The Wilder Sisters (42 page)

Rose inhaled the scent of pipe tobacco and yellow soap. Her father wasn’t one for hair oil or cologne. The furthest Chance Wilder took things in the scent department was horse liniment. He cleared his throat.

“All summer long I’ve been standing back and watching you. I was so damn proud of you getting that mare bred, not giving up when she didn’t catch the first time, and I’ve watched how you see to her on the weekends, making sure she’s coming along on schedule. But that’s only earned a small part of my respect. That’s business. It’s how you hold your head up with your kids acting so crazy that touches me, Rose. And this thing with Donavan. We live in a small town. Nobody gets to keep secrets. When you took up with him, your mother and I crossed our fingers and held our breath. He’s a good man, but he’s weak and he’s troubled. That kind you got to give a little time to get clear on what it is they want.”

She shook her head no. “I don’t think so, Pop.” “I’ve been around the block, Sugar. Listen to me.”

“This time you’re wrong. I thought he loved me. I let him inside, Pop.”

“Which took courage.”

She took a breath and felt her voice crack as she exhaled. “Or stupidity. It turned out I was nothing more than a way for Austin to work something out—retaliation for how hurt he was, or like Lily says, something ‘transitional,’ but in the end, it was her he went back to. Not me, Leah.”

Pop sighed. “Did you know that in Hebrew, Leah means ‘old cow’ and ‘weary’?”

“It does not. It means ‘gazelle.’”

He shook his head. “Not so. In the Book of Genesis, Leah was the elder of the two wives of Jacob. Her younger sister, Rachel, was the

woman Jacob wanted. ‘Leah had no sparkle in her eye,’ but he married her anyway, with the promise that he’d acquire Rachel in the bargain. Took him seven long years to earn her. Rachel bore him two kids, Joseph and Benjamin. Joe was sold into slavery, and the tribe of Israel descended from Ben. Leah has been a losing name for damned near six thousand years. Rose, your mother and I named you and your sister after flowers, but of the two, you’re the tough one. Rosebushes don’t blow away in the first wind. They hang on to the earth, and they grow strong branches and tenacious roots. You are a good woman, temporarily bent by a foolish man who will come to regret his actions.”

His pipe had gone out, and Rose watched him tuck it into his shirt pocket. Sometimes, when it was her turn to do the laundry, she’d turn a shirt right side out and into her palm would fall a tablespoon of ashes. She’d rub the sooty black grit across her skin creases to study her lifeline. Mami had caught her doing this once, and pointed out that Rose’s heartline, which ran parallel to her lifeline, indicated that over the course of her time on earth, she would experience two great loves, two passions, but that only the second would endure. After she married Philip, Rose had forgotten all about the silly pre- dictions. She expected she would grow old with her husband, that she would learn more about love by living than any fortune could predict. About passion she had learned that it was fleeting, and about marriage that its surface might seem binding but but that it could also be a well-tied knot with deception at its core. She wrapped her arms around her father and held on tight. Pop patted her shoulders, and for the first time since Philip’s funeral, Rose cried in front of her dad, allowed the tears to run, let everything out.

“That’s all right,” he said. “You go on and let it all out, however long it takes you. I don’t have to be anywhere but right here for the rest of the day. Of course, I might be getting hungry for a little breakfast pretty soon. You see, I woke up this morning just hankering for buckwheat pancakes. Your mother was busy with the grey- hounds, mixing this supplement, feeding that coat conditioner, and had all these errands to run. She dropped me here on her way into town, and I never did get any pancakes. So you might keep that in mind while you’re emptying your eyes—yeah, tuck that thought away for later—and don’t mind my stomach growling. Consider that background noise. You take your time and cry now, go on, don’t let me stop you.”

Rose accepted his handkerchief. “Fine. We’ll go have pancakes. I’m brave enough to sniffle into a tissue in public. But you’ll have to drive.”

He gave her a look of feigned shock. “In that old heap of yours?” “Pop, I won’t have you insulting my car. For your information,

my Bronco’s a classic.”

“Weak birds fly south for the winter,” Paloma said mysteriously into the phone. “Only some of them take America West instead of flapping their wings.”

