Steps to the Altar (35 page)

About nine o’clock we young ones all decided to call it a night since Amanda had court in the morning, Elvia was due for a last bridal fitting, and I made some vague reference to some work down at the museum. In reality, I wanted to leave San Celina at about 4 A.M. since I had no idea how bad the traffic would be going through Los Angeles.

I went up to the front table and gave Dove a big hug. “It was the most fun wedding shower I’ve ever gone to.”

“Good to see you smiling,” she whispered in my ear. “Things’ll work out. Trust me, honeybun.”

“I do, Gramma.”

“Well, I want you to be the first to know I’ve decided on a wedding spot. And it’s really, really special.”

I braced myself. Lord, I prayed, please don’t let it involve anything with extreme heights or fire. Or snakes. Or any kind of wild animals. Or . . . Then I couldn’t help myself. I had to try one last time.

“Dove, it will be special because he’s marrying
you
. No theme wedding or crazy wedding spot will make it any more memorable. He loves you. You love him.
That’s
what makes it special.”

There was a long silence. Then she laughed and said, “Before I was so rudely interrupted, I was about to say that I’ve decided . . .” She paused a long moment, torturing me.

I made a face at her.

She laughed. “I’ve decided that you’ve been right all along. I booked the church for three weeks from Saturday and we’ll have the reception at the ranch.”

I hugged her again. “Gramma, I’m so glad.”

“Don’t be too happy. I’m putting you in charge of the reception.”

“I’ll send out the invitations as soon as you write me out a list.”

Relieved that Dove’s wedding was finally settled, I said my goodbyes to Amanda and Elvia and headed across the street to the municipal parking lot.

When I was putting my key in the lock, I heard a voice call my name. I turned and saw Del walking toward me. She was dressed in tight Levi’s, a pair of black dressy boots, and a form-fitting white cotton blouse. We wore almost the same outfit, just interpreted in completely opposite ways. Obviously she had a free night since Gabe was at Emory’s bachelor party.

“We have to talk.” Her voice was curt, demanding. Her cop’s voice.

I looked around to see if there was anyone watching us, but the parking lot was empty. This was bound to be unpleasant and I preferred not having it bandied about by the local gossips.

“About what?” I asked, trying to sound cool and in control. I leaned against my truck and crossed my arms over my chest. The urge to smack her across the face was just too tempting.

“I think you know.”

I studied the tips of my boots, deliberately taking my time answering. I reached down and flicked off a leaf stuck to the toe of my left foot, making her wait to hear my reaction.

“Delilah,” I finally said, straightening up. “What in the world is there for us to talk about? You want my husband and you’re doing your level best to get him. He’ll go with you or he won’t, it’s that simple. You and I have nothing to discuss.”

“I
will
get him back,” she said, her voice rising slightly, an edge of hysteria causing her nostrils to flare. “He loved me first. Long before he even knew you. I took him before from Lydia and I can take him from you.”

I shrugged, pretending indifference, even though I felt like throwing up. She had broken up Gabe and Lydia. No matter how inevitable Lydia had said their marriage’s demise had been, the truth was that Del had dealt the final blow. Could she do that with me and Gabe too? I honestly didn’t know.

A sudden calm came over me, and for once, I didn’t feel like an awkward kid, a tongue-tied adolescent who couldn’t find the right words to say, who felt like everyone knew the rules of the game but me. For once, I felt in control. I looked straight into her eyes.

“I was the first woman he ever loved,” she said, more than a hint of desperation in her husky voice. “He told me he never loved Lydia. They only got married because she was pregnant. He loved me first. He told me that.”

“Maybe he did,” I said softly. “But isn’t the real question who he’ll love last?”

I didn’t wait for her answer. I turned, got into my truck, and drove out of the parking lot without even once looking back in my rearview mirror.

