Isabel's Daughter

by Judith Ryan Hendricks

  She sticks a few pins into the dress at various lengths, squinting at me from different angles and spits the rest of the pins into a small cardboard box.

  “So what else was in the suitcase? Besides the dress.”

  “Lots of clothes,” I say, avoiding her glance in the mirror. “Stuff for at least a week or two. Plus a green plastic box full of her work. Different kinds of material, thread, trim—all sorts of buttons and beads and doodads. Plus a couple of design sketches.”

  “So Isabel was planning a getaway, hm? I wonder where.”

  I shrug, and she admonishes me to hold still.

  “Probably just down to her hideout in Bluebird Canyon. She was obviously planning to get some work done.”

  “I think this will do.” She finishes the pinning, and I step reluctantly out of the dress, back into my real-life jeans.

  “Do you have time for a cup of tea?” Before I finish buttoning my flannel shirt, the kettle’s on the stove, and she’s hunting for clean cups and spoons, milk and sugar cubes.

  “Where will you wear the dress?” she asks, her head out of sight inside the pantry. She emerges with the faded and chipped ironstone teapot.

  “Paul’s having a dinner party on Christmas Eve after Canyon Road.”

  “And he’s invited the hired help?”

  By now, I’m used to her odd sense of humor. “Not exactly. I’m cooking, but there’s no rule that says the chef can’t look good.”

  She wags her finger at me. “Now don’t be slopping food on that dress. It’s much too lovely to be all grease spotted.”

  “I won’t even put it on till most of the work’s done.”

  The kettle interrupts us with a shriek, and she pours boiling water over the loose tea in the pot while I stack shortbread wedges on a rose-colored plate. We carry everything into the shop, to the chairs by the window.

  “I do love shortbread. One of the best things about being an Anglo.” She nibbles delicately on the point of a wedge. “So what else is happening at the home of the revolving fiancé?”

  “Have you considered stand-up comedy?”

  “Is that your avoidance method of choice, answer a question with another question?”

  “Sometimes.”

  “Have you decided yet?” She sits back in the chair.

  I inhale the steam coming off the surface of my tea. “Decided what?”

  “About that tea. Your voodoo tea.”

  “God, you’re pushy. I thought you island people were supposed to be so laid back.”

  “We be talkin’ business now, Ladyfriend,” she says affecting her Jamaican accent, and when I smile, she turns serious. “You need a plan to get where you’re going.”

  “Is that a general you or a specific?”

  “Both. You’ve got lots of talent and brains, and I think you’re spinning your wheels over there on the east side.”

  “I’m learning things.”

  “Like what?”

  “Things about Isabel. I know this sounds weird, but sometimes I’m jealous of Paul because he’s forgotten more about her than I’ll ever know.”

  “I understand the feeling of wanting to know about her—”

  “Cookie, that’s what everyone says to me. That they understand. But trust me, you don’t. Nobody who’s had a family can understand what it’s like to not have one.”

  “You have a family.” She sounds nearly indignant. “Your great-grandmother Dona Maria Ebell was a shaman. Your grandmother Josephita Colinas was a curandera. Your mother, Isabel, was an artist. My God, girl, think of the powerful blood you’ve got in those veins.”

  I set down my tea. “But I didn’t know them. They didn’t know me.”

  “They’re still your family. And I believe you can know them to some degree by listening to yourself, your own heart. They’re all in there. Waiting to tell you what you need to know. All you have to do is listen.”

  twenty-five

  On the morning of December 21 when I open the door to the kitchen, I smell coffee already brewing. Paul is sitting on one of the tall stools, looking pleased with himself. On the granite counter is a muffin with a candle in it. He flicks the fire starter in his hand, and a flame bigger than the candle nearly engulfs the whole thing.

  “Oops.” He adjusts the fuel and tries again. The candle sputters and catches, burning cheerfully. “Happy Birthday,” he says. “I’d sing, but it isn’t really my forte.”

  “Paul…” I swallow. “That’s so—How did you know?”

