Glory wished she believed in God enough to be able to give Juniper that kind of parting gift, but with all the girl had experienced, she was past religion. Today Caroline would take her to her new home. When school reopened after the long Thanksgiving weekend, Juniper would enroll in a new high school, make friends … and Glory would begin working extra hours at Target because Christmas shopping began today. When she wasn’t working, she’d send out mass e-mails to wedding planners encouraging them to consider solomons-oak-chapel.com. It had taken Glory forever to create the Web page: Helvetica Bold and five iStock photos. When she posted the pirate photos, maybe things would improve. As of this morning, she had five new visitors on the counter. She’d also noticed the spell-checker had corrected the word champagne to read Champlain, as in the lake.
As the sun rose, she watched her hens peck at earth, hoping to find an overlooked grain. Her Rhode Island Red, Heather, liked to be scratched on her neck. She was getting on in years and her egg-laying days were nearing their end. Dan had warned Glory not to name feed animals, but too late for Glory to think of Heather as chicken and dumplings. Heather was special, and Glory couldn’t imagine life without her.
The phone rang, startling her. She picked up the cordless and looked at the caller ID: her sister, Halle. Apparently this year’s appletini party hadn’t given her much of a hangover if she was up this early. Glory pressed TALK. “Morning, Halle. How were the appletinis?”
“That was last year. This year we served Sex on Acids. Take a jigger of Jägermeister, add a half ounce each of Midori, black raspberry liqueur, and pineapple juice, and then top it with cranberry juice. They hit you like a tsunami.”
“Halle, I’m getting a hangover just listening to the recipe. Doesn’t your head hurt?”
“Nah. I’m immune to hangovers.”
“Lucky you. I got a migraine yesterday.”
“Ouch. Remember how Daddy used to get them? Mom would rub that menthol cream on his temples. The whole house smelled like Vicks VapoRub.”
Glory smiled, thinking of her dad, and how that would always remain their common ground. Halle was two years older and loved to tell Glory how to dress, which political opinions she ought to endorse, and to offer solutions to unasked questions, but she adored her sister. “How’s my favorite brother-in-law?”
“Bart is on his morning run. The party was so much fun. You have to come next year. How was the wedding?”
“Pretty good. A couple hairy moments, but I pulled it off.”
“Don’t take this the wrong way, but I’m surprised.”
“Excuse me?”
“Oh, it’s not you, sweetie. I just know how people can be.”
“How people can be what?”
“Flaky. Enthusiastic about a nontraditional ceremony and then the closer the date comes, they realize a church wedding is really important.”
Halle had six bridesmaids at her wedding dressed in sea-foam green. Glory had Halle. “They were pirates, Hal. No church would take them.”
“And all the guests showed up? That county road can be so confusing. I worried people might get lost. Plus, your dirt driveway is rutted. Not everyone has four-wheel drive.”
“The road’s gravel, not dirt.”
“Right. I forgot. I guess that is easier.”
Once upon a time, Halle had been Glory’s best friend, her confidante, and the person with whom she shared her innermost thoughts. As teenagers, they had laughed about everything, borrowed each other’s clothes, and shared a bedroom. Since Dan died, the balance of power had somehow shifted, and too many conversations ended with Glory feeling angry or condescended to. Don’t take the bait, she told herself, but a second later she was in defensive mode.
“I got a ton of compliments for the food, and a referral that might lead to another wedding.” Okay, the last part was a lie, but it could still happen, she told herself. “Everyone had a lovely time. It’s too bad you weren’t there for the butterfly release. It was beautiful.”
“Yes, the butterflies. That part sounds magical. I hope you got pictures. Who did the photography?”
“Michael Patrick did the formal portraits, and I started to do the candids, until my digital died. Lucky for me, there was a professional photographer here, taking pictures of the oak, and he stepped in.” As soon as Glory said the words, she wished she could take them back. She’d just handed Halle a full clip of ammo. “He did a great job,” Glory babbled. “They came out fabulous and I’m in the process of putting them on the Web site.” Which was another lie, but she would do it as soon as he sent them and she figured out how to download or upload or whatever it was called.
