone. “I’m sorry, Mac.”
He put a huge arm around my shoulders. “You’re hurt, angry, confused. All of that is perfectly human. Have you prayed about it?”
My voice was a whisper. “I’m too pissed off to pray.”
He gave a small chuckle. “It’s okay, God can take you being angry. How about I say a quick one right now?”
I nodded. He started before I could even bow my head and close my eyes.
“Lord God,” he said, in his beautiful, deep bass. “Like you heard, Benni’s real angry now, at Gabe and at you. Help her find her way to peace. Help Gabe do what is right. And help this woman who has come between them find peace also, just somewhere other than San Celina, if you don’t mind. But most of all, help us trust in your mercy and your wisdom. We ask that you work this all out be
cause the people involved sure aren’t doing that good a job of it. Thank you. Amen.”
I echoed his amen.
“Anything else?” he asked, squeezing my shoulders.
“No, thanks. I do feel better even though nothing has changed.”
“Good,” he said. “After my poor showing in that corral, I was hoping that those yokels weren’t right about my ministering abilities. Keep me informed, okay? And I’ll keep you in my prayers.”
“Thanks, Mac, I will.”
“Oh, and do go by and see Oralee. Who knows, she might have some information on that case you’re working on. If you find out anything new, I’d be curious to hear about it.”
“Sure thing.”
I spent a half hour or so shooting the breeze with Maria, eating a piece of her excellent cherry pie and giving her my input on the opportunity quilt that incorporated local ranch brands in the log cabin pattern. Then I headed toward Oak Terrace Retirement Home, a facility perched on a hill overlooking the road out of San Celina to Morro Bay. I found Oralee in the sun room polishing a pair of red cowboy boots.
“Wow, those are pretty fancy,” I said.
“They’re a pain in the ass is what they are,” she replied, holding one up in a gnarled hand. “Show every little mark. Mac bought them for me.” At the mention of her beloved grandson’s name, her tanned old face broke into a big smile.
“I just saw Mac,” I said. “He said I should come by and see you. I’ve got some questions about the war years.”
Her face lit up and I glanced at the clock above the stone mantel. I would have to steer this conversation with great care or I’d be here all day listening to World War II recollections. It took me only a few minutes to explain to her what I wanted to know.
“I never thought she did it,” Oralee said. “She was a real fine lady. That Mitch was a rich, spoiled brat who managed to wiggle his way out of serving his country. I doubt he’d have thought twice about stealing his best friend’s girl, maybe even killing him if the circumstances were right.”
“Except a person can’t be stolen from someone else,” I said. “She wasn’t a horse or a cow getting rustled. She would have had to go along willingly.”
By the expression on Oralee’s face, I could see I’d struck a nerve, but she was never one to back down. “She was a good woman. I’d bet my ranch on it. If there was any killing, she didn’t do it. And as for running off with him, well, I never cottoned to that theory either. I saw the way she looked at Garvey when they went to some of the Cattlemen’s balls. She loved that man. She wouldn’t hurt him.”
I sighed and thanked her, though I really wasn’t any farther along the path of knowing the truth than when I’d arrived an hour ago. We chatted a little longer. I filled her in on all the latest gossip with the Cattlewomen and in Dove’s life and wedding plans.
“I’m sure looking forward to that wedding, wherever it ends up taking place,” she said, with a pleased cackle. “Maybe I’ll wear my red boots.”
“Dove would purely love that,” I said. “I’ll let you know where they land as soon as I know.”
I spent another three, unfruitful hours visiting the women of Oak Terrace’s Coffin Star Quilt Guild, of which I was an unofficial member. You had to be at least seventy-five to be voted in, but I was given honorary membership so they’d have someone to thread their needles and bring them new fabric for their stashes. They’d all remembered the scandal. Of the now thirteen members who remembered the incident, the split was ten in favor of Maple, two undecided, and one who thought she was definitely guilty.
“It was the top story in the local paper, right there next to Hitler’s shenanigans,” said Thelma Rook, who had once owned the largest feed store in San Celina. “But I never did quite believe it was as simple as the paper implied. The Tribune never mentioned Mitch Warner, of course, so most of us heard about that through the grapevine.”
“I noticed that when I read the articles at the library,” I said.
“Well,” Martha Pickering, Thelma’s roommate and best friend, said, “I think she was a nice little country girl who just got in over her head. She and I rolled many a Red Cross bandage together and she just plumb didn’t have it in her to murder anyone.”
“That seems to be the general consensus,” I said. “Except for Constance Sinclair and Vynelle Williams.” I’d just been in Vynelle’s room ten minutes before and she was the one dissenting viewpoint, which I was trying to listen to with an open mind like a good historian should.
