The Lavender Field

by Jeanette Baker

  Gabe made his way from the barns, through the purple haze of the blooming lavender field, across the dirt- packed courtyard, the greenbelt lined with olive trees where the kids played soccer, the wide velvety lawn with its flower beds of more lavender, Mexican sage, impatiens and yellow roses, up the porch steps lined with brick pavers and through the brightly painted red door, his mother’s concession to her latest fad, feng shui.

  “Touches of red are necessary for harmony, mijito,” she’d said to him when he questioned the authenticity of a red door at the entrance to her Mexican hacienda, now a renovated B and B. He let it go immediately, partly because he really didn’t care what color she painted her door, but most of all because he’d learned a long time ago that arguing with Mercedes Mendoza was as pointless as growing orchids under Ventura County’s relentless sun.

  Moving back into his family home had been a mistake. Gabe admitted that now. But when it became clear that their younger daughter, Claire, would consume all of Kristen’s time, it didn’t make sense for him to live so far away from where he worked, and work was the dressage center his father had founded with the Lipizzaner horses he’d rescued from Austria after the Second World War.

  When considering the move, Gabe had thought no further than the convenience and how it would lighten his schedule and Kristen’s, but he’d forgotten what it was like growing up with his mother. Mercedes’s intensity for life and movement, for food and drink and music and color and pleasure, was overwhelming, if not embarrassing, in its hedonism. Not that she didn’t mean well, or care about the kids, or do her share. Far from it. She accomplished more in a single afternoon than Kristen had in a week. It was quite simply that the power of her relentless energy, her sloppy casualness, her rule-flauntlng, her lack of precision, her tendency to speak her mind, her complete disregard for convention, eventually sucked the spirit out of all but the heartiest of survivors.

  Kristen wasn’t a survivor. She’d lasted eighteen months at the hacienda, and then, during a rare evening of casual conversation over her margarita and his beer, she’d told him that she’d pulled exactly half the money from their retirement account and purchased a trailer to travel the country and fulfill her lifelong dream of touring with The Dead, as the re-formed Grateful Dead were now known, as a backup singer.

  At first, Gabe laughed. Kristen’s voice was decent enough to harmonize with the church choir, but no one in his right mind would pay her for using it. He stopped laughing when she left her unfinished drink to walk out of his life that very night, leaving him with three children, her two and their one. He hadn’t laughed since. He was done with laughing. His life had never been a picnic, but he couldn’t remember when it had ever been this hard.

  A combination of dinner smells—cilantro, cooked beef, chili and onions—wafted from the kitchen down the long, white-walled entry to where he stood, undecided as to his next move. His stomach rumbled. Pulling off his boots, he carried them in one hand and crossed the tiled floor to the stairs. With luck, he would fit in a shower and a quick look at the bills before anyone knew he was home.

  Gabe reached the top of the landing when he heard the steady knock-knocking against the wall that never failed to kill his mood and fill him with despair. Setting his boots on the floor, he walked down the hall to the second bedroom and looked in on his daughter, eight-year-old Claire. She sat on the floor, legs straight in front of her, and methodically, without emotion, banged her head against the wall.

  His hands balled into fists. As always, the education he hadn’t used rescued and soothed him.

  O thou foul thief, where hast thou stowed my daughter? He shoved his hands into his pocket. “Hi, sweetie,” he said softly.

  She ignored him.

  Every instinct told him to grab her, pull her off the floor into his arms and demand that she speak to him. Once, he would have. Now he knew better. Keeping his voice consistently gentle, he asked, “Did you miss me?”

  Again, no response, just the knock-knock-knocking of her delicate little head against the plaster wall.

  Gabe gritted his teeth, counted to ten and tried again. “I have a surprise for you,” he said, and waited for her reaction. Autistic children were slow processors. Was she slowing down or was it wishful thinking? Slowly, he approached her and knelt down on the floor. “Macbeth has learned the capriole,” he said. “He did it three times today, each one better than the one before.”

  The back of Claire’s head rested against the wall.