  He looks at his watch—the commando one that shows you the date and time in four time zones, temperature, barometric pressure, and probably a recipe for biscuits if you need one.

  “December 21. It’s the winter solstice, n’est-ce pas?” His face softens. “Isabel told me once that her daughter was born on the solstice.”

  I dive into the refrigerator, rummage in the bin for oranges.

  “This is for you,” he says, forcing me to turn and look at him. He’s holding out a small package wrapped in silver paper and tied with a green ribbon. “It won’t bite you, so take it. And it wasn’t expensive. And you don’t have to open it now. There, I think that covers everything.”

  My face burns. “Thanks. But I wish you hadn’t.”

  “Well, I did.” He smiles. “And this came for you in yesterday’s mail at Pinnacle, which I just got around to looking at this morning.”

  The large square envelope is green with holiday designs covering every available inch of surface, so I know before even looking at the Albuquerque return address that it’s from Rita.

  “I have to run up to Taos this morning, but I’ll be back by noon,” Paul says, sliding off the stool.

  “Don’t you want breakfast?”

  “No, I had some coffee. Take the day off, and I’ll see you later. Oh, you’d better blow that candle out.”

  Wax is melting all over my muffin, so I puff the candle out.

  “Did you make a wish?”

  “I don’t like to tempt fate.”

  He shakes his head at me.

  After he leaves, I sit on the stool with my cup of coffee and the part of the muffin that doesn’t have wax on it and the green envelope and the package.

  The card says “For Your Christmas Birthday, Across the Miles.” It’s signed “Love ya, Rita and Rick.” A piece of paper folded into quarters falls out of the envelope; I open it and read.

  Dear Ave,

  Where the hell are you????? I sent this card to Columbia St. and it came back stamped no forwarding address. I tried to call and the recording said the phone number was disconnected. Then I tried Dos Hombres and Juana said you were gone and she didn’t know where. Not that I blame you for that. I hope you told Mr. Dale Baby to stick it where the sun don’t shine on your way out the door. Knowing you, you probably did.

  Are you okay? This is my last try at this damn birthday card, then I’m going to call DeGraf, and if I don’t get any info from him, I’m going to come up there and kick ass and take some names till somebody tells me where you went. What is going on?

  I would’ve tried to get in touch sooner, but right after we got here, my daddy died, and I went home for that. Rick went too. You should’ve seen the looks on Rhonda and Ricki’s faces when they saw him. If I hadn’t been so sad about my Daddy I would of laughed myself sick. Of course Momma Jen was so upset, she barely noticed he was there. Rick was really sweet and ignored all the Remember the Alamo types that came for the party.

  My other BIG NEWS is that we got married!!!!! November 10. Can you believe it? I wanted you to come and stand up for me, but I couldn’t find you, and besides we decided against a big wedding because of it being so close to Daddy’s funeral. And Rick couldn’t take any time off for a honeymoon anyway. Not to mention it would’ve been expensive.

  I’ve got a job as a receptionist at this really beautiful big law office downtown, although I have to say, it’s pretty boring compared to Santa Fe. But I hear lots of interesting gossip that I ca
n tell Rick. Make myself useful—ha! He really likes his job. He says, hi, by the way.

  Ave, I can’t believe I’m so goddamn happy! I just wish I could see you. I miss you more than you probably think. I hope you get this card. Rick and I both really want you to come for a visit. PLEASE let me know where you are and that you’re okay. I worry about you more than you probably think. Write me or call me. Our phone number is 505-866-0271.

  Lots of love,

  Rita and Rick

  The card—Rita and Rick. The letter—Rita and Rick. It could almost be one word—RitaandRick. Like some two-headed creature—ugly but benevolent—from a fairy tale. But for some reason, I find myself smiling.

  Now I turn my attention to the package, untie the ribbon, and unfold the paper. Turn back the tissue paper that surrounds it. It’s a ceramic tile plaque like you’d put outside with your name or street number on it. Or the name of your estate, if you belong to that segment of society where your house has its own name.

