A Time to Gather

by Sally John

  Danny, who at first visited every day, had not come to the hacienda in many, many days. His presence at the family dinner last week was not personal to her.

  With Jenna there had never been even a slit in the curtain between them.

  The fatal blow, however, hit Saturday night. Erik left. He left sooner than he said he would. He did not say good-bye as he promised. He had not called her as he promised. Not one word from him to her, in spite of the camaraderie they’d shared.

  A despicable castoff.

  It was time for Tuyen to leave, once and for all, the world that was not her home.

  Forty-Eight

  Lexi peered over the cards in her hand at her grandpa. They sat in the sala at the huge dining table, the replacement for a smattering of small tables. Before The Fire, she and Papa had played their perpetual game of canasta at a small table, Samson curled at his feet, Willow on her lap. Now the furniture felt all wrong. Not even the dog and cat had shown up.

  “I miss the small tables in here.”

  Papa snorted. “I miss a heapful more than a lousy table. And it ain’t necessarily made up of things, if you get my drift.”

  She got his drift, all right. That was exactly what she’d been telling her mom. “I know. Life before The Fire was good.”

  Papa laid his cards down, spread his hands against the table, and leaned toward her. His expression was the one used for warnings about snakes and mountain lions. “Alexis Beaumont, that was not my drift.”

  Only once in her post-toddler life had Lexi crossed him. It happened at the time of The Fire, when he’d behaved as if struck with a sudden case of dementia, making him totally irrational.

  Obviously that was not the case at the moment. She kept her mouth shut.

  “Life before The Fire was like always,” he growled. “It just was. Good and bad, easy and hard. God blesses us with it all mixed together. The good stuff makes us feel happy for a while, but it’s the crap that shows us what kind of people we really are. Exposes those black spots on our hearts, the ones He’s in the business of healing.” Papa’s jaw went rigid.

  “Th-then what did you mean? What do you miss from before?”

  He blinked, loudly sucked air in through his mouth and held it as if trying to keep control. “I miss not knowing my eldest son went back on his word. Turned into a man I would not recognize.” He blew out the breath.

  “But, Papa—”

  “God could have let me die without that information.”

  “But the circumstances—”

  “Circumstances! Hogwash. That’s situational ethics. No such animal.” He pushed back his chair. “I’m going to bed.”

  “Do you see a black spot? On your heart?”

  The glare in his eyes dimmed. His jaw went slack. “Don’t know. Don’t much care at this point. I’m just a tired old man. My Maker can clue me in when I see Him. Finish the job then.”

  Lexi watched his retreating back as he left the room. His formerly broad shoulders were rounded under the plaid flannel shirt that appeared a size too large.

  She sank back in her chair, feeling like a tired old person herself. The day had held too much. Too much good and bad, easy and hard. Dawn’s first rays had fallen on her giraffe painting, a promise of good things to come. And come they had—first at work, then with Nathan Warner. Both invigorated. The difficult stuff—Erik, Rosie, choosing to go to the hacienda—served her well. They somehow created hope.

  Until reality sank in.

  Being with Max wore on her. Responding to the dad who hadn’t paid her attention in twenty-some years frazzled her. Her mother listened to her, but still she seemed distant, entwined in her new life as hacienda hostess, occupied with the care of Max, Papa, Nana, and now Tuyen.

  Nana wasn’t her old self yet. Papa had been—for about twenty minutes.

  If Papa was right, it was all designed to reveal some black spot on her heart. But she already knew what that was: like Erik, Lexi was such a mess.

  Forty-Nine

  In the parking lot near the hospital’s ER entrance, Rosie sat on squishy, pearl-gray leather behind the wheel of the silver convertible. Top up. It was a late-model Mustang, one powerful piece of equipment. If given the opportunity, she would consider paying a large sum of money in order to drive it, open it up out on a desert highway. Top down.

  She traced her finger around the steering wheel and spoke to the man sprawled in the passenger seat. “I’m sorry I called you a waste of oxygen.”