The moment of silence between them was freighted and Glory braced herself for the older-sister lecture. “You know, Glory, it’s great it all worked out, but if you plan to create this kind of business, you really ought to take a class. You need a business license, additional liability insurance, and can you afford that? You’ll need at least two reliable cameras, video equipment, a health permit, and to move those dogs elsewhere because who wants barking when they’re exchanging sacred vows, not to mention the smell?”
“You’re absolutely right,” Glory said, deflecting Halle’s words and steeling herself at the same time. I’m not listening, not listening, blah blah blah, not listening.
“I hope this doesn’t sound unkind, but there have been times I’ve visited you when I could barely hear myself speak over the dogs.”
How Glory wished that were the case at the moment! If she mentioned Juniper, a mushroom cloud would rise over Santa Rosa from 22 Marigold Drive. Halle lived a great life, and Glory was happy for her. Bart sold wine internationally and traveled a lot for his job. With no kids or pets, they could lock the door behind them and get on a plane at a moment’s notice to places like New Zealand and Hawaii. Their house was three thousand square feet of Spanish style, professionally decorated, and filled with an eclectic blend of contemporary and antique furniture. Halle was a shop-and-lunch kind of wife; Glory was a clearance-sale, beans-and-rice widow. “What are you getting Mom for Christmas?” she asked, changing the subject.
“A red pantsuit from Talbots. How about you?”
“Ten new paperback romances. I made sure to get the ones with the hunky guy on the cover.”
Halle sighed. “Why do you encourage her?”
“Mom’s sixty-two years old. If she wants to read bodice rippers, it’s her business.”
“Glory, what about the Herald’s ‘one-read’ novel? East of Eden’s a classic. Just a suggestion. It’s proven that exercise for the aging brain will keep the mind sharper … ”
Glory stopped listening. She watched Heather trot over to the empty grain feeder. This was her third visit in a half hour. Could chickens get Alzheimer’s? Halle owned a to-die-for pink Chanel suit. She struck up conversations with total strangers, and she kept her gray hair professionally colored and highlighted. Next to Halle, Glory felt like a stumbling frump. The day Dan died, instead of driving two hours north to Halle’s house where her sister thought everyone should “gather,” Glory drove on home. She unplugged the phone, turned the horses out, and dug their stalls down to the dirt. She shoveled in crushed oyster shell and clean shavings. She scrubbed the algae off the water trough, groomed Cricket, petted the goats, and made a list of every long-term project she and Dan had planned but never got around to. She’d rather have broken her back than sat on the sectional, gray wool couch and watched her sister greet callers with perfect manners and heard people she didn’t care about say just the right things. Her mother and Halle knew, as did Lorna and Caroline. Let the news get around via conversation at the Woodpecker Café. She didn’t want to make bad-news phone calls. She didn’t want to eat catered heirloom-tomato-and-basil canapés, and she especially did not want to make small talk. She wanted to be alone in the place where she and her husband had made their wonderful life together. She wanted to go into his workshop and touch the tools he’d used to make such beautiful things. She
wanted Cadillac to lie down in the doorway and just for a few more minutes pretend their world hadn’t changed.
Halle held a grudge about Glory’s not showing. She was appalled when Glory told her she’d decided on cremation.
“But there won’t be a grave to visit! Where will you bring flowers? Where will you go when you want to spend time with him?”
Glory answered, “Dan’s favorite flowers were the marguerite daisies that reseed themselves every year. He’ll be in my heart until the end of time.”
Glory knew the only thing that shut her sister up was that she had no idea what a marguerite daisy was and wanted to go look it up.
All that chilly February day, Glory had worked until her clothes were soaked through with sweat. She sat down on an upturned bucket and told her horses, “I’ve only been a widow for twelve hours, and already I’m a failure. Just so you guys know, I’ll do my best, but don’t expect too much.”
