The bunkhouse door was closed, so her dad was probably out taking his morning ride. Instead of knocking, she tried the knob and the door opened. Her intention was to grab some paper, leave him a note, and tell him about the judge. But there he was, butt naked, with Margaret underneath him, the two of them having what looked like old-people sex.
“Sorry,” she said, backing away, wishing she hadn’t seen either of them, especially her dad, naked. Skye stumbled back to the Mercedes, her face purple with embarrassment. In less than a week he’d found a job, a place to live, and somebody to knock boots with? At his age? What was fair about that? She started the engine and sped out.
Skye tried to block that picture out of her mind while she drove to the courthouse on Catron Street. At the entrance, there was a turnstile and a couple of security guards. The guy was leering at her boobs, but the female guard was checking everybody’s identification. Hoo, boy. I knew I should have brought doughnuts, Skye thought. She held out her driver’s license, hoping for a pass, but no luck. “Hold on,” the female one said, placing her hand out to block Skye’s entrance. “You need to show a jury summons to come in this entrance, or be scheduled for a court appearance.”
“I don’t have a jury summons. I need to speak to Judge Iglesias. He knows me,” she said.
“I’ll bet he does,” the woman said, rolling her eyes.
That lit up Skye’s cylinders. “Yes, that’s right, from a previous court appearance. You have an issue with that?”
“Are you an attorney?”
She gestured to her jeans and t-shirt. “Do I look like an attorney? I just need like five minutes of his time.”
“I’m sorry,” the woman said. “Step aside, please. There are people behind you who have legitimate court business.”
“Mine’s about as legitimate as it gets,” Skye said. She stood on the concrete step and leaned against the handrail as people walked by. Not one of them looked very happy about it. After a break in the foot traffic, Skye returned to the entrance.
“Now what?” asked the same security guard.
“Could I leave a message for the judge? It’s really important. There’s a missing little girl at stake. My daughter.”
The woman softened. “Sounds like you need a police officer or a social worker, not a judge.”
Skye bit her lip. “Are you a mom? Look. I’m not trying to bust your chops, and I respect the law. I’m just trying to find my daughter. She’s four. My husband disappeared with her. Judge Iglesias awarded my husband temporary custody. I don’t have any documentation with me, but I know there has to be some and Judge Iglesias probably has copies of it. The judge might be able to help me find my daughter.”
“Step aside, please,” the woman said, letting four more people inside.
While Skye waited, she tried to think of another way to come at the problem, but writing or calling the judge would take time, which she didn’t have. Then, a lawyer who was dressed in a blue-black suit and an orange Jerry Garcia tie placed his hand on her shoulder. “Couldn’t help but overhear your dilemma. As it happens, I know Judge Iglesias personally. If you’d like to write him a note, I’ll make sure he receives it.”
“Oh, my gosh, thank you. Shoot, I don’t have any paper.”
He opened his tooled leather briefcase and handed her a sheet of stationery.
She winced. “I don’t suppose you have a pen?”
He laughed and took a gold Cross pen from his suit pocket.
“Thank you,” Skye said. Wolfgang Schneider, Attorney at Law, was printed across the top of the thick, creamy paper in raised, indigo-blue ink. Who named their kid Wolfgang? Did they want to make sure he’d get beaten up on the playground or what? Skye sat on the bottom concrete step and used her purse as a flat surface.
Your Honor Iglesias,
You were kind to me in the past when I came into your courtroom on a DWI almost one year ago. Instead of jail, you gave me rehab. I am happy to report that I have completed rehab and I am over nine months sober. I believe with all my heart that will continue. I know you are a busy man with important cases, but I hope you can give me a minute of your time. You granted temporary custody of my little girl Grace Eleanor Elliot to my husband, Rocky Elliot. However, my husband seems to have disappeared with my little girl. No one lives at the address he gave me. The phone is disconnected. Your Honor, all I want is to know my little girl is safe, and to try to be a good mother to her again. Do you have contact information for my husband? Here is my cell phone #. You can call anytime day or night.