22

BENNI

THAT NIGHT, ANXIETY about my marriage problems and excitement about finally discovering what had happened with Maple Sullivan caused me to toss and turn in my sleeping bag, watching the moon through the bedroom’s window move like cold molasses across the sky. Finally, at 3 A.M. I gave up trying to sleep, packed an overnight bag, put Scout’s traveling water and food dishes in the truck, and set out for Idyllwild.

As I had expected, four hours later, I hit bumper-welding traffic in Los Angeles, but once I inched through that, it was an easy drive. I followed the freeways until I came to Highway 74, which wound through the palm tree–lined retirement community of Hemet and started up the mountain toward the town of Idyllwild. Though I’d taken four breaks for both me and Scout, by this time, my eyes were crusty from fatigue and concentrating on unfamiliar roads and my hands were stiff from gripping my truck’s steering wheel.

We passed over the San Jacinto River and began steeply climbing with each turn, a shallow creek bed to our right, the sheer face of the mountain to our left. The two-lane road twisted unpredictably, giving no relief to my aching shoulders. Scout hung his head out of the window, his nose quivering at the scent of wild rabbits, coyotes, and squirrels. Around one corner we caught our first glimpse of pine trees covered with snow. I hadn’t expected snow and I mentally kicked myself for not calling and checking on the roads. But Idyllwild was, at the most, five thousand feet and there hadn’t been any rain all day so I hoped the roads were clear. A fork in the road gave me a choice of Idyllwild or Palm Desert. I veered left and soon came to a small sign: IDYLLWILD, POPULATION 2200, ELEVATION 5303. WELCOME TO AMERICA’S CLEANEST FOREST. I passed the Idyllwild Arts Camp on my left and in minutes found myself in the middle of the compact mountain town.

There was just enough snow to make it look like a Christmas card. Snow frosted the roofs of many of the shops, most of which sported a cabin motif. A huge fortlike structure housing more shops engulfed the center of town, and after a quick driving inspection, I decided to ask about a room at the Idyllwild Inn, a motel and cabin complex in the middle of town sitting next to one of the town’s crowning glories, a chainsaw-carved totem pole topped by an American eagle.

Again, I kicked myself for not putting this trip off until after Elvia and Emory’s wedding and doing a little research into places to stay. I didn’t even know if they’d allow dogs. I checked my watch—a little before noon. Even if I had only an hour-long conversation with Thelma Jones, and drove straight back home, I’d still get there at the earliest 9 P.M. That was if I didn’t fall asleep on the road and kill myself or someone else. No, considering the amount of sleep I didn’t get last night, it would be better if I spent the night. And I didn’t have a lot of time to look for someplace to stay. I’d have to take my chances with the Idyllwild Inn.

“I’ll be right back,” I told Scout, who whined to get out, his nose still vibrating at the new smells. A blue jay jumped from limb to limb in the tree next to our car, scolding us with loud squawks. Scout barked in frustration and pawed at the window.

“You’ll never catch him,” I said, giving him a rough scrub on the head. “Now, behave. I want to secure us a place to lay our heads tonight and you need to appear to be well trained.” He licked my hand and barked at the jay again.

The snow made a satisfying crunching sound under my boots as I walked toward a huge carved gray squirrel holding a sign saying IDYLLWILD INN. Trying not to slip since my leather-soled boots were not the best shoes for snowy weather, I picked my way up the steps to the office part of the old house, praying they’d take dogs. Luck was on my side today. Though they didn’t allow dogs in their theme rooms, a double row of rooms I’d seen from the parking lot, they did allow them in their cabins back behind the office. I rented a studio cabin with fireplace and drove to it along the snow-crusted paths at the back of the pine-covered complex. I quickly checked it out—bed, table, chair, stone fireplace, tiny bathroom. Everything I needed. I dumped my overnight bag on the bed and turned on the heat to take the chill off the small room. Then I took Scout for a quick walk, studying the town map I’d picked up in the Inn’s office.

Thelma Jones’s street was only about a half mile away. When I got back to my cabin, I called her on the phone and was told to come right over, she was fixing a pot of tea right that moment.