  Encouraged, Gabe maintained his flow of conversation, not knowing or caring what she understood as long as it stopped her destructive behavior. “I think he’ll be ready to perform before long.” He reached out with his index finger and stroked the back of his daughter’s hand. “Would you like to see him do it tomorrow? We can go together, tomorrow afternoon. Nearly everyone will be gone then.”

  Painfully, as if the brief movement required agonizing effort, the little girl turned her head. He looked into the thickly lashed blue eyes and his heart lurched. They were Kristen’s eyes, even down to the Siamese-cat tilt at the corners. The spattering of freckles on her golden cheeks was Kristen’s, too. So were her floating curls and the delicate cant of her bones. The only traits she’d inherited from him were her hair, Mendoza dark, the olive cast to her skin, the graceful slimness of her brown hands and limbs and her love of anything with four legs. Gabe was quite sure he had never seen anything so breathtakingly beautiful in all his life as this eight-year-old child, even if she was missing her two front teeth.

  “Can we really go tomorrow?” she asked.

  He released the breath he hadn’t realized he was holding and nodded. “We’ll go right after you finish school.”

  She settled her hand in his. “I wanted you today.”

  “I wanted you, too, sweetheart.”

  “I didn’t feel like seeing Mrs. Cook. Grandma made her go away.”

  Gabe sighed. “She’s a good teacher.”

  Claire stared at him. She spoke carefully, choosing the words, as if she had all the time in the world. “I like it when she reads to me. But sometimes we have too much to do and she doesn’t.”

  “I’ll ask her if she’ll read to you every day if you promise that you’ll do what she says.”

  Claire tilted her head on her impossibly long neck and appeared to consider his question.

  Suddenly he felt a tingling at the base of his spine. They weren’t alone. He turned. Emma, his fourteen-year-old stepdaughter, stood in the doorway, dressed in chains and black leather. He swallowed. Once, it had been so easy to love Kristen’s daughter. “Hi, hon. Is dinner ready?”

  “How should I know? I’ve been up here doing my homework.”

  Gabe highly doubted it. “Don’t you think you should change? Grandma Lynne will be here.”

  Emma shrugged and her blouse slipped down over one shoulder. He was about to change his polite question to a not-so-polite command coupled with wipe off the makeup, when he saw her eyes narrow.

  “Why do you think she’s coming?” Emma asked.

  “To see her grandchildren. What else?”

  “Are you sure?”

  “Of course I’m sure. What are you worried about?”

  Again the nonchalant shrug. “Nothing, I guess. What’s going on in here? I heard pounding.”

  Gabe stood. “That’s all over now. If you two will excuse me, I need a shower. I’ll meet you downstairs in ten minutes.”

  He waited outside the door for an instant. He wasn’t quite sure of Emma anymore.

  “Do you want me to brush your hair?” she asked Claire.

  Comforted by his stepdaughter’s soft voice, he walked into his bathroom and turned on the shower.

  Fifteen minutes later, shaved and dressed in a clean polo shirt and Dockers, he walked into the kitchen. It was a large room with long windows, lots of counter space and plants, bright with Mexican colors: red, yellow, turquoise and hot pink. His mother loved color.

  She stood at the c
enter island chopping cilantro, a woman in her mid-seventies carrying a hundred extra pounds dispersed proportionally over her five feet eight inches, with glossy dark hair, except for the dramatic gray wings framing her face, glowing skin, enormous black eyes and a wide mouth filled with straight white teeth. Breathtaking in her youth, Mercedes Mendoza, was still arresting enough to stop traffic.

  He came up behind her, wrapped his arms around her soft middle and kissed her cheek. “Hi, Ma.”

  “Gabriel!” Waving her knife in the air, she pirouetted, graceful as a dancer, and grabbed his cheeks with her hands. “Mijito, you’re here early. I’m so glad. You can set the table, unless you want to mix the margaritas. Or, maybe you want beer.” She stopped and tilted her head, an unaccustomed wrinkle forming in her forehead. “Kristen’s mother is in the living room. She says she doesn’t want anything. Maybe you should check again.”