Yours most very sincerely,
Skye (Sara Kay) Elliot
When she finished, she folded the paper in half and handed it to the lawyer. “What kind of law do you practice?”
He smiled at her. “Oh, family law, mainly.”
“Does that include divorce?”
He glanced at her left hand. She couldn’t even remember what happened to her engagement ring. Probably she let Rocky pawn it for entry fees or he spent the money he got for it on drugs. “It does indeed. You in need of a divorce lawyer?”
“It’s possible.”
“I’m happy to give you a free consultation. Or to recommend a colleague.”
He was good-looking, but there was no time for flirting. That was like asking King Kong whether he wanted one banana out of the bunch. “Could I have a card and get back to you later?”
“Sure.” He handed her two of his cards. “Write your contact information on this one, and the other one is for you to keep. Divorce can be a tricky business, I know. Best of luck,” he said, and after she handed him the card, he went into the turnstile she’d been blocked from.
“Wait! I still have your pen,” she called, but he was gone. Skye put the pen in her purse, saluted the security guard, and walked away.
The giant cottonwood trees around the buildings in this part of town made the grassy lawns look like something out of a movie set: the perfect place for anyone stuck working indoors to escape to at lunch hour, enjoy a peanut-butter sandwich, and recharge for the afternoon. In a movie set there, someone like Wolfgang Schneider would hand her a pen, they’d fall in love, and before she knew it, she’d have a baby on the way and be living in a cute little Pueblo-style adobe with a yard for Gracie. “Focus,” she told herself, realizing how completely stupid and romantic that was. Pretty much the same thing had happened with her and Rocky, and what had that led to? This moment right here. A clueless mother walking down the sidewalk past the courthouse where she’d been a defendant.
Sad as that was, she admired the way the tall trees cast shade over the sidewalk and how spring had brought warmth to the days, enough to feel it on your face. That high desert air was hell on the complexion but sweet and clean in your lungs. Good, clean air was just what she needed—she still wanted to scour out the horror of seeing her dad and Margaret naked.
Skye passed Home on the Range but decided that could wait. The idea of haggling back and forth for a decent price for her boots was too much. Her cell phone rang just as she reached her car.
“Hello?”
“Hi, Skye.”
“Mr. Vigil?”
“Yes, it’s me. I have a trail ride set up for tomorrow if you can get here by noon, and a private ride after that for one-thirty. The group gig pays fifty dollars. The single pays thirty-five. I’m sorry it’s not more.”
“That’s all right. Money’s money.”
He laughed. “Don’t forget: Tomorrow is the night of the gala. We agreed you’d be there, right?”
She thought it over. One more day of not looking. “All right,” she said. “But right after the gala, I have to go to T and C. Just for one day.”
She knew she couldn’t drive all over the state looking for Gracie if she had no money to fill her gas tank, so this would help. She thought of her dad, being in prison all those years. All the mean thoughts she’d entertained, certain he was remarried, had all new kids, was happy when she wasn’t. She thought of all the times sh
e’d goaded Nola into throwing up. What the hell was the matter with her? She got in the car, put her head on the steering wheel, and cried. Look at me, she thought, squirting girlies. Last time I felt like this I was pregnant. She prayed she could escape having a sex talk with her dad. But really, what was he thinking? Old people were supposed to be over all that nonsense.
Chapter 12
When Skye had shut the door, Owen and Margaret sat up laughing until tears ran down their cheeks. “What are the odds?” Owen said.
“Quite good, apparently.” She kissed Owen and giggled. “Let’s have dinner tonight. What time do you get off work?”
He frowned. “I have a meeting with Joe about the gala, and I need to stow the equipment he’s bringing. Plus, there’s a load of hay coming and who knows when it’ll show up. I have to be here to sign for it, then stack it in the barn.”
