Then there were a lot of trees and bushes, and she was back at Calle Principal again. This was getting her nowhere. She pulled the car over and parked on the grass under the trees. She got out her trusty phone again and punched the number she had for Helena Lassiter. It rang and rang, but no one picked up. No voicemail, nothing. Odd. She must have an old landline phone.
Bree shoved the bag of tortilla chips, phone, and car keys into her oversized purse, slung it over her shoulder, and got out, then went around and unhooked Maisy's leash from the seat belt and let her out of the back of the car. The dog seemed thrilled to be here, pulling on the leash and leading her back down Tejas.
"Know the way, Maisy?" Bree asked.
The dog kept pulling, and Bree kept following her, but then Maisy just stopped at the nearest bush to relieve herself.
"I guess you're not Lassie, huh, Girl?"
Maisy looked at her with mournful eyes. She lay down on the grass and just looked sad.
"I miss Henry, too." She tugged gently on the leash. "But we can't just sit here."
Maisy got up and pulled her down the street, and Bree followed.
They had almost gotten back as far as the little Spanish cottage at the end of the lane when the dog stopped again in the shade of a Monterey pine tree. Nailed to the tree itself was a little wooden sign. The sign had obviously been there many years, because the tree trunk was growing around it, but she could still make out the lettering Vixen & K—.
Nico had said Helena lived at Vixen & Kits. Bree wondered why Henry had never told her that. He called it "the cottage," mostly. Or just home. He had said his home was full of foxes, and laughed when she asked him what he meant. Was a vixen a kind of fox? She had some vague memory of that.
On the other side of the Monterey pine was a rutted driveway. The driveway was blocked by a gate, of redwood, faded to gray. The gate joined up with a picket fence that followed along the road in front of the pine trees. She and Maisy walked along Tejas Street and a little way along came to another gate, a small one, for pedestrians. This one stood open, and she could see a path led under the trees. They went through the gate and under the canopy of trees.
They came out onto an expanse of grass, not really a lawn, but more of a wild meadow that someone kept weed-whacked into submission. All around the edge of the grass were roses and other flowers Bree couldn't name, but she hardly noticed, because before her stood the cutest house she'd ever seen in her life.
Only one story high and exactly the color of a terracotta pot, the cottage squatted in its little clearing like something out of a fairy tale. The siding was stucco, and its warm orange-red color made it almost seem to be glowing in the sunlight. The roof was steep-pitched and covered in barrel tile like she'd seen many times, but these were different. The tiles had a glossy glaze, smooth as glass, and were the color of semi-sweet chocolate.
She'd never seen anything like this. There was a little paved area in front of the cottage, like a tiny patio, made up of foot-square tiles. These were also a rich chocolate color, but flat, not glossy, and the close-trimmed grass that grew between them gave them a checkerboard look.
The cottage's windows had divided panes that looked wavy and distorted where the sun hit them, like the glass of an old bottle. The window frames and shutters were chocolate brown as well. She could see coppery curtains through the windows, and the lights were on inside.
She walked across the patio to the front door and that's when she noticed the fox.
The door, like the rest of the trim, was painted glossy chocolate brown, and in the center of it was a set of four tiles set in a diamond pattern. The tiles made a single picture, of a fox exactly the same terracotta color as the house. Soft green lines suggested grass at its feet, and there was a tiny, golden sun up in the corner shining down on the fox. The shading of its fur seemed to suggest the sunlight glistening on it. Its tail was thick and bushy, and it curled around the edge of the tiles like a frame. Its dark, glossy eyes held a knowing expression. It had a Mona Lisa smile—a bit wise, a bit amused, a bit sad. Hard to believe such subtlety could have been created out of a slab of clay. It was the most beautiful thing she'd ever seen.
She felt in her pocket for the little fox carving, then took a deep breath and knocked on the door.
The person who answered the door was Helena. There was no mistaking it, from the prematurely snow white hair and fair complexion that gave away that she, like her twin, had once been a redhead, to the sparkling blue eyes. But these eyes weren't sparkling with the humor and warmth Bree knew so well. These eyes snapped with anger, and even, it seemed, fear.