She lived in a tiny, woodframe house set back on a spacious tree-filled lot. Wooden lawn ornaments of chipmunks and bears lined her stone walkway. Though it was still February, a three-leaf-clover flag celebrating the coming St. Patrick’s Day fluttered in the breeze and there were no less than five wooden windmills situated throughout the yard. Obviously her husband or somebody owned a fancy jigsaw and knew how to use it. The lot was thick with trees though you could easily see her neighbors on both sides, one a post and beam cabin that appeared unoccupied, and the other filled with children having a snowball fight in their front yard.

I watched them for a few seconds, tempted to join. Before I made it halfway up the walk to her blue-shuttered house, the front door opened. Thelma Jones, wearing a red chenille sweater and black pants, waved at me. Her thin gray hair was pulled back in a ponytail with a red bow.

“Let your puppy loose in the backyard,” she said, pointing to a side gate. “It’s fenced. Then come on in the side door. I’ll be in the kitchen.”

I thanked her, then went back to my truck to fetch a grateful Scout. He bounded across the wide, unsullied expanse of snow in her backyard, both his ears straight up in pleasure. I laughed out loud at his excitement. This was obviously a dog who had never seen snow before. He immediately spotted a chattering squirrel, chased it up a pine tree, and then stood at the base of the tree barking with joyous abandon at the unimpressed rodent.

“Have fun, boy,” I said, opening the windowed door to the side of the house that I assumed was the kitchen.

Inside Thelma’s kitchen, decorated with a cherries and chicken theme, I introduced myself and sat down across from her in the red-and-yellow-painted breakfast nook. She poured me a cup of tea and offered me a chocolate chip cookie still warm from the oven.

“Thanks,” I said, suddenly ravenous. I hadn’t eaten breakfast and it was a little after 1 P.M. All the coffee I’d consumed since 3 A.M. was starting to jangle my nerves. Food was exactly what I needed.

“So, you’re looking into Marybell Knott’s life,” she said, settling down across from me. She pushed the plate of cookies closer to me.

“Yes,” I said. “What do you remember about her?”

While I drank three cups of tea and ate four cookies, Thelma told me what she knew about Marybell Knott. How she’d come to the small town of Idyllwild back in the forties, how beloved she’d been by the longtime residents of “The Hill” as they called Idyllwild, how Thelma and her sister, Lily, had both nursed Marybell through her last days.

“She never spoke of where she was from, whether she had family or not,” Thelma said, her watery green eyes focusing on the wall behind my shoulder. She absentmindedly tapped her small teaspoon against the thin china cup. “She had a slight Southern accent, you know. So me and Lily always guessed she was from somewhere in the South, though she’d never speak of her past. She went to church faithfully every Sunday. As strong an Episcopalian as you could ever want. A dear, dear lady.” She looked at the brass-framed picture of Marybell and her sister, Lily, a photograph she’d fetched from the living room bookshelf.

I studied the face of this elderly woman standing in front of a decorated Christmas tree, trying vainly to see anything about her that would suggest she was Maple Sullivan. The eyes, maybe? Her mouth? Were those her cheekbones behind the sagging, slightly chubby skin of a woman in her seventies? I couldn’t be sure. The only picture I had of Maple was when she was in her twenties.

“Do you have any younger pictures of Marybell?” I asked.

She shook her head no. “This is one of the few we had. She hated having her picture taken. Said she wasn’t at all photogenic. She’d always be the one volunteering to take the pictures.”

“So,” I said, sipping yet another cup of tea, trying not to rush her yet wanting desperately to take the box of Marybell’s possessions and go through them piece by piece in my little cabin. “You said you helped your sister nurse Marybell. Did she . . . at the end . . . was she . . .” I swallowed nervously, then just blurted out, “Did she have any last words?”

Thelma sighed. “I wasn’t with her when she passed on, Lily was. I was down the hill on a senior citizens’ trip to a matinee of
Oklahoma
. Lily was beside herself, as you can imagine. If Hugh hadn’t been there, why, I think Lily would have just collapsed.”