“You have to eat dinner sometime.”
“Yes, and ordinarily that would mean a cup of soup heated in the microwave.”
She sighed. “But I want you to see my painting. I think it might be the best thing I’ve ever done.”
“And I want to see it. But this is the start-up, Maggie. We’ll be busy until after the fund-raiser. You’ll come to that, right?”
“I already agreed to sit the Vigil kids. Maybe I can come for the beginning.”
“After the gala, we’ll find a way. I’m not letting you go ever again.”
Margaret smiled, began to slide her arms into her bra. Owen stopped her. “Don’t cover up just yet.” He leaned forward and reached for her, cupping her left breast in his hand. “My goodness, you are just as beautiful as the day I first met you.”
“That’s ironic.”
“Why?”
“Because I had more clothes on then.”
“I remember those red panties like it was yesterday. And your legs, three feet of wonder. You, running from the water spout to the dogs. I’ll never forget that. Don’t suppose you still have the red panties?”
“Owen, be serious. That was ten years ago. That particular pair wore out.”
“Can I ask from what?”
She gave him a gentle punch. “From normal wash and wear, you dope. I haven’t had any lovers.”
“Can you come back later tonight?”
She shook her head no. “I’m babysitting tonight, too.”
“You sure that you’re up to it? That seven-year-old is a handful. And what will you do if the baby cries?”
She laughed. “I’ll feed her or rock her or change her diaper. Believe me, after Peter these two seem easy. I’m going to feed them dinner, pop in a video, do their laundry, read them a story, and then collapse. Glory’s last pregnancy was high-risk and I want to help out as much as I can.”
She ran her hand along his craggy jaw, bristled with whiskers. “What are we going to do, Owen? You have to stay on site here and I have obligations in town. How are we going to work this out?”
“I’ll think of something. You get on home and do what needs doing. Take your time driving. I love you, Maggie Yearwood.”
She hooked her bra shut and pulled on her shirt. “I love you, too.”
“We won’t dwell in the past. We’ll enjoy what we have right here, right now, and tomorrow will work itself out.”
Margaret touched her cheeks as she drove from Owen’s, feeling the chafed skin from his whiskers and all that kissing.
At home, she smelled something she couldn’t immediately identify. She went to the kitchen, found Echo snoozing on the rag rug. Her water dish was full. She’d clearly been fed. The dog always left about a half cup of kibble in her bowl, as if saving for a rainy day. Margaret gave her a quick pet and told her she was a good dog. She called out for Peter, but he wasn’t home or in the casita. There were, however, dirty dishes in the sink with gunk stuck on them. So much for her lecture. Ah. The burned smell was due to the coffeepot being left on, with barely a quarter cup of coffee remaining. She was lucky to come home and find it before the glass cracked. After putting her kitchen to rights, Margaret took a shower and changed into gray leggings and a Henley top. Echo followed her from room to room, knowing that when Margaret moved with purpose it often implied a walk or being left home alone. Either way, treats were involved. Margaret dried her hair, set the brush on the pedestal sink, and looked at her dog. “You can sure turn on the tragic, can’t you? Fine, let’s get your leash. But we’re only going next door. You can play with Glory’s dogs.”
She rapped on the Vigils’ door, then tried the knob, and it opened. “Glory?”
“In the bedroom,” she called out, and Margaret followed her voice through their home, impressed, as always, by the way it revealed the family’s inner selves—baskets, books on the shelves, pieces of pottery here and there, old furniture, and the painting of clouds done by Joe’s cousin. It looked like a trompe l’oeil window outdoors from where it sat on the mantel.
Glory was dressed in yoga pants and an Albuquerque Police Department sweatshirt several sizes too big for her. She sat in the middle of her bed, working on folding a mountain of laundry.
“That is a lot of clothing,” Margaret said.
Glory sighed. “Sometimes I feel like making a deal with Rumpelstiltskin. There’s always one load in the wash and one in the dryer,” she said, making a face. “I expect to be doing four loads a day for the next eighteen years.”