Rose yawned. Lately she had trouble sleeping nights and had taken to napping during the day. “I don’t get it, Paloma. Did I miss the punch line?”

“She’s gone. Vamoosed. My sister’s brother-in-law saw her getting on the plane a week ago in Albuquerque. To Mexico. Of course
she
flies first class. Coach is beneath her.” She trailed off into rapid-fire Spanish that Rose could only follow far enough to realize it was hardly complimentary.

“Who are you talking about? Leah?”

“
Sí
, who did you think I was talking about?”

Rose rubbed her eyes and yawned again. “So she left. What am I supposed to do about it?”

“Well,” Paloma said. “You could make Doctor Skinny something good to eat. Lately I don’t think he eats nothing but Chat ’n’ Chew. If he don’t got one already, he’s going to get an ulcer.”

“Good. While he’s at it, I hope he comes down with herpes of the face. A permanent rash across his forehead that spells out her name.” Paloma made a shocked noise. “I can’t believe you said that, Rose.

Can we go to lunch? I’m worried about you.”

Rose straightened the throw pillows and picked up the afghan that had slipped to the floor. Joanie and Chachi looked up at her from a wicker basket Mami had brought by the other day. Of course, as soon as her mother stepped into the house, she insisted on tidying up the place, and in the process of sweeping and changing bed linen, she succeeded in making Rose feel like a total slut. Rose gave the dogs equal pats, and Chachi licked her hand. Since Joanie’s arrival he was a changed dog, always at her side. His devotion touched Mami, who said the basket would give the two dogs “something with corners to press up against.” They sat in the basket while Rose took her bath, did the

dishes, read novels, folded laundry; it was a portable, traveling, double dog bed, and sometimes Rose wished for one of her own. “Paloma, we can go to lunch whenever you want, but not to discuss Austin.”

“I hate the girl he hired to take your place. Allergic to cats! And she don’t even know how to use a computer.”

“I thought you wanted nothing to do with computers.”

“I didn’t, when you were trying to make me learn them. But now—well, I feel different. And she’s
vacio
in the head—don’t even know her alphabet. She keeps asking me questions, like which comes first, the
M-a
names or the
M-c
names. You know he’d take you back in a minute.”

Yes, Austin would. And give her a raise, and treat her with care and kindness and flatter her with well-placed comments that might even eventually land the two of them in bed, which would feel like heaven—for awhile. Then, little by little, their lives would slip back into the same predictable patterns. He’d stay sober, she would make him dinners. They’d walk the dogs together, watching for signs that Joanie’s leg was completely healed. They’d ride Jewel and Max across the snowy fields, but winter lasted only so long, and after it came mud season, which was so awful to endure that even the soberest of drunks slipped and fell facefirst into the muck. When the weather warmed up,
la Leah
would return, and Austin would remember how well alcohol worked to dull the edges of the pain he felt at how badly she treated him. Having fulfilled her use, Rose would once again be discarded. “I don’t think so, Paloma. Have to run now. I have a job interview. Big hug.”

“
Y tú
, Rose. Call and tell me how it goes, okay? I’ll see you in church.”

Out of guilt she flipped through the classifieds. All the good paying jobs were out of town, mostly in Albuquerque. She supposed if she sold the house, got rid of the animals, she might be able to afford an apartment there, but Floralee was her home. She loved this house. The curtains, the tile she’d laid in the bathroom, even the dark spaces that Mami complained needed a good
limpieza
with lemon oil were hers. She owned this house, had earned it being married to Philip, raising the kids. Max needed her, and so did the dogs. Something in the way of work would turn up. She wasn’t broke yet. When the foal was born in the spring, she could sell it, and in the next year or so, breed Winky

again. There were other veterinarians she could call for mare care. Dr. Tracie Zeissel was young and hungry.

She studied an ad for a relief cook at a restaurant she’d been to once, with her sister. What were the requirements for that kind of job? Probably a degree from a culinary institute and ten years’ exper- ience. Forget it. She added another log to the stove and sat back down on the couch. It was time for Oprah, or that new show hosted by the smart-mouthed Rosie. Rose admired her spirit as well as her name. Rosie had no husband, either, but that didn’t stop her from adopting two children, continuing with her life. Rosie took charge. To her, it was no big deal to set her show against the richest woman in television’s long-running hit. Yes, if television remotely interested her, she definitely would have given Rosie’s show a try.

