Endless Chain (25 page)

“No. Chrissy wants to be away from church members.”

She wondered if that had caused him any embarrassment with Gayle.

“And it doesn’t matter,” he went on. “I told Gayle I found you working too hard, too early. And I did.”

She wished she hadn’t mentioned Christine. By doing so,
she
was the one who was making more of this than he had intended.

They walked up the path to the porch, and Sam let them in, rapping his knuckles on the door as he opened it. “Anybody home?”

The entry hall extended at least twenty-five feet to swinging doors. There was a desk to the right, with an open book for guests to sign, and pottery containers with brochures advertising Luray Caverns and the Blue Ridge Parkway. Guide books for the area were neatly overlapped in a vertical row, and an apothecary jar was filled with colorful jelly beans.

The floor was pine, with a runner the same red as the siding extending to the doors. Behind the table was a seating area with plush jewel-tone love seats and windows overlooking the porch. In front of them and off to the right was a wide staircase leading to a sunlit landing before it made a full turn to continue to the next floor. The staircase was pine, as well. The entire effect was of space and warmth. Elisa was enchanted.

The doors at the end of the hall swung open, and a woman with short blond hair and a smile came through. She was drying her hands on a dishtowel, and she slung it over one arm and extended her hand before she reached Elisa. “I’m Gayle. I don’t think we’ve met, although I’ve seen you hard at work.”

Elisa shook. “It’s kind of you to have us.”

“Actually, it’s something of a conspiracy. I keep trying to feed Sam, but he’s always too busy. Do you know what he eats?”

“I’m afraid so.”

“I decided it’s too pretty outside to let you eat indoors, so I set a table on our patio for you. I hope that’s okay. It may be the last morning of the season that’s warm enough.”

“Your other guests are already out?” Sam asked.

“No, sometimes everyone eats together, but people are coming and going this morning. So you’ll have a table to yourself.” She read Elisa’s expression correctly. “Please don’t worry. I’ve told Sam, I make extras of everything. My kids will eat what the guests don’t. With teenage boys, I don’t worry about wasting food; I worry about having enough. So I make tons.”

“This is a treat,” Elisa said.

“Take it from me. When you take care of other people all the time, you need somebody to wait on you for a change. Both you and Sam work too hard.” She turned to Sam. “Don’t you?”

“Abolish death, sin and basic obstinacy, and I’ll take it as easy as the next man.”

“Your obstinacy or the congregation’s?”

“Take your pick.”

“Go that way.” She pointed to the room beside the hallway, a larger version of the nook behind the desk, furnished with comfortable chairs, sofas, country antiques and glass-fronted bookcases. “Through the dining room and out the back door. The patio’s just below the back porch. You’ve been there, Sam.”

“We’ll find our way.”

“I’ll bring you coffee and juice. Make yourselves comfortable.”

Elisa admired the rooms as they walked through, particularly the antique star quilts Gayle had used on several walls. She could hear noise from the kitchen, but all doors leading to it were closed. Outside again on the back porch, she got her first glimpse of the river. “Look at that.”

“It’s wonderful, isn’t it? Gayle could sell this place and retire on the profits, but she loves it too much. Somebody would tear down the inn and build a village of mini-mansions. She wants as many people as possible to enjoy this part of the river.”

He took the steps down, and she followed. The fieldstone patio was level, but the land from that point was terraced. They were many feet above the river. The banks on both side were thick with trees, but there were enough breaks for them to easily view the water sparkling in the sunshine.

They seated themselves at a round table that was already set for two. Elisa was enchanted with the view. “Why did she name the inn Daughter of the Stars?”

“You don’t know the legend?”

“I guess not.”

“Some people think that’s what the word Shenandoah means. Of course, there are detractors, who are probably right, who say the name comes from other sources. But the legend is better.”

Gayle arrived with a tray. She placed two glasses of grapefruit juice served over crushed ice and rimmed with sugar on the table, along with a pot of coffee with a pitcher of cream.

They thanked her, and she promised to return in a few minutes with food.

Elisa sipped her juice and felt better almost immediately. “Tell me the story.”

“It’s an Indian legend. First the Great Spirit made the world. And did a fine job of it, too. Afterward the morning stars, arrayed in robes of fire, wanted to celebrate this beauty together, so they found the loveliest place in the world, a shining silver lake rimmed with blue-green mountains, and they sang a song of joy. They were so pleased, they promised to meet there every thousand years to do it again.”

He stopped. “You’re smiling.”

“I’m imagining plugging that date into an appointment book. Singing songs of joy. Same day, next millennium.”

He smiled, too. For a moment he just looked at her.

“What?” she asked.

“That’s the first real smile I’ve seen from you all morning. I feel better.”

She looked down at the table, picking off an imaginary crumb. “Go on with your story.”

“They met again and again, but one day, while they were singing, a huge boulder broke loose from a mountain rimming the lake, and all the water poured out in a rush to the sea.”

“You didn’t tell me this was going to be a sad story.”

“It’s not. Because a thousand years later, when the stars looked for another place to reunite, they came upon a beautiful green valley with a silver river running through it and knew this would be a perfect place to sing. Finally one of them realized these were the same mountains where they had cast their robes of fire, and the silver river ran along what had once been the bed of their lake. They were so pleased, they plucked the jewels out of their crowns and threw them in the river. And that’s why the Shenandoah sparkles the way it does, and why it’s called The Daughter of the Stars.”

“And Gayle named the inn after the legend.”

“It’s beautiful, don’t you think?”