  The plaque is oval shaped with a crackled ivory glaze and a border of red poppies. Only one word is spelled out in black script—Querencia. Underneath it, a blue columbine.

  In Santa Fe, everyone wants and expects snow for Christmas. It happens often enough that a lot of people consider it their birthright. So far this year, what we’ve got is mostly the same dry, bitter cold that we had all through November. But Christmas Eve morning there are promising clouds in the west. They grow darker and bulkier as they close in on the city.

  Then at about two thirty in the afternoon, when I look up from the bowl of chocolate ganache I’m making for the Bûches de Noël, I see that the sky has pulled in around the house like a billowing gray comforter. Lacy pinpoints of white drift down and then, caught by the wind, swirl against the windows and walls where they melt.

  I go over my checklist for the gazillionth time. The fish guy at Whole Foods obligingly sliced the salmon for me into thin scallops, so all I have to do is arrange it on the plates with the mustard sauce and mushrooms. Oysters have been opened and sit in a pan with their liquid. The plates for the oysters are prepared with beds of cedar instead of seaweed, which I couldn’t find anywhere.

  The two saddles of venison sit in the refrigerator, the duxelles is made. I’m using store-bought puff pastry. I guess that’s cheating, but I couldn’t see myself in the middle of everything else, making puff pastry, giving it six turns or however many you have to do. The Yule logs are made, filled, and waiting to be frosted. Then all that has to be done is place a few meringue mushrooms artfully around them and dust with powdered sugar.

  The lettuces are washed, the vinaigrette made, the coffee ground. The Champagne is chilling outside, the Margaux is in the laundry room.

  By the time I finish making the saffron cream sauce, and the pan is sitting in the sink full of lukewarm soapsuds, I’m exhausted and starving all at once. I realize that I’ve been on my feet since seven this morning and that breakfast was my last meal.

  In a corner of the refrigerator where things have been relegated that I don’t need for tonight, there’s a small piece of leftover baked chicken and one stalk of broccoli still clinging to life. I wolf it down cold, standing at the sink in a daze. I don’t know how long I’ve stood there holding the empty plate when I notice that it’s snowing again.

  The hand-lettered sign that says PLEASE REMOVE YOUR SHOES is greeted with surprise and dismay, but the grumbling turns to little sighs of contentment as people ease their cold feet into the drier-warmed booties that Juana and Patrice offer them, along with whispered admonitions that Father Noël will leave treats in their shoes if they behave themselves.

  Juana’s boyfriend, Jesús, has gotten a haircut, and he makes a pretty slick bartender—as long as he doesn’t talk to anyone with his lowrider Spanglish vocabulary of colorful obscenities. He’s serving mulled wine and hot cider spiked with Calvados at the bar by the fireplace in the living room. Once most of the guests have arrived, Juana leaves Patrice to take the coats, and she carries trays of small cheese pastry cutouts to be nibbled with the drinks.

  It seems like everything’s under control, so I dash off to the guesthouse to change clothes. As I pull it over my head, I wonder again at the power this dress has over me. When I wear it, I’m beautiful. I can do anything. Nothing can touch me. I brush my hair and pull it back at the sides, catching it with the silver clips I borrowed from Juana. I give my makeup a quick once-over, pull on my new, black deerskin boots, and float through the garden, barely touching the gravel path, to the kitchen.

  The first person I see is Juana, loading up another tray of pastries; Jesús is behind her, nibbling her neck.

  “Hey, none of that,” I warn, only half joking.

  They both snap to attention, then Juana’s eyes get round.

  “Ay, chica!” she breathes. “Bitchen dress!”

  “Hola, Mamacita!” Jesús grins, shakes his hand like he just dropped a hot potato. “Muy prendido!”

  Juana smacks the back of his head with her towel.

  “Back to work, baboso.” She laughs as he disappears into the hall.

  “How are we doing?”

  “We’re just cruising now. Patrice is finished with the goody bags. Shall I tell her to put them in the shoes?”

