Holly Blues (9 page)

I looked up at him. Brian is two inches taller than I am now, and as he’s grown older, he looks even more like his father. His craggy face is still unformed at sixteen, but has McQuaid’s strong nose and firm jaw. They have the same shock of dark hair and the same steel blue eyes. Brian lacks his father’s broken nose (courtesy of a quarterback sack at the ten-yard line) and the jagged scar across the forehead (courtesy of a druggie’s knife in a parking lot arrest). Personally, I love McQuaid’s crooked nose and even his jagged scar, and I would never deny Brian any of life’s challenging experiences. But I secretly hope he manages to get through life without football, and I don’t mind hoping out loud that he can avoid crazy, knife-wielding dopers, as well.

“I don’t think we need to worry too much about involvement,” I said judiciously, wondering if there might be some jealousy here. “I think they’re just talking fairies.”

“Maybe,” Brian said in a serious tone. “But you know Sally.” He looked at me to judge my reaction. It was the first time I had heard him call his mother by her first name.

“How do you mean?” I asked. Looking at him, I couldn’t see any jealousy. His gaze was too direct, too serious.

“I mean—” He took a deep breath. “You can’t count on her,” he said, and in those five bleak words, I could hear the whole history of their relationship. “She says one thing and does something else. She promises, but she never comes through. She’s here one day and gone the next.” Another deep breath. “I know that you and Dad are doing your best, but Caitie is still pretty unhappy. I’d hate to see her start depending on my—on Sally. And be let down.” Having delivered himself of this long speech in only two breaths, he stood watching me, a handsome, gangly boy who—sooner than I would like—was going to grow into a handsome, husky man.

I lifted my hand to his face, remembering how I once had to bend over to touch his cheek and brush his hair out of his eyes, when he was a little boy and I was his father’s girlfriend. His mother had been gone then, too. In fact, his mother had been gone for most of his childhood. It wasn’t—

He said it for me. “It’s not fair!” he burst out angrily. “I wish she’d stayed away. She’s going to spoil our Christmas, just you wait and see. Look at the way she’s bugging Dad about helping her. She got herself in trouble, and she wants him to bail her out.”

I dropped my hand. “Please be patient with her,” I said. “Yes, she’s in trouble right now. She’s lost her house and her car and her job and—”

“So she shows up here, looking for a handout!” he cried. “She doesn’t bother to come when she’s okay, when she’s got money. She only comes when she
needs
something.”

“But that’s what family’s for, isn’t it?” I asked reasonably. “To be there for you when you need something?”

He frowned. “I don’t get this. I thought you didn’t like her.”

“I’m not sure I do, very much. I wish—” I stopped. There was no point in saying that I wished she’d stayed away, too. “But it’s Christmas, and we need to help one another. And if your mom can help Caitie even a little bit, I’m happy to have her here. I hope you will be, too.” I paused. This might not be the right time to bring it up, but I had to ask sooner or later. I might as well get it over with. “Oh, and we’ll need the keys to your car, Brian. Your mother’s going to use it while she’s here.”

“My car?” he squawked. “But Sally is a terrible driver. I don’t want her—”

“Your father and I paid for that car, Brian,” I said firmly, “and we all agreed that he and I would be using it until you start to drive. Your mom needs a car while she’s here. She’s going to drive yours. I’ll tell her to be careful. Okay?”

He gave me a black look. “I hope I don’t get to say ‘I told you so.’ ” He turned on his heel and left the room.

I spent the rest of the evening making some Christmas simmer potpourri. I divided it among some small earthenware jars I’d bought from a potter in Wimberley and wrapped them for Ruby, Cass, Laurel, and Sheila. Then I finished a holly wreath I’d started earlier, hung it on the front door, and strung the icicle lights on the porch railing. While I was at it, I got out the boxes of Christmas tree decorations so they’d be handy when we decorated the tree. By the time I finished, it was nine o’clock, and I went to say good night to Caitlin, already in her pink flannel jammies, in her bed with one of her fairy books.

I sat down on the edge of the bed, noticing a bruise on her forearm. “Where’d that come from, Caitie?” I asked, touching it gently. “Does it hurt?”

