Isabel's Daughter
Page 38
“Rita, thanks.”
She brushed it off. “I had to come see with my own baby blues that you were okay. I just wish I could’ve got away earlier, but the office was a zoo today.”
I close my eyes. “Not just for coming. For everything.” I was starting to drift again, and then the nurse stepped in and told Rita time was up.
“I’ll come back,” she called over her shoulder. “Soon as you’re up and around, I’m going to haul your butt down to Albuquerque for a long visit.”
After she escorted Rita to the door, the nurse came back to wake me up for my sleeping pill. When I swallowed it, she gave me kind of an odd look. “Interesting family you have.”
I smiled weakly, let my eyes fall shut again.
“My mother,” I whispered. “She got around.”
Once I was out of the hospital, I got better fast. Paul kept talking about postponing his trip to New Zealand, so I lied and told him I was going to stay with Cookie. As soon as he left, I moved back into the guesthouse. But Cookie came every day to put aloe on my burns and bring me loaves of home-baked bread or muffins or shortbread. Bettina drove over from Cimarron with a week’s worth of dinners.
Lindsey came one afternoon with two bottles of wine, and we drank it all in a couple hours. She had this great idea that I should be a caterer in Santa Fe and she would be my silent partner. I explained as gently as I could that it was a really nice idea, and very generous on her part, but that just wasn’t the direction I was headed.
The bandages are off my hands and arms now. My palms are funny, scarred in a strange wavy pattern of pink and white and red that reminds me of the Great Sand Dunes, but soft as baby skin.
I still have a lingering cough from all the smoke I sucked in, but it only bothers me once in a while, usually if I sleep on my back. The cabin pretty much smells like a cold campfire, but it’ll air out eventually. I moved in last week for good.
And I’ve got some company, although you never know how long that’s going to last. Yeah, Coyote Dog. They said that morning when the paramedics came to get me, they could hear him howling for miles.
I just call him Dog. If I name him and start treating him like a friend, he’ll be down the road in a hurry, so we’re being pretty casual about the relationship right now. But he knows I’m not going to throw rocks at him anymore. I talk to him, which is pretty much like talking to myself. He just hangs out and stares at me a lot, and sometimes he wanders over and puts his head in my lap and lets me scratch his ears.
Friday night there’s a waxing moon, and when I first see it rising up over the hills to hang like a silver apostrophe in the pale blue twilight, I know right away what I have to do. I called him twice; once I even left a voice mail that he could leave a message for me at The Good Earth, but so far, he hasn’t. I guess I can understand that.
I open Isabel’s green box, digging through it till I find the straight pins in a plastic container. Sure enough there’s a blue-headed one. I take it and a silver one, a candle, and a saucer outside to the portal. I push the blue-headed pin into the candle from left to right, and then the silver one from right to left, making sure they cross in the middle.
I light the candle and drip some wax in the saucer, enough to snuggle the candle into and hold it straight. Then I sit there cross-legged, eyes on the wavering flame till it’s burning strong and steady, and I begin to think of him, first trying just to picture his sweet solemn face, his blue-gray eyes. The light brown hair growing down over the collar of his denim jacket, the little ridge above his ears from his hat.
In a few minutes I swear the breeze against my skin smells like him, like wind blowing through the high desert after a rain. Gradually an image forms. Kind of like an old TV set that takes awhile to warm up. He’s driving somewhere, hands strong but relaxed on the steering wheel of his truck, shadows of clouds flickering across his face.
In my mind I start talking. Will Cameron, it’s me. He shakes his head a little, as if he’s about to doze off. Will, it’s Avery. His eyes move first to the left, then to the right. He leans forward a little, looks up at the sky through the windshield.
I know it’s way past Christmas, but there were just some things I had to do.
He frowns. Looks in the rearview mirror, then out the side mirror, moving his eyes to catch something in his blind spot.
I need to talk to you. Please come.
He shakes his head again, so hard this time that I lose him.
But a snapshot flares open in my mind, a memory from the future. Sunday morning. Will and me. The two of us in bed, spooned up together, skin against skin. Sunlight on white sheets. Warm breeze fluttering a curtain. His hand resting gently on my slightly swollen belly.
Jesus God, as Rita would say.
My eyes flood with startled gratitude—not the kind of gratitude that crushes you under the weight of obligation, but more a free floating thankfulness that’s practically a state of grace.
Saturday morning the sky is a pale, washed-out blue with a few streaky clouds, and the wind has stopped. I’m driving up to Santa Fe with a carton stacked full of packages of tea for Cookie. She sold out of the first batch in about a month, and she says women have been phoning and dropping by to see if she had any more. One guy even came by wanting some for his wife. He said his life was more pleasant when she had it.
The fruit trees are in bloom now, the apricots much further along, because they bloom first, and the cherry and peach and pear trees all coming on, slowly dispensing their pollen and perfume into the day. As the sun climbs higher, I roll down my window to let the air break over me in sweet-scented waves.