Horses knew the best cure for sorrow was sugar cubes by the handful. Glory opened a new box and ate a few herself while she let the horses gorge. Sweetness to cover the bitterness. The soaring love she felt for her horses pressed against the margins of her heart. The dogs, too. Even when one of them dug under fences or barked nonstop for no apparent reason, they gave her joy. They depended on her now, just as the utilities company expected payment on time. At the end of that first day she told herself, “Sooner or later you have to do something with his workshop. It’s criminal to let his lathes and chisels and his work gloves gather dust,” but here it was nearing one year later and still she hadn’t figured it out.
“Gotta run,” Glory said, interrupting whatever Halle was saying. “Love you, Sis, bye.” Halle would call back tomorrow. Glory loved her sister even if some days she had to work hard to like her.
She had three dozen eggs to take to the farmers’ market. The sunrise was the color of a coral reef. The stillness in the air reminded Glory of how things felt moments before an earthquake. Last night’s migraine had left her bleary-eyed. She thought of all the mornings she’d stood at the kitchen sink while the coffee dripped, watching from the kitchen window as Dan finished up his morning chores. He was such a careful man, keeping the brush trimmed away from the house, the fence in good repair, and their animals well looked after. But living rural meant you couldn’t ever relax. California had fire season year-round. Would this be the year it came their way? Would it take the farm? Spare the oak? Visitors collected the acorns that fell from its branches. They stood beneath it to make wishes. Dan used to say, “Our tree nudges people closer to the spiritual. They miss God, even if they don’t know it.”
Glory wished she could believe like that. Have faith in something. She looked at the tree and wondered for the tenth time where the heck her Percocet had gone. Whoever was responsible, she thought, fie on you. May a million migraines come your way.
According to Lorna Candelaria, the closest person Glory had to a grandmother, every tree had a soul, and the white oak’s was ancient. Lorna loved telling stories handed down in her family, especially enjoying how they contradicted written history. Under Solomon’s Oak was a holy place, the shaman’s favorite spot to chant protective songs on behalf of the dwindling Indian tribes. The Spaniards, however, claimed the tree in the name of their queen and Christianity. When indigenous people clung to Old Ways, they were hanged until dead from the oak’s branches. As soon as Glory told Lorna about the pirate wedding, Lorna said, “Buena idea! The tree will love being a part of weddings!” Lorna, the perfect grandmother, approved of everything Glory did. She smoked, drank beer, had an extensive vocabulary of Spanish swear words, and her shoulder was so wide that Glory often leaned on it.
Glory thought about Juniper, who had no sister, no parents, no Lorna. Could Juniper have taken the Percocet? She didn’t seem like a thief, but she’d been caught shoplifting DVDs. Should she suggest Caroline run a drug test? What would be the fallout if Juniper tested positive? She needed a safe place to grow up. Somewhere nurturing. Glory immediately dismissed keeping her because how could she herself be any kind of role model when she spent so much time in her closet crying? Juniper’s smart-mouthed crack about keeping her for the county money still stung. Glory’s postmigraine aura made everything look as if it had a shadow around it.
She got up and walked quietly through the house to the shared bathroom with its claw-foot tub and zinc countertop. She opened the medicine cabinet and took everything out of it. Aspirin, antibiotic ointment, Band-Aids, razor cartridges, antacid, bars of soap, nail clippers, a half bottle of cough medicine, Q-tips, but no Percocet. Was she losing it so badly that she’d thrown them away? Maybe yesterday, what with people coming in and out of the house, someone had pocketed it. Not Gary, Pete, or Robynn. They were good kids, never in trouble. One of the pirates? Oh, let it go, she told herself. She took four aspirin, drank a glass of water, and peeked into the guest room. Cadillac looked up at her and thumped his tail on the wooden floor. Always first in line at mealtime, this morning the dog wouldn’t leave the girl’s side. The sudden devotion squeezed Glory’s heart like a vise. She felt that thickening in her throat that wanted to become a sob, but pushed it back. Imagine the mess if you cried every time you felt like it, she thought. That’s why you have Closet Time.