16

California Slides into the Ocean

he rain continued steadily, and at seven
A.M.
, two days before Thanksgiving, Lily rolled her commuter bag into the John Wayne terminal. Still half asleep, she stood in the ticket line for first class only to learn that her flight to Mexico had been delayed. With a cup of latte from the coffee vendor and the
New York Times
, Lily sat down to waste the half hour until the plane’s rescheduled departure time. Halfway through her foam—why did the coffee people always overdo it on foam? Wasn’t four bucks a cup enough of a profit?—an announcement came over the loudspeaker that all ticketed passen- gers on Flight 361 to Acapulco should see the ticketing agent. Lily groaned. That careful kind of directive could only mean the flight had been canceled outright. A fundamental incompatibility between Californians and rain existed—certainly they’d never learned to drive in it. For Pete’s sake, it was a little
rainstorm
, not a hurricane. The
El Niño
predictions only served to feed the paranoia. As she mulled over her choices, it occurred to Lily that if this was how things were going to go all winter, she was not going to be able to

hack it.

At the suggestion of the counter clerk, whose computers were “temporarily down,” Lily boarded a commuter flight to Los Angeles, out of which there were sure to be countless available flights to Mexico City with connections to Acapulco. If she had to, she’d rent a car and drive the two-hundred-odd miles.

Despite crash statistics, Lily enjoyed flying turboprops more than the big jets. High above the gridlock traffic in her fixed leather seat, with

her eyes shut and the plane occasionally bucking and battered by the rain, Lily felt right at home. This was how she’d assumed all flying should feel, thanks to growing up with Mami flying her plane. The Cessna was so insubstantial in comparison to commercial jets that Lily had learned air pockets and bumps were no big deal. In a weird way, turbulence comforted her. They’d logged a lot of airtime together, her mother at the controls, a bag of grapes between them to snack on, and usually a dog or two as cargo. At times the run from Floralee to California had felt like riding a roller coaster into one of those dark tunnels where twists and turns offered a thrilling, unknown quantity.

Lily missed her mother. She missed Pop, too, and her sister, Rose, but more than all of them put together, she missed Shep. His days were numbered, and she wanted to spend time with him, help with the horses, particularly if it was raining or snowing, which it prob- ably was, and allow him his dignity.
Be honest
, she scolded herself.
Tres Quintero is a factor in your sudden desire to return home
. She ima- gined him wearing those fingerless wool gloves so he could keep typing in the unheated cabin. Surely by now he’d finished the carving he’d been working on and started another—a Nativity scene? This lapse into sentimentality could only be blamed on the holiday season. Forget the turkey decorations, Thanksgiving had already ended for the marketing and retail folk, and onto Southern California a plague of surfing Santas, cartoonish Magi, and red-nosed reindeer had descended. The mall parking lots were packed to capacity, and shuttle buses ran between them all hours of the day and night. Lily hadn’t begun her shopping. She figured down in Mexico the hype would at least possess a folk-art flair, and she could find unique presents for her family in some charming local shop for practically nothing.

Her fantasy ended with two hard bumps on the slick, wet tarmac. Not the smoothest landing she’d ever experienced, but certainly not the roughest. Several passengers gasped, and all but Lily were muttering among themselves as they deplaned. She was unprepared for the chaos of the United terminal, where hundreds of displaced travelers swarmed in various lines, pushing, crying, punching cell phones madly, and cursing the weather. From what Lily could gather, it seemed that
all
United flights, not just to Mexico, had been canceled until late afternoon, pending improvement in the weather.

Usually Lily booked her own flights, either via the Internet or

directly to the airline using her speed-dial, but she did have a travel agent. She put in a call and asked what other routes could get her to Mexico. “If you can drive to Ontario Airport I can get you on a ten
P.M.
flight to El Paso, where there’s a connection to Mexico City. There you can catch a local flight to Acapulco.”

“Great. Do it,” Lily said, and flipped through her Filofax for her credit card number.