"You're not Wade!" Helena said. It was an accusation. Of what, Bree had no idea.
"No, I'm not," she answered. "I'm Bree Taylor. Henry's sous-chef… his assistant."
The fear in the eyes grew. "Henry's not here!" she shouted. "Go away."
"Wait! I have Maisy." She looked down at the dog beside her, who wagged her tail tentatively at the woman.
It made no difference. Helena just shook her head.
"I'm here for the funeral, Helena. For Henry."
The look of confusion and horror on the face in front of her was heartbreaking. "I don't know you! I don't want you! Go away!"
The lovely door with its stunningly beautiful fox was slammed in her face.
CHAPTER THREE
MAISY SAW something behind Bree and started barking.
Bree turned around to find a scrawny guy with dark hair and a scraggly bit of a beard coming across the grass. He was dressed about two steps up from a homeless man in ancient jeans and a torn army jacket, and he carried an insulated bag.
"You the one in town for the funeral?" he blurted out.
"Um, yeah. Are you Wade?"
"Yeah," he said. "How do you know that?"
She nodded toward the door. "She slammed the door in my face because I'm not Wade. I'm not sure what to do."
He went past her to the door and knocked firmly. "These senile ones are a pain—no offense," he added sheepishly.
"Senile?" Bree just had time to say, and then the door opened.
"Hi, Mrs. Madrigal," Wade said in an artificially cheery voice. He went right in, and Bree and Maisy scooted in after him before Helena could slam the door again.
But Helena didn't argue. She went over to an old recliner covered in a crocheted afghan and sat down. After her sudden outburst, all the fight had gone out of her, and she just leaned back and closed her eyes.
"Here's your allergy medicine from the pharmacy," Wade said to her, still speaking loudly and clearly, as if she were closer to ninety years old than sixty. He set a little bag down by her chair, then headed toward the kitchen.
Bree stood in the living room, totally lost about what to do. Senile? She had talked to her on the phone just a few days ago. Helena had been overwhelmed and confused, but she had seemed to grasp what was going on. But maybe that had been Bree's own assumption. She had talked her through the decisions—about the restaurant, the dog, and Henry—and Helena had said "yes" in response, but had she truly understood?
Why hadn't Henry said anything about this? Had he been dealing with his twin's illness all this time?
Bree thought back to the energetic and cheerful Henry bustling around his restaurant kitchen. Had there been problems he'd kept from her? Maybe she hadn't been as close to him as she thought she was. He knew all about her, but there had apparently been parts of his life he hadn't shared. "I'll tell you that story sometime," had been one of his common phrases. Like her, he had always assumed they had plenty of time.
Maisy tugged on the leash, so Bree let go. The dog went over to Helena and sat. She rested her head against Helena's knee. She didn't appear to notice.
The place felt close, and smelled a bit stale. There were half a dozen newspapers by the front door, still rolled up and rubber-banded. A cardboard box on the floor held unopened mail as if it had been dumped there day after day without being looked at. On the table where Wade
had set the bag there were three coffee cups and an empty water glass.
But despite the signs of recent clutter, the house itself was lovely, and had obviously been thoughtfully decorated.
The living room was painted a pale cream, with a floor of large, glossy tiles in shades of terracotta. The curtains she'd seen from outside were a shimmery copper silk, soft and unlined, so when the casement windows were opened to let in some fresh air, the fabric would be light enough to billow in the breeze.
The massive beams overhead were of redwood, stained the same semi-sweet chocolate color as the outside trim. There were niches built into the walls, lined with the same dark wood, and they were filled with artwork that looked very expensive to her untrained eye: delicate pots in black-and-white abstract patterns; small framed paintings propped up on the shelves, all in the warm tones of desert sunsets; and jewelry displayed against black velvet backings to show off the details of hammered silver and huge chunks of turquoise.