“Oh, that Vynelle,” Thelma said, shaking her head primly. “She’d find fault with Saint Joan of Arc. Then again, she and Constance ran in the same crowd once upon a time before Vynelle’s husband embezzled all that money from the bank. She’s still trying to get back into the good graces of this town’s so-called social elite even though they dumped her like a load of manure twenty years ago.”
Vynelle had been as dismissive and certain of Maple’s guilt as Constance, but with no real concrete reason why. I assumed it was, again, a class issue, as well as an envy one. The trouble was I was only getting people’s feelings and suspicions, no real evidence. That made finding who’d been sending those flowers all those years even more important.
“Thanks a lot, ladies,” I said, hugging them both. “You’ve been a big help. I’ll keep you up on what’s happening with it.”
“You do that,” Martha said, taking one of my hands between her two warm, wrinkled ones. “And bring us some yellows and oranges for our fabric stash next time, you hear? It’s getting on spring and my mind’s working on a quilt of mums.”
“You got it, sisters,” I said. “Talk to you soon.”
It was already one o’clock so I dialed Dove and let her know I was on my way to the ranch to work on Elvia’s quilt. We had only five squares left to quilt and time was running short.
At the ranch, I made myself an egg salad sandwich and ate it while I watched Dove stitch on Elvia’s quilt. It had turned out more beautiful than we’d hoped. It was as special for me as I knew it would be for Elvia and Emory because of all the hours I spent quilting it with Dove.
“You’re eating that sandwich in a right leisurely manner,” she commented dryly, holding up her needle to the quilting lamp, the better to thread it. She scoffed at fancy needle threaders, claiming if people ate enough carrots, they wouldn’t need them. Her eyes narrowed as she sought the needle’s eye. We were sitting in the family room right off the kitchen, where the scent of baking zucchini bread filled the air with the smell of allspice, nutmeg, and cinnamon. Outside, a light February rain had started, tempting me to kick back and take a nap after I ate, not finish Elvia’s quilt.
“Quit your bellyaching,” I answered, pushing Daddy’s recliner back one notch just to show her I wasn’t in a hurry. “I’ll finish when I finish.”
“Where you learned to sass like that, I’ll never know,” she said with absolute sincerity.
Isaac walked into the room just as she uttered her last comment, gave a small chuckle, and winked at me.
“She’s serious,” I said, smiling at him. “She thinks I got it from someone else.”
“No comment,” he said, leaning down to kiss the top of her snowy head. “At least until we get hitched, then all bets are off.”
“Ha, ain’t that the truth,” Dove said, grinning.
They gave each other an adoring look.
“Okay, you guys, save it for the honeymoon.” I pushed the chair upright and joined Dove on the sofa. “Let’s finish this old horse blanket.”
“Now she wants to work,” Dove said.
“What did you say the name of this pattern was again?” Isaac asked, pouring himself a cup of coffee from the coffeemaker.
“Steps to the Altar,” I said, threading a needle. “It’s a pretty easy pattern, but Dove and I really liked the name and we wanted to make Elvia something other than the traditional Wedding Ring.”
He nodded, his face solemn. “Steps to the Altar,” he repe
ated. “Very appropriate. But take it from someone who knows, the steps to the altar are easy, it’s the steps to a marriage that are hard.”
Dove studied Isaac’s face for a moment. “That,” she said softly, “is about the truest thing I ever heard spoken.”
“I’ll be down by the creek,” he said. “There’re some egrets feeding there and I want some pictures of them.”
“Dinner’s at six,” Dove said. “Don’t be late or I’ll throw it to the pigs.”
Isaac’s old face grinned. “She would too.”
I laughed. “I wouldn’t worry too much. We don’t have pigs.”
After he’d left, Dove and I settled into a rhythm that we’d developed over the years of quilting together, an easy balance of talk and breaks every so often to stretch the kinks from our legs and fingers. Some of our best conversations had come about when we were quilting, especially when she’d forced me to quilt as a teenager. The combination of having to concentrate on a physical act and the inability to look at the person while you were talking had enabled Dove and I to discuss delicate topics without too much pressure and emotion.
At first, I mostly listened as she talked about this book she’d just bought that had chapters and chapters of unusual weddings and wedding spots.
“In Las Vegas, you can have a Star Trek wedding, a King Arthur wedding, or even a Godfather wedding complete with a fake attack by rival mobsters.”
I raised my eyebrows at that one, but didn’t say a word.
“I’m kind of partial to the Beach Blanket Bingo wedding package, though,” she continued, her eyes on her stitching. “Two muscle men would carry me down the aisle on a surfboard to any song I’d like. I was thinking the Beach Boys’ ‘Wish They All Could Be California Girls’ would be about right. I think I’ve lived here long enough to qualify for that, don’t you?”
Okay, that one made me giggle. “You aren’t serious?”
She shook her head. “Just wanted to see if I could get you to smile.”
“So you did,” I said, giving her a half smile.
“I mean in your eyes.”
Steps to the Altar Page 22