  “I think that was ‘pathetic waste of oxygen.’”

  “Yeah. Whatever. I apologize.”

  Silence filled the car again. The clock read ten fifteen. They’d spent hours inside the ER getting Erik repatched up. He was good to go. The question remained as to where.

  He shifted, reached over, and turned the key in the ignition. “It’s freezing.”

  “You could have asked me to do that.”

  He flipped on the heater. “Rosie, I did ask for help.”

  She rubbed her forehead. He wasn’t referring to the heater.

  “I got arrested in Santa Reina on purpose. I needed an excuse to call you. I told you I didn’t need a lawyer. I said I needed Maria. I said, ‘You’re the only one who can help me.’”

  So upset about his arrest, Rosie hadn’t heard his thinly veiled cry for help.

  Upset about his arrest? Get over yourself, Delgado. You were upset because he called Felicia. That’s not even upset. That’s jealousy.

  “Tonight,” he said, his voice low and quiet, “I asked Lexi for help. I shouldn’t have done that. She’s not well herself.”

  “Beaumont, just come out and say it. I’m listening now.”

  For a moment he didn’t respond. “I need help. I don’t know who else to ask. You’re the only one who talks to me straight and at the same time seems to give a hoot.”

  Rosie shut her eyes.

  “I’m . . . scared. I’m in serious self-destruct mode. The last thing I remember was tearing my place apart trying to find another bottle. Have no clue how I hurt myself. Have no clue what day it was. Or is. The blackouts have gotten worse.”

  She looked at his profile. He stared straight ahead, his shoulders hunched, as if talking to some unseen confessor.

  “I had such good intentions. Forget you along with my family—I can do this by myself. That lasted all of thirty minutes. I came home to my agent’s message that all the feelers he put out for jobs got the same reply—something along the lines of ‘in your dreams’—and then he more or less fired me as a client. Okay, I can take a hint. Nobody in news broadcasting is going to hire me.”

  He paused. “Things got fuzzy real quick after that. I ran out of booze at some point. I left to buy more and tripped over a copy of that ridiculous rag Snapshot USA tucked under the welcome mat. Guess what page was earmarked?” He turned toward her.

  Her throat constricted. She shook her head.

  “You got it. My two former best friends, full color, arms locked, grinning like they won the biggest lottery in history. ‘San Diego’s Hottest Couple Sizzle.’ Tiny insert photos, one of yours truly and one of an ambulance. They didn’t really get a shot of my ambulance, did they?”

  She shrugged.

  “You’re mentioned, too, by the way, but not by name. Fortunately they totally missed the part about you and Lexi and your partner being at the bar with the sizzling couple.” He pinched the bridge of his nose.

  “Thank God.” She swallowed and coughed, trying to relax her throat muscles.

  “You are such a Maria, and I mean that respectfully.” He gazed toward the windshield again. “So, I give. What’s next?”

  “You tell me.”

  “I-I . . .” His eyes closed. Tears glistened on his lashes. “Do they teach you how to torture at the academy or do you just come by this naturally?”

  “Tell me what you want, Erik.”

  A long moment passed. “I want to check myself in. Somewhere.”

  “Okay. Somewh
ere. I assume money is no problem. Which means you could go anywhere. Maybe you want to dry out up in Malibu. You know, at one of those really nice, posh places where all the big names go.”

  “That’s me: big name, posh to the nth degree. Wouldn’t consider anything less than first-class all the way.”

  “It’s hard work, no matter where—”

  “Revolving-door rehab is the only way to go.” Sarcasm overtook his earlier defeated tone. “I’ll join the parade of people who get fixed, suffer relapse, and repeat the whole cycle again. Why, the headline guarantee alone is priceless. And it sort of maps out my future, don’t you think? I’ll know where I’ll be six months from now. Well, not specifically. I’ll either be on the mend or relapsing.” At last his voice ran out of steam.

  “I just wanted to make sure you were aware of all the options.”

  “You think I haven’t thought about this?”