“Not much,” she said, pulling up her sleeve and peering at it. “I got it playing soccer.” She looked up with that smile that always goes straight to my heart. “Did you know that Uncle Mike is going to be one of our soccer coaches?”

“No, I didn’t know,” I said. “That’s great, Caitie! He’ll be very good.” Privately, I hoped that he wouldn’t yell too much. McQuaid puts all of himself into the game, even when he’s not playing it. He has a tendency to get excited.

She turned a page of her book. “It’ll be fun to have him there. Most of the other girls’ dads are too busy.”

“He might not be able to make all the practice sessions,” I said, “but I’m sure he’ll do his best.” I smoothed her dark hair back from her forehead. “Don’t forget about tomorrow evening. We’re getting our Christmas tree.”

Caitlin looked up at me eagerly. “Is Sally coming with us?”

“Yes, she is—at least, that’s the plan. Are you glad?”

“Uh-huh.” She nodded forcefully. “I really like Sally. She knows an awful lot about fairies, stuff I’ve never heard of. And she’s fun, too. I’m glad she’s going to have her stocking on our mantel. Right next to mine.”

Our mantel.
This time last year, I hadn’t even known Caitlin. Now, she was our daughter. Brian’s comment about his mother went through my mind, and I shivered a little. I wanted to be able to count on Sally, if only for Caitie’s sake—and Brian’s, too. Mentally, I crossed my fingers that Sally would behave herself.

“Well, good,” I said cheerfully, and bent over and kissed her. “Now, let’s put your book away and I’ll tuck you in.”

Caitlin put her book on the bedside table, then reached up and threw both arms around my neck. “I love you, Aunt China,” she whispered in my ear, and kissed me on the cheek.

Some kisses and hugs you have to work for, or hope for. Others come as a gift. They’re priceless.

On my way to the shop the next morning, I stopped off at Lila’s Diner for one of Lila’s lemon custard jelly doughnuts for me and a raspberry doughnut for Ruby. Neither of us are sugar addicts, but our morning always seems a little brighter when it begins with one of Lila’s jelly doughnuts.

Lila’s Diner is an old Missouri Pacific dining car, located on Nueces, catty-corner from Ranchers State Bank. Lila bought the old railroad car with her husband, Ralph, who fell victim to his two-pack-a-day habit several years ago. (Never believe that all herbs are warm and fuzzy. Tobacco is an herb. It kills.) The two of them scrubbed the old railroad car clean and furnished it with vintage items they picked up at going-out-of-business sales: 1940s and ’50s red Formica-topped tables, chrome chairs with red vinyl seats, soda pop signs, and a Wurlitzer jukebox loaded with scratchy 45s featuring Elvis, Buddy Holly, and Patsy Cline. Lila herself wears a green puckered-nylon uniform, a ruffled white apron, a flirty white cap perched on her pageboy do, and cherry red lips and nails. She looks like something out of a fifties advertisement for the sandwich counter at Wool-worth’s. She is locally notorious for her coffee, which (for me, anyway) is like drinking pure adrenaline.

Unfortunately, what has been brewing at the diner for the past couple of months is mostly trouble. Docia, Lila’s daughter and the culinary mastermind behind the diner’s comfort-food menu, ran off to Waco with her boyfriend, taking with her all of the diner’s culinary secrets. Lila has suffered through a series of temporary replacements, none of whom were half as talented as Docia. Lila’s customers have suffered, too. They’ve complained long and loud about the startling decline in the quality of the meatloaf (Monday), fried chicken (Wednesday) and catfish (Friday). It has been reliably rumored that Lila has had it up to her painted eyebrows and is ready to sell out.

But this morning, Lila was beaming sunnily from behind the counter, while from the kitchen came the clang of banging pots and Docia’s mournful rendition of “I Fall to Pieces.” Docia, who is past thirty-five and on the chunky side, can really belt out a song.

“Docia’s back,” Lila confided. She shoved a white mug across the counter and picked up the coffeepot. She raised her voice, speaking to the customers at the counter. “Chicken and dumplings fer dinner today, boys.” The announcement met with a murmur of masculine appreciation.

“That’s great,” I said approvingly. “I’ll take the doughnuts with me,” I added hastily, pushing the cup away just in time to stop her from splashing tar-black coffee into it.