And then she noticed all the rugs. Rugs hung from wooden rails on the walls, again displayed like pieces of art. The rugs were in elaborate patterns of earth tones created out of dozens of shades of woolen threads. Each rug was more beautiful than the last, and she found herself looking from one to the next, trying to decide which was her favorite, then giving up because each had its own unique quality.
And then she finally noticed the fireplace—though how she had missed it was a mystery. This took up a whole corner of the room, and was covered in tiles obviously made by the artist who created the ones on the door. Here the tiles formed a scene of trees climbing up the sides of the fireplace. The trees reached up to the top of the firebox, where, in a little clearing of grass just like the one out front, a fox and two baby foxes frolicked. The mother fox watched with wise and knowing eyes while the two chubby red babies rolled in the grass and chased each other's tails.
There were towering cabinets on both sides of the fireplace. These were filled with books, and Bree spotted oversized art books as well as books on history and travel—and enough paperback fiction to keep a person occupied for a year's worth of bedtime reading.
The impression it all created was that the people who lived here enjoyed travel, and art, and beauty, and had come home to this incomparable little cottage to nest just like the foxes, and to enjoy the results of lives well-lived.
But the woman in the recliner didn't seem to care. One hand did reach out to stroke Maisy's head, so Bree left them there and followed the sounds of dishes clattering to where Wade worked in the kitchen.
Now this felt familiar. This was the room Henry had described to her, from the multi-paned window that gave a glimpse of the rose-filled back yard, to the old wooden countertops with scars from the time his mom had been trying to can corn from their garden and, in shucking the kernels, had sliced straight into the oak counter three different times.
She touched the three parallel lines in the wood. Henry and Helena had been eight years old. The sight of the scars brought back the vision of Henry telling her the story while she cut corn off the cob in the restaurant kitchen. She could almost feel how his laughter had boomed through the kitchen as she worked.
Above the scarred counter there were open shelves filled with worn pots and stoneware bowls—and over there was the chipped, black-enameled antique kitchen scale where Henry and his boyhood friends had rushed to weigh the fish they'd caught and argue about the big ones that got away.
But the centerpiece of the kitchen was the copper Chambers stove. Henry said the Chambers had a burner capable of the chef's holy grail: a perfect low simmer. The stove was so gorgeous it seemed to glow, as bright as a new copper penny and sparkling clean.
She set down her bag and put both hands on the knobs, dying to try the thermowell oven and the stovetop broiler.
"So who died?" Wade said, interrupting her.
"What?"
"Who died?" He was unpacking the insulated bag, and had put a covered plate on the kitchen counter.
"Henry, of course," she said. "Didn't Helena tell you?"
He shook his head. "You don't mean her brother?"
"Yes, that's exactly who I mean. Have they run the funeral notice in the local paper? The funeral's on Monday."
He shook his head. "Nobody in town knows about this. I just heard at—" he paused. "At a meeting. Nobody knew whose funeral."
"How did you know someone died?" Then she realized: "Nico Silva told you."
"Yeah. And no one knew who had died." He nodded his head toward the living room. "No wonder the old lady's having a bad day."
Old lady. Helena wasn't that old. Henry had been a lively, funny 58 years old, so his twin was the same age, within minutes. Not young, but not so old to be a senile lady sitting in a recliner, relying on delivered meals, and not remembering that her own twin brother had died.
Wade grabbed his bag and headed for the door.
"Wait," Bree said.
He shook his head. "Gotta go to the next delivery." Then he muttered so Helena couldn't hear, "and if you think this one is out of it, you should see the one next door."
"I just have a question. I need to check on the arrangements. Maybe she didn't get things organized for the funeral."
"She didn't," he said matter-of-factly.
"How can you be sure?"
"Because no one at the meeting knew. This is Pajaro Bay. If there was a funeral, everyone in town would know."
"Then I need to talk to someone at the church." Then she paused. She didn't know the name of the church. "How many churches are there in town?"