  Rosie inhaled deeply. “I have another option in mind, one you might not know about. It’s very small, very private. Its only guarantee is that the experience will be the most painful you’ve ever had. It’s two hours from here, in the desert. I can take you right now. If you’re ready.”

  He covered his face with his hands and nodded. At the first sound of a sob, Rosie shifted the car into gear.

  Erik unbuckled his seatbelt. “From the looks of this place and considering how fast you drive, I’d say we’ve landed on the other side of the moon.”

  Smiling to herself, Rosie turned off the engine.

  The nighttime desert did not resemble the busy community they’d left behind. It wasn’t only the bleak landscape that separated the two, however. Inside the lone ranch-style stucco house before them lived a couple who danced to a tune not many people could hear.

  “Talk about desolate,” he said. “What am I getting myself into?”

  “The rest of your life, Erik.” She met his gaze.

  They hadn’t talked much during the two-hour drive. He’d recovered his composure and remained silent, dozing off and on. She focused on driving and praying. To talk about his decision to seek help could have led him into talking himself out of it.

  She sensed they still tiptoed around that possibility. “Trust me, it’s a good thing. Let’s get out. I have to stretch.”

  They climbed from the car and walked around its front. The night was gorgeous: cold, clear air, the sky a sequined canopy.

  “Where are we besides the middle of nowhere?”

  The house was the only place in sight. Lamplight shone through the windows. An exterior light over the front door bathed a small stoop in a soft yellow glow.

  “Welcome to Greg and Jillie Hennison’s home,” she said.

  “This is somebody’s home?”

  “You turned down posh.”

  “Yes, but—”

  “Don’t worry. It’s rehab with a cozy twist. Do you know who St. Francis of Assisi was?”

  He thought a moment. “Was he the wild guy who renounced family and money and ran off naked into the woods?”

  She smiled at him.

  He stared back at her. Even in the shadows he looked a wreck. His eyes were slits in puffballs, his hair matted, his jeans and long-sleeved henley shirt something beyond the slept-in phase.

  A smile tugged at his mouth. “Got the family and money renunciation down pat. Do I get to do the naked part too?”

  She grinned. “Actually, I packed some clothes for you. Grabbed a few things at your place while you were out of it.”

  “You never cease to amaze me, Maria.”

  “It was an act of faith, expecting you would need them.” She went back around the car and retrieved a grocery bag from the backseat. Unlike the rest of his condo, his closet and drawers were organized to the point of fastidiousness. Gathering a few basics had been easy. The guy was into personal appearance. No surprise, she imagined, considering his public role.

  She handed him the paper sack.

  “This is it?”

  “Trust me, there are no adoring fans out here. Besides that, Jillie does laundry and Greg is about your size.”

  “I’m going to miss your smart mouth.”

  “And I yours. Ready?”

  “Shouldn’t I know more about these people?”

  “Nope.”

  “A quick synopsis.”

  “They’re different.”

  He chuckled. “Come on. I promise I won’t wrestle you for the keys and hightail it out of here.”

  “The Hennisons are deeply spiritual. Common vernacular: they’re Jesus freaks.”

  He waited a beat, as if letting that information sink in. “What do they know about drunks?”

  “Alcohol abuse is their specialty.”

  “How do you know them?”

  “We met through a hospice group. They lost an adult child when I lost my mom. A few years back, they helped me through a difficult situation. Okay?”

  He tilted his head, clearly second-guessing his decision.

  “Erik, you’ve come this far. Go inside and meet them. They’re expecting you. I called from the ER.”

  “You pack for me and make reservations. Why are you doing this, Rosie?”

  She sighed. “I don’t know. God told me to.”

  “You’re crazy.”

  “Certifiable, according to my partner. Can I put the top down?”

  “You’re taking my car?”

  “I need wheels to get home.”

  “What if I want to leave?”

  “You won’t.” She smiled. “You’re not a prisoner, Erik. They’ll give you a ride. Most likely, though, I’ll come pick you up when it’s time.”