“ ’Bout time she got her tail back here,” growled Bubba Harris, our former police chief, sitting on his usual stool by the cash register. Mrs. Bubba was visiting the grandchildren, and Bubba had been batching it since Thanksgiving. “I’m ready for some o’ them dumplin’s o’ hers. Ain’t been the same ’round here since Docia left.”

On the other side of Bubba, Tom Lancer sopped up the last of his fried egg with his toast. Tom works at the feed store, where he keeps abreast of the news. “You still thinkin’ of sellin’ out to Bert Dankins, Lila? Heard you was.”

Bert Dankins? I gave an involuntary shudder. Bert owns a sandwich shop about a block from the campus. He makes a fair submarine sandwich, but I couldn’t imagine him turning out anything remotely comparable to Docia’s lemon meringue pie.

“I was considerin’ it,” Lila chirped, putting my jelly doughnuts into a brown paper bag. “Bert offered me a fair price, too. But now that Docia’s back, I’m outta the mood to sell. Back t’ stay, she says, and I b’lieve her. That’ll be two fifty,” she said to me, and punched my receipt. Ten punched receipts, and I get a free doughnut.

“How come she’s back?” I asked, taking the bag and handing over my money. “Did she and her boyfriend split up?” The question may seem tactless to you, but Docia’s boyfriend troubles are the stuff of legend. The customers know that she’s in love when they hear her crooning “Love Me Tender.” When we hear her singing “I Fall to Pieces” we know that her heart is broken, usually because she’s been jilted.

This time, apparently, it was the other way around. “He’s in jail,” Lila replied shortly. “Good place fer him, you ask me.”

“Ask her how come,” Bubba prompted me. When I hesitated, he leaned over and nudged me. “Go on, Miz McQuaid. Ask her.” Bubba knows perfectly well that I use my own name. Calling me “Miz McQuaid” is his way of reminding me that my husband is still the boss.

“Okay,” I said. “I’ll bite. Why is Docia’s boyfriend in jail?”

On the other side of the kitchen partition, “I Fall to Pieces” was silenced in midverse.

“ ’Cause Docia snitched on him,” Lila said.

I raised my eyebrows. This was something new. “Snitched on him for what?”

“Fer sellin’ drugs to kids, that’s fer what,” Lila snapped. Lila almost never approves of her daughter’s boyfriends. But since Docia is thirty-five and presumably an adult, Lila can’t do much about it.

“Good for Docia,” I said approvingly.

Bubba nodded. He raised his voice. “Good fer you, Docia.”

“Fer shure,” Tom Lancer agreed. “They oughtta give Docia a job over at the po-lice department,” he added loudly. “Long as they let her out long enough to git over here’n make lunch.”

In the kitchen, Docia slammed a pot. “Go to hell, Tom Lancer,” she yelled.

“Not ’til I get me some o’ them dumplin’s,” Tom yelled back and winked at me.

Bubba grinned, Lila smiled, and so did I.

The diner was back to normal.

 

 

IT was still early when I got to the shop, unlocked the front door, and stepped inside. I took a deep breath of the mix of fragrances that greeted me and felt as I always do: deeply grateful for being able to work in a lovely, peaceful place, far away from the Houston rat race where I once made a high-powered living chasing low-life rats through the courts.

And it
is
a lovely place. Wooden shelves along the old stone walls hold large jars and massive stoneware crocks full of dried herbs, small bottles of herb tinctures, and tiny vials of essential oils and fragrance oils. There are herbal seasonings, vinegars, and jellies, as well as herbal soaps, cosmetics, and aromatic oils—oh, and those little squirt canisters of pure hot pepper. Books line the walls of a cozy reading corner that also features a red-painted rocking chair, in case someone wants to sit for a moment, and nearby there’s a rack of handmade paper and cards. Baskets of pomanders and sachets fill the corners, dusty-sweet bunches of yarrow and tansy and salvia hang from the ceiling, ropes of pungent peppers and silvery garlic braids festoon the walls, and the walls are brightened by Donna’s holiday wreaths, lending a sweet, spicy fragrance to the air. I’ve pinned up sprigs of holly and mistletoe everywhere, and there’s a potted rosemary plant on one table, trimmed in the shape of a Christmas tree and decorated with handcrafted herbal ornaments. Looking around, I couldn’t help smiling.