It
was
beautiful, but the timing for hearing it was wrong. The timing for being here was wrong, too. She had realized both those things when Sam started to speak, when he commented on her smile, when the cool autumn breeze sent wisps of hair dancing around her face. At first she had felt better, before the sudden inexplicable overload of beauty, of sentiment, of the company of a man she cared too much about, crashed around her. Now she felt worse, and she steeled herself against the flood of sadness.

“Yes, it’s beautiful, but the story’s every bit as likely as Adam and Eve and the Garden of Eden.” Her voice sounded tight, her words stilted.

“Legend’s never about words and phrases, it’s about deeper meaning. A scientific explanation of the Big Bang has very little poetry and wouldn’t be recounted around a campfire for one generation, much less millennia.”

“I was always the debunker of myth.”

“You come from a culture with rich, colorful traditions
based
on legend and myth. Wouldn’t you say they provide meaning for a lot of people, whether they’re strictly true or not?”

She toyed with her fork. “I don’t think I’m up to theological discussion this morning.”

“One of those traditions is the Day of the Dead,” Sam said. “Which is today, as a matter of fact.”

She rested her head in her hands, elbows perfectly splayed over gleaming white pottery. “I know what day it is.”

“Is that why you’re feeling sad? Why you came in to work so early?”

“I’m fine. Maybe a little tired.”

“Maybe a little sad?”

She straightened and looked up to see Gayle approaching with another tray. She managed all the right responses, exclaiming over Virginia country ham, cheesy garden omelets with the tail end of the season’s peppers and tomatoes, the cinnamon pecan rolls that Sam had rhapsodized about in the church social hall. Gayle excused herself to take care of a couple who were checking out, and they were alone again.

He dove right into his food, and for a moment she thought he might forget his questions, but a few mouthfuls later, he looked up. “That’s what’s bothering you, isn’t it?”

Denial drew more attention than a simple yes. She nodded.

“Tell me how you celebrated in Mexico.”

“You probably know all about it.”

“Humor me. I’m sure the traditions are different in different parts of the country.”

He wanted her to talk. She thought it was one part counseling, one part curiosity, one part concern. Then there was that elusive fourth part, neither affection nor attraction, exactly, but some volatile mixture of both that they could not discuss.

“It’s a day to honor and remember the dead,” she said. “A day to bring them back to life, if only in our hearts.”

“And from what little you’ve said, too many people you’ve loved have died.” When she didn’t answer, he held out the basket of cinnamon rolls. “This will make you feel better.”

She took one. “Cinnamon roll therapy?”

“More like somebody who cares about you wishing he could do something to help.”

His kindness brought tears to her eyes. She blinked them away. “Thank you.”

“Did you go to the cemeteries? Have processions or parades?”

She bit into the roll. It was every bit as good as he had promised. “There are flowers and candles, sweets. Skulls of spun sugar. The cemeteries are decorated. There’s music.”

“What’s your favorite memory of the day?”

That was so easy, she spoke before she had time to censor herself. “There was a village some distance from…” Good sense intruded. “The place I grew up. They had a special way to celebrate and honor the dead. Once, when I was a little girl, my family drove there to be part of it, because my father’s family had come from a place not far away.” She stopped, aware that she was about to say more than she should.

“What did you do?”

She wanted to describe that day to him. For so long there had been no one to talk to.

“I like to hear about your life,” he said.

She weighed the dangers of recounting one small story, but in the end her desire to do so outweighed caution.

“We got up very early, well before dawn. There were only three of us. My mother, father and me. My brother was not yet born. It seemed to me we drove for hours. The roads were not good, and I remember being unhappy I could not be with my friends. My mother had set up an altar in our home with photos of family who were gone, candles and offerings of food. My parents were not Catholic, but this one time of the year they acted like everyone else. I wanted to go to the same cemeteries as my friends, but my father said that it was more important to be with my family. And we had cousins buried in this village, people I had never seen or known.”

She paused to eat a little, and Sam didn’t hurry her.

“We arrived at last,” she said, when she was feeling a little less hungry. “There were so many people in the streets, all dressed in their finest clothing. There were vendors selling food, and I asked for corn. I remember my mother bought me some. It’s not like the corn we eat here, larger, not as sweet, but with lime and salt it was delicious.

“There was a procession to the cemetery, and we walked with everybody else. When we got there, I saw the kites.” She looked up. Sam had stopped eating and was simply watching her. “Your food will get cold,” she said.

“Kites?”

“The most extraordinary kites you could imagine.
Barriletes.
Some so large they couldn’t be held by one man. The people made them of bamboo and wire, cloth or colored paper. Some had taken all year to make, and each was unique. They could not fly the largest, of course, but all that morning and into the afternoon, they flew those they could. From a child’s perspective, the kites reached all the way to the heavens.”

“It must have been a spectacle. But why kites?”

“Some say the dead know the color of their family’s kites and slide down the string to be with them. Others tie messages to the tails, to tell departed family members what has happened that year and whether they are well. Most of all they ask for favors and blessings, because their loved ones are nearer to God than they are.”

Sam sat back. “Did you fly a kite?”

“A little one my father bought for us there.” She finished the food on her plate.

“It’s a moving ritual,” Sam said. “A way to face and release a little grief.”

“There is a lot of grief in this world to release.”

“And if you were home, you might be able to put some of your own grief in perspective today.”

She had certainly been indiscreet enough in the past that it was no surprise Sam had drawn conclusions. “Loss is part of living.”