“In retrospect,” Margaret said as she sat down and began folding baby onesies, “those will seem like the good old days. Where are the kids?”
“Oh, I put them all into foster care,” Glory said. “It was either that or kill them.”
Margaret said, “I know you’re kidding. But all I can think is how Owen’s daughter would do anything if it helped to find her little one.”
“Oh, sweetie, I’m sorry. I can’t joke around without putting my foot in my mouth. Aspen is at school. Joseph took Sparrow to the pediatrician for her next round of shots. I hope he remembered to ask for baby pain medication. Otherwise we’ll be up all night. Hey,” she said, “did you get a facial or something? You’re glowing, but your cheeks look abraded. Remember when my sister had that bad reaction to dermabrasion?”
Margaret could hold it in no longer. “Glory, Skye walked in on us!”
Her friend laughed. “I’m so glad you have your beau back. I’ll speak to Joe about getting a lock for the door. But, one thing?”
“What?”
“Details, girlfriend.”
Margaret laughed. “Seriously?”
“Oh, yeah,” Glory said. “I get to live vicariously through your romance, and I don’t have to worry about getting pregnant because I already am. What’s better than that?”
An hour later, Margaret was lying on Joseph’s side of the bed. She had fetched Glory herb tea, boiled some eggs, and put together a platter of carrot sticks and Brie wrapped in phyllo dough, warm from the oven. They looped the gooey cheese around the carrots and savored the moment. The dogs were all played out, and were snoozing on the floor next to the bed. Margaret had just finished telling Glory about Skye’s name change. “She said Sara Kay was the name of a spoiled brat. Skye, she insists, is wide open to all changes.”
“Kids and their names,” Glory said. “Juniper made such a big deal out of changing her last name to ours. We had a party. Want to know something strange?”
“What’s that?”
“Casey asked to take our name, too.”
“It isn’t really all that remarkable,” Margaret said. “Everyone who meets you wants to be a part of your family. Can I be Margaret Vigil?”
“Sure, join the party. Pretty soon the state will be filled with nothing but Vigils. Actually, we have a pretty good start on that already.”
“How’s the little Vigil who’s incubating? What did the doctor say? Are you taking a leave from work?”
Glory shrugged. “Not yet. Everything appears to be fine. My blood pressure is normal. All she said was to watch my diet, drink gallons of water, and
no getting upset at anything.”
“Well, that’s good, isn’t it?”
Glory said, “Yes. This time around, I’m trying to mark every moment. I started a journal. I look forward to the ultrasound. As soon as I see the heart beating, I’ll be fine. I’m a little worried about how I’ll manage two babies—Sparrow and the unnamed one—but seeing that little pulse, the heartbeat, there’s nothing like it.”
Margaret squeezed her hand. “I’m so happy for you. Where’s Casey?”
“Today she has her therapist appointment. Afterwards, she walks to Aspen’s school to pick her up. They have a snack at the café and some alone time. She should be back any minute.”
“How is she doing in therapy?”
“Joe could probably tell you more than I can. Casey smiles a lot more now. She’s still seeing Ardith Clemmons, the therapist she met in Española. Ardith gives her ‘homework’ to do. Write in a diary, help with the handicapped riding program, and learn to make a few meals. It’s all directed toward getting her to socialize beyond our family, eventually.”
“That sounds promising.”
“And difficult. We try to keep things positive around here, you know, as much as we can. It’s just . . .”
“Just what?” Margaret prodded, brushing a lock of stray silvery hair behind Glory’s ear.
Glory yawned. “Excuse me. You can see it in her face sometimes. She is reliving something horrible. I try to draw her out, but she won’t talk about it. Breaks Joe’s heart. Mine, too. I swear, Curly, that dog of hers, is psychic. She somehow knows when Casey is struggling and she goes directly to her.”
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