  “Like in twenty-eight days?”

  “It varies. I’ll tell your parents not to worry. Now go.”

  “You’re not coming in?”

  “You’re a big boy, Beaumont.” She walked to the driver’s side, got in, and shut the door on any more questions.

  Slowly Erik made his way along the stone walkway, through the wide dirt-and-rock yard, toward the light. As he approached the front door, it opened.

  The Hennisons did not disappoint Rosie’s expectations. Greg enveloped Erik in a bear hug. Jillie reached up and laid a hand on his back.

  Rosie drove away, wiping at her eyes.

  Fifty

  Lexi, you’re welcome to spend the night.” Claire kept her voice light, not wanting to pressure her daughter out of the comfort zone she seemed to have entered that evening at the hacienda.

  “I know, thanks.” Lexi rose from the couch and stretched. “But by the time we make up the bed in the RV, I can be home, in my own pj’s, and much nearer the office. I’d rather drive home now than early tomorrow morning.”

  “You’ve always been a night owl. Still, we need to designate a guest room as yours, as soon as one is finished. Like you had before the fire.”

  “‘Before The Fire.’ I am so sick of that phrase. Everything keeps coming down to this was”—she sliced the air with a karate motion—“Before The Fire.” Another slice. “And this is After.”

  Claire caught the undertone in Lexi’s voice, the complaining note of a victim. In her past life, Before The Fire, Claire would have apologized for the situation. She would have taken responsibility for the construction workers not completing another guest room in time for Lexi’s use that particular night when she just happened to show up and stay late—a first since Claire and Max had moved into the house.

  But now it was After The Fire and impatient retorts like “deal with it” sometimes sprouted on the tip of Claire’s tongue. She scrambled for a gentler version.

  “Well, Lexi, like we said earlier, the fire brought change, no doubt. But . . .” She raised her shoulders in an exaggerated shrug. “What can we do about it? C’est la vie.”

  Lexi rolled her eyes.

  Claire accepted it as a hint of progress.

  One of the large oak doors opened and Indio appeared. “Is Tuyen in here?” Out of breath and red-faced, she scanned the
room. “Have you seen her? Oh, dear Lord. She’s not here! Oh Lord!”

  “What’s wrong?” Claire strode toward her.

  “I went to her room, to tell her good night. And found this.” A piece of notebook paper fluttered in her hand.

  Claire took it and read the childish block letters. “‘To Beaumont family. I leave now. No hurt you more. No hurt me more.’” She watched Indio’s eyes widen and her mouth tremble.

  Nothing scared her mother-in-law.

  Nothing whatsoever under the sun.

  Not even during the fire. Good grief, the woman served tea during the fire.

  “Indio, Tuyen would not leave by herself,” Claire argued, as if denial would wipe the fear from Indio’s face. “Where would she go? We’re the only people she knows. The only family she has.”

  Lexi touched Claire’s shoulder. “Mom.” She looked at the paper, her face contorted in pain. “It’s a suicide note.”

  Indio moaned. “No!”

  Horror gushed through Claire. Its force nearly buckled her knees.

  Lexi nodded. “You said it. Where would she go?”

  “But I meant . . .” She pressed a fist against the sudden pain in her stomach.

  “She’s going to a place where she thinks she won’t hurt anymore.”

  Claire shut her eyes for a moment and let the obvious truth of Lexi’s words sink in. “That poor child. She found us at the end of her road, that awful, awful road she’s had to follow her whole life. We were supposed to be her safe harbor. But we let her down, just like everyone else did. We have to find her!”

  No one stated the obvious, but Claire saw it in the hopeless expressions that mirrored her own. Outside the door lay over three hundred acres of Beaumont property alone. Bordering that were countless more uninhabited acres of wild land and neighboring ranches. Where did one begin to search for a lost soul?

  Indio sank onto a chair. “Lord, have mercy.” Her lips continued to move, forming silent pleas.

  Claire said, “She can’t have gone far. We just saw her—when? An hour ago?”