  My nose wrinkles. “I think we should wait till they’re having coffee. Probably the less time the stuff spends in some of those shoes, the better.”

  “Gotcha.”

  “Avery, have you got the—” Lindsey is halfway through the door and the look on her face is impossible to describe. For a few seconds she can’t seem to get her breath. Then she sputters, “Holy shit! Where did you get that dress?”

  “I found it in—”

  “Oh, dear God, Avery.” She looks at me like I’m some kind of gargoyle. “Didn’t you have anything else to wear?”

  “Sure,” I snap. “I have a vast wardrobe of party frocks sitting in my closet. This was just the one closest to the door.”

  “I’m sorry.” She comes over to put her hands on my shoulders. “I didn’t mean it. You know me, born with a silver foot in my mouth.”

  “What’s wrong with this dress?” I feel my face becoming the same shade as the material.

  “Nothing,” she says softly. “It’s beautiful. And you’re beautiful in it. It’s Isabel’s, isn’t it?”

  “No, it’s mine.”

  “Has Paul seen it?”

  “No.”

  “Does he know you have it?”

  “Probably not.”

  She gives about half a shrug. It’s a gesture of helplessness. “I hope you won’t feel badly if he—”

  “Lindsey, Paul DeGraf is a grown man and he speaks English fluently. If he’s got a problem with me or my clothes, I’m sure he’ll let me know.”

  She turns away from me. “I’ll just go check on everything in the dining room.”

  Juana bites her thumb at Lindsey’s back. “Such a bad case of envidia I never saw.”

  You want to take in one of these things?” Patrice asks me.

  “Hey, they ain’t ‘things,’ dummy.” Juana winks broadly at me. “They’re bushes.”

  I roll my eyes. “They’re not bushes. They’re bûches. Bûches de Noël. Yule logs to you crackers. And no, you guys take them in, light the sparklers, and let everybody get impressed before you start cutting.”

  “I don’t get it,” Juana says. “Why you want to get all dressed up and not leave the kitchen once. You look beautiful.”

  I hold the door open for them and smile at the low rumble of approval that greets the sight of my gorgeous bushes. In a few minutes, Patrice comes back.

  “Your presence is requested. Mr. DeGraf asked me to send you out.” She pokes me in the arm. “He’s pretty cute for an old guy. Rich, too. You better be nice to him, or I might slip him my phone number.”

  “Knock yourself out, girlfriend. I just work here.”

  She looks at the ceiling. “Right. And I’m Mrs. Claus.”

&nbs
p; Juana pushes open the door, hissing, “Avery, get your ass out here. I can’t cut the dessert till you come. Patrice, bring me the hot towel and the server.”

  Suddenly I’m reluctant. Lindsey was right. I should have worn something else. I blot my face with a napkin, lift my hair up, feeling the dampness on the back of my neck.

  “You look like a million bucks,” Patrice says, “Now move your butt.”

  The light in the dining room is dim after the brightness of the kitchen.

  “Here she is,” Paul says, beaming. “Come in, Avery. I think you know some of these gourmands. This is Avery James, culinary wizard and daughter of—”

  Now I’m far enough into the room. The dress seems to draw the light from the flickering candles, the dancing sparklers, and burn with its own inner fire. His face freezes. But only for a second. “Daughter of the late Isabel Colinas, as I think you can all see,” he finishes smoothly.

  Everyone is clapping and smiling at me. Someone says something about New Year’s Eve, and another disembodied voice asks if I have a business card. Every face is turned toward me except one. Lindsey is watching Paul, her heart in her eyes.

  Why did I never see it before? She’s in love with him. Always has been. Since before Tom. Since Paris. Now she’s just hanging around, being The Friend, playing part-time hostess, sending him business, listening to his ramblings. Trying to outlast his memory, waiting for him to regain consciousness.

  “Thank you.” Suddenly the room is quiet. “I’m glad you enjoyed dinner. I think you’ll love dessert. And since you’ve all been such good boys and girls, Père Noël has left you all a little something in your shoes to take home for sweet dreams. Merry Christmas.”