  “If she said she doesn’t want anything, she probably doesn’t.” He frowned at the ice-filled tumbler sitting on the counter near his mother’s workspace. “What’s that?”

  “It’s sangria, mijito. You know, a little wine, a little sugar, a little fruit, a little lavender. I have it every day.”

  “Not everybody needs alcohol every day.”

  She brushed his words aside and turned back to her task. “A glass of wine is good for the heart and the soul.”

  Gabriel eyed the sixteen-ounce glass. “A glass means four ounces.”

  Mercedes shook her head and continued her chopping. “I don’t know what’s gotten into you, Gabriel. Ever since you married that woman you’ve become such a prude. I’ve always had a drink or two in the afternoons and here I am, a healthy, seventy-six-year-old woman who can still turn heads. Your father never minded my habits. If he didn’t, you shouldn’t.”

  “I’m no longer married,” he said shortly, pulling cloth napkins and placemats from the cupboard. “Kristen has nothing to do with this, and Dad’s dead.”

  Mercedes looked up, her magnificent eyes brighter than usual. “I know you’re not married. I think about it every day.” She set down her knife and clasped her hands together. “I’ve decided to do something about it.”

  He turned and stared at her. “What are you talking about?”

  “You know how you’re always telling me I should learn the computer?”

  “Yes.”

  “I decided to take your advice. I’m on e-mail.”

  “No, Ma,” he corrected her. “You’re online and you have e-mail.”

  “Whatever.” She beamed. “Aren’t you proud of me?”

  “Certainly,” he said cautiously, “but what does that have to do with what we were talking about?”

  “I joined Matchmaker.com.”

  His jaw dropped. “You’re kidding. Isn’t that a dating service?”

  Her eyes flashed. She dug her fists into her ample waist, a movement that jiggled the undersides of her arms. “Why should I be kidding? Are you saying that no one would want to go out with me?”

  “Of course not. I’m surprised, that’s all.”

  “Your mother is too old and too unattractive to find a man. Is that it?”

  “No. That’s not it at all,” he protested. “But it’s been ten years since Dad died. Why now?”

  “Why not? Sometimes it takes a long time to heal. I loved your father very much. We were happy. We had four children. They’re all happy, except for you, our only son.”

  His lips tightened. “I don’t want to get into this.”

  “It’s been nearly two years since Kristen left. You should get on with your life. You’re not getting any younger.”

  He leaned against the counter. This was an old argument. “She’s been gone eighteen months, not two years.”

  “What’s the difference? She’s gone. You need to find someone else. You’re still young, and if you’d smile now and then, some might even call you handsome.”

  He grinned. “You’re prejudiced.”

  “Not at all. I included it in your profile. Tall, dark, handsome man with blue eyes, seeking woman who likes children and horses.”

  He froze. “What did you say?”

  “I joined Matchmaker for you, not me. You’re forty years old, Gabriel. This is the modern world. How else will you find a woman?”

  “Jesus Christ! Ma.” He shook his head. “I’m not looking for a woman. I have enough to worry about. I’ve got the kids and the horses, and this place. I don’t have time for a relationship. That’s what ruined it for Kristen and me. She said I never had any time for her.”

  “Don’t swear, mijito. Kristen wasn’t right for you, not from the beginning. I knew it. Your father knew it. Everyone knew it but you. She’s a woman who deserted her children. What kind of a woman does that?”

  “That’s beside the point. She’s gone.”

  “Good riddance is what I say.”

  “Cancel my profile.”

  “What?”

  “I said, cancel my profile. I’m not going out with anyone you find online. When I feel the need for female companionship, I’ll do it on my own. I can’t imaginewhy you would think I’d want another woman around here, anyway.”

  Mercedes sighed. Deliberately she picked up her glass and drank deeply.

  “I think I’ll say hello to Lynne.”

  “You’re a sorry case, Gabriel,” Mercedes said out loud to his retreating back. “I love you very much, but you’re a very sorry case.”