Red paintbrush blossoms along the road, and filigree, the tiny magenta geraniums, although the flowers aren’t as plentiful as in previous, rainier years. Puffy white cottonwood seed rides the breeze and settles in drifts that look like snow.
I get to the store right at ten A.M. and Cookie’s just put the teakettle on, and is slipping the change drawer into the register. She takes the box from me and gives me a big hug.
“Why didn’t you come and get me? I could have carried it.”
“I’m fine.” I show her my hands. “Good as new.”
“You are a crazy woman,” she scolds me. “I trust now that you’re healed and have your ducks in a row you won’t be putting yourself in danger again any time soon.”
I give her a mysterious smile. “Living is being in danger, yes?”
“And I do hope you won’t begin talking like a wise woman or she who runs with wolves or—”
“Shaman. I can’t help it. It’s in my blood. You’re the one who told me to listen.”
She laughs. “I’ve created a monster.”
The bell on the door jingles, and a middle-aged woman in a jogging suit with fake leather fringe comes in, glancing around. “Do you have any of that women’s tea? My friend Janice Hayden was raving about it.”
Cookie smiles at her. “We just got a whole new shipment. It probably won’t last long; would you like two boxes? Perhaps you should get Janice another as well.”
I have to walk away so I don’t laugh. The woman is examining the box, reading the list of herbs. “It’s all pretty straightforward, isn’t it? No secret ingredients or anything.”
“All natural, all organic,” Cookie says.
“Well, I guess you’d better give me three boxes. It’s a pretty package, too. Is there really such a person, or is it just a nice bit of marketing?”
Cookie laughs. “Not only is there such a person, but she’s standing right over there.” She calls out, “Avery, come say hello to one of your customers.”
The woman turns to me, offering her hand. “Betsy Crane. How nice to meet you.”
Disconcerted, I glance at Cookie. Her eyes are making little darting movements like she’s saying Yes, you. Get yourself over here and meet her.
My first step feels like I’m stepping off a cliff, but then the creaky wood floor rises up to meet my boots, supporting me.
/> “Avery James.” I smile and reach for her hand. “I’m Isabel’s daughter.”
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
Isabel’s Daughter is a work of fiction. Characters, events, and even some of the locations exist only in my imagination. I’ve taken certain chronological and geographic liberties with the state of New Mexico and the city of Santa Fe, and since this was done in the service of storytelling, I trust that no one will be unduly offended.
A thousand thanks to Donna Meador Mifflin, who opened the city of Santa Fe to me, introduced me to people and places, corrected my pronunciation, fed me information as well as food, and put me up at her beautiful home more times than she would probably care to remember.
Thanks also to:
My irreplaceable agent, Deborah Schneider, for her wisdom, candor, and friendship. My editor, Claire Wachtel, for continuing to demonstrate why God created editors. Jen Pooley, book wrangler without peer, for the thousand things you do. Honi Werner for so beautifully capturing all my words in a single picture.
Sally Boyd, Amy Terrell, and Grace Marcus, dear friends and trusted manuscript readers. Ron Greenspun for his insights and for listening. Kate Berry for the great reading list. Jill, Barbara, Barbara2, and Alice of the Santa Fe Weaving Gallery for their enthusiasm, support, and friendship. James Avery Craftsman, for inspiration. And Janet Mitchell for her wonderul book Summer in Santa Fe.
Jo-Ann Mapson, best Bad Girl and dearest friend.
Geoff, for always being there.
And to the people of New Mexico for holding the line against twenty-first-century blandness and homogenized culture.
About the Author
JUDITH RYAN HENDRICKS is the author of Bread Alone and The Baker’s Apprentice. She lives in Santa Fe, New Mexico.
www.judihendricks.com
Visit www.AuthorTracker.com for exclusive information on your favorite HarperCollins author.
Also by the Author
Bread Alone
The Baker’s Apprentice
Copyright
ISABEL’S DAUGHTER. Copyright © 2003 by Judith Ryan Hendricks. All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, down-loaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins e-books.
Mobipocket Reader March 2007 ISBN 978-0-06-143657-4
10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1
About the Publisher
Australia
HarperCollins Publishers (Australia) Pty. Ltd.
25 Ryde Road (PO Box 321)
Pymble, NSW 2073, Australia
http://www.harpercollinsebooks.com.au
Canada
HarperCollins Publishers Ltd.
55 Avenue Road, Suite 2900
Toronto, ON, M5R, 3L2, Canada
http://www.harpercollinsebooks.ca
New Zealand
HarperCollinsPublishers (New Zealand) Limited
P.O. Box 1
Auckland, New Zealand
http://www.harpercollinsebooks.co.nz
United Kingdom
HarperCollins Publishers Ltd.
77-85 Fulham Palace Road
London, W6 8JB, UK
http://www.uk.harpercollinsebooks.com
United States
HarperCollins Publishers Inc.
10 East 53rd Street
New York, NY 10022
http://www.harpercollinsebooks.com
Table of Contents
Start