Juniper was tucked in as if she already lived here. Next to the mug of water on her bedside table was Shgun, by James Clavell. Between the pages an oak leaf marked her spot. Glory figured Juniper must have woken up in the night and read until she could sleep again. If she finished that book, she’d be compelled to read the sequels. Maybe it was naïve, but Glory believed that there was hope for any kid that read fiction. A willingness to lose one’s self in a story was the first step to learning compassion, to appreciating other cultures, to realizing what possibilities the world held for people who kept at life despite the odds. The leaf marking her place reminded Glory of herself at Juniper’s age, when she’d carried a book wherever she went.
Enough daydreaming. Having the biggest shopping day of the year off was no minor miracle. She needed to use her time productively, eyes to the future. She considered selling the broken tractor that yesterday’s wedding guests had considered a charming artifact and she considered an eyesore. If there were societies of pirate reenactments, were there farmer reenactors? Twice Glory picked up the cordless to call Caroline, and twice she put it down. Glory knew that Dan would already have decided, saying that Juniper had been heaven-sent to them because they were the right people for her. Surely not, unless heaven had it in for Glory. The only certain thing was that when Juniper McGuire woke up, she’d need breakfast.
Glory opened the fridge. Edsel wove between her feet, and she stepped on his toe, causing him to yip as if he’d been branded. She bent down and checked for injury, patting his chest. “You’re fine,” she told him, giving him a chewy to get him out of her way. He trotted off, settling by the fireplace to work on his treat. When Glory bent down to take out the electric griddle, her head spun with indecision and she felt a hot panic in her chest. Bacon. Fry it. Eggs, just ask her. Scrambled, over easy, or poached?
She decided to make biscuits. The buttery kind Dan loved. Sometimes she made his favorite dishes, hoping the smells and tastes might conjure his presence. After placing the biscuits in the oven to bake, she used flour, milk, and bacon grease to make decadent gravy and wondered how long Cadillac could stand it until hunger won out over guarding Juniper. While the biscuits cooled, she stood back and surveyed the amount of food she’d made. A spread like this could feed a family of ranch hands. She hoped Juniper wasn’t the type of teenager who skipped breakfast. She poured herself a cup of coffee and had decided to give her five more minutes when Juniper walked into the kitchen dressed in yesterday’s clothes, lugging the duffel. Cadillac was right behind her. Before Juniper sat down at the table, she let Cadillac out. He headed straight for his breakfast, the stainless steel bowl inside his unlocked kennel. Glory was impressed.
“Good morning,” Glo
ry said. “Did Edsel’s yelping wake you?”
“I was already awake.”
Juniper’s hair was soaking wet and her face scrubbed pink. The hardware was missing, and in its place it looked as if she had chosen to ruin selective pores. She looked past Glory to the middle distance outside the window. “Should I wait out front?”
“Of course not. Sit down and eat some breakfast.”
“I’m not hungry.”
Glory sighed as she set the butter dish down on the table. “What the heck am I going to do with all this food? Call the army? Seriously, Juniper, if you don’t eat a little, you’ll hurt my feelings.”
Juniper pulled out a chair and sat down, dropping the duffel to the floor. She took three slices of bacon and one of the biscuits. “Try the gravy,” Glory said. “Why is it that the things that taste the best turn out to be the worst for you?”
“Life just sucks, I guess.”
“Would you like the comic section from the paper?”
Juniper poured herself a cup of coffee as if daring Glory to forbid it. “I don’t read them.”
“Everyone reads the comics.”
Juniper looked at Glory. “Some places I stay at don’t get the newspaper. Why get invested in Garfield’s problems and then not get to find out what happens?”
“That makes sense.” Glory sat down at the table. “Juniper, yesterday, at the wedding, did you notice any tankards disappearing?”
She looked up. “I didn’t take them. Search my bag if you don’t believe me. What am I going to do with a stupid beer mug the size of Texas?”
“Oh, honey. I wasn’t accusing you of stealing. All I meant was quite a few disappeared. Gary thinks some of the guests took them home for souvenirs.”
“So add the cost to their bill.”
“Good idea.” Glory watched Juniper put a slice of bacon inside the biscuit, then dip it into a pool of gravy.
“So, what do you think we should do next time? Offer gift bags? Plan for sticky fingers?”
Solomon's Oak Page 7