  Three

  Lynne Chamberlain had never been comfortable visiting the Mendozas. She couldn’t put her finger on exactly why, but she felt deep in her bones that they weren’t her kind of people. Mercedes was too loud, too familiar, too earthy, too sensual, too—ethnic was the word Lynne was looking for, although she wouldn’t admit it. It sounded bigoted and Lynne prided herself on her lack of bigotry.

  Ask anyone. She’d lobbied for funding for the new Bower’s Museum wing, the one featuring Hispanic art, and in the last election, she’d voted to support affirmative action. Her internist was Vietnamese, her gardener Japanese and her accountant African-American. Ethnic minorities made up the majority of the population in California. She had no objections at all when Kristen declared she was going to marry Gabriel Mendoza. Not that Lynne considered Gabriel the least bit ethnic. He didn’t speak Spanish and his father was Austrian. No, it wasn’t Gabriel who made Lynne uncomfortable, or his three sisters, all of whom were far more accomplished than her own daughter. It was Mercedes she didn’t want to rub elbows with.

  The woman didn’t behave the way an elderly woman should behave, at least in public. First of all, she was too large, too loud and too present. It wasn’t just her girth. In a world where women counted their carbohydrates, attended Pilates classes and worried about cholesterol, Mercedes, dressed in a garish muumuu, her arms jiggling, served up purple margaritas in salt- dipped glasses and appetizers piled high with melted cheese, guacamole and sour cream. When she laughed, she tipped her head back and, from somewhere deep in her throat, emitted a loud braying sound that turned the heads of everyone within fifty yards. She drank too much, asked personal questions, left vulgar tips in restaurants, struck up conversations with homeless people and store clerks. She favored colors like red and hot pink and lime green. Her hair, although quite beautiful, was too long, and jewelry swung from her ears and her wrists in gypsy-like abandon. She harvested and distilled her own lavender, which wasn’t really all that bad, but then she actually rented a booth at the farmers’ market on Tuesdays and hawked it to passing strangers. Most embarrassing. The woman had no boundaries. She couldn’t possibly be a good influence for her grandchildren.

  Lynne considered Mercedes to be the primary reason Kristen left her family. No Chamberlain had ever abandoned her responsibilities in such a way. It must have been Mercedes. Kristen simply couldn’t cope with her. Although it was the last thing on the planet she wanted to do, Lynne saw it as her duty to rescue Kristen’s children. There was nothing she could do about Claire, o
f course. Claire was Gabriel’s daughter, too, and no court on earth would remove a child from her natural father, especially one so devoted to her well-being. Besides, Claire required a different kind of care, an energy that Lynne, a woman in her seventies, no longer had to give.

  “Hello, Lynne.”

  Startled out of her thoughts, she turned and saw her former son-in-law. “Gabriel. I’m sorry. I was deep in thought. How are you?”

  He came farther into the room and sat down in the chair across from her. She noticed that he made no move to embrace her, or even shake her hand.

  “I’m fine, thank you. It’s been a while,” he said. “I’m glad you could make it.”

  “Well, yes.” Deliberately, she kept her hands still in her lap. “I’ve been meaning to come for quite some time. I wanted to talk with you about the children.”

  “The children?”

  “Eric and Emma.”

  Those piercing blue eyes regarded her steadily. When it came to good looks, Gabriel Mendoza, with his blade-sharp features, lean height and cool blue eyes, had been fairy-touched at birth. He didn’t smile enough, but Lynne would never hold that against him. A serious man would take life seriously, she remembered telling her daughter.

  She knew from the minute Kristen brought him home that there was no point in trying to talk the girl out of marrying him. Gabriel was one of a kind, a hybrid, taking after neither parent. Claire was the same, the best of both her mother and father. Lynne wasn’t superstitious, but sometimes she wondered if there wasn’t some kind of master scale weighing checks and balances to assure that a child approaching perfection bore some type of adversity. Her youngest granddaughter was beautiful and intelligent, but there were times when she slipped behind a cloud so dark and impenetrable that those who loved her were moved to levels of quiet desperation.

  When Gabriel didn’t respond, she prodded him. “My grandchildren, Eric and Emma?”

  He nodded. “Two of your grandchildren. You have three.”