"Well," he said, "there's the Old Church and the New Church right in town. The Buddhist retreat is up in the hills somewhere. I don't know where the Wiccans go, but the lady at the herb shop could help there. The Jewish people go to a temple in the next town, I think."
"That covers most of the bases."
He shrugged. "It's Pajaro Bay. Our own little microcosm of California."
"Microcosm?"
"It means a miniature version of something, like an example of—"
"Uh huh," she said, interrupting him. She remembered the term from school. But she didn't want to insult the grungy-looking Wade by telling him she was surprised to hear him casually throwing around college SAT words, so she just asked, "is the Old Church the one that goes back to the mission days?"
"That's the one. You want Father Anselm. He'll be in the garden."
"But where's that?"
"It's the mission. It's on Mission Street. You can't miss it."
"No way," she said. "I heard that one before, and almost drove over a cliff looking for this place. I can't find my way anywhere in this town."
He laughed. "Yeah, I got ya. Okay, go back to Calle Principal, head back toward the highway, and take the one street that looks big enough for a tour bus to go up. That'll be Mission Street. It's about a ten-minute walk from here."
Then he left.
SHE WENT BACK to the living room and Helena looked up at her. "You're Bree."
"That's right, Helena."
"I can't feel my Henry's heartbeat. He's gone, isn't he?"
"Yes. I'm sorry."
"Me, too," Helena said.
Maisy huddled closer to her, both suffering. Bree felt like joining in their mutual misery, but someone had to keep it together.
"How about some lunch?" she said cheerfully. "Wade left something good."
Helena shook her head. "That senior food's awful. No taste."
"Well, maybe I can do something about that."
She went into the kitchen to check it out.
She took the lid off the covered plate. Helena was right; it was pretty awful. There was a dry-looking chicken breast, pale and unseasoned. Some grayish gravy that probably came from a can was in a separate cup. A bit of corn that was a far cry from the home-canned kernels of their childhood. And a jiggly mass of green jello.
She'd seen worse meals. But she'd also definitely seen better.
She looked arou
nd. The kitchen was almost too clean—something she'd never thought she'd say as a chef. But there was little there in the way of food. The shelves held all the cooking utensils and gorgeous pans. But where was the food?
She opened the fridge. Mostly empty, though there were two plates just like the one that had been delivered, and when she investigated, found they were virtually identical meals. Same thing every day, it appeared.
She couldn't fault them. It was nice that someone was preparing and delivering the lunches. But while she was sure they were nourishing, they were soul-crushingly dull.
She opened the freezer. Jackpot. Lots of stuff there: filleted fish carefully packaged and labeled in Henry's handwriting with a date only three weeks ago. Frozen vegetables it appeared he'd blanched himself—it was the same technique he'd taught her for dealing with an over-abundance of fresh produce. And then she found what she needed: small containers of prepared meats and pasta dishes, and the perfect thing, sauces.
There was something so heartbreaking about the carefully handwritten notes: Mama Serrano's Sauce. Nuke it for two minutes and let rest for five. Enjoy, Kit. Who was Kit? It looked like Henry's handwriting.
And the sauce looked like a molé. Well, whoever had made it, it would do. She popped the dish into the microwave for two minutes, as instructed. When it was done she sniffed it.
How strange. Chili peppers and chocolate. Notes of anise, cinnamon, raisins. All the things Henry had taught her went into creating the complex flavor of a twenty-ingredient molé sauce. But something was missing. She sniffed again. Aha! It was a molé with no garlic. She'd never heard of such a thing. He'd never made this at the restaurant.
She tasted it. It was good. No mistaking the Henry Lassiter touch, but it was so different from the way he'd taught her. Mama Serrano's sauce, he called it. Who was Mama Serrano?
She was learning there were so many things she didn't know about Henry. The thought made her sad, but also determined. It reminded her of the old recipes of her mother's. Henry had once told her she'd found herself through her mother's recipes. She would find Henry here in the next couple of days. She would keep learning, and she would figure out a way to help Helena, and herself, get through this.
Little Fox Cottage Page 3
