Owen's Daughter (17 page)

She looked around at the people wandering the shops. They were mainly tourists, because few people who lived in Santa Fe could afford to actually shop here. She herself visited Mimosa and Cowboys and Indians in order to get ideas for clothes, and then she shopped at Santa Fe Fabrics, the store next door to Dulce, a coffee and pastry place she loved. She sewed clothes up on her old Singer machine.

The sun had come out for a few hours. The trees were budding. Actual leaves were unfolding. But the still chilly afternoon wind whistled through the Plaza, causing her to tighten her scarf. Spring is a fickle lover, she thought, and turned up the collar on her coat. Nothing is ever guaranteed. She knew that as well as anybody. But somehow when it comes to your kids, that sort of acceptance goes out the window.

When the music ended, Peter said, “Mom? Would you mind if I dropped you back at home, and went to see my horse?”

Just like when he was fifteen, she thought. Embarrassed to be seen with his mother. “Sounds great,” she said, smiling, handing him the keys to her old Land Cruiser. “What do you want for dinner?”

“Anything,” he said.

“Come on. Let me cook for you. What are you craving?”

“How about your eggplant lasagna? I haven’t had that since the last time I saw you.”

Margaret was surprised. “I wrote out all your favorite recipes and gave them to Bonnie before you got married. I kind of thought Bonnie had learned how to make it.”

“I did the cooking. Hey, I’ll cook for you, too. You know, earn my keep while I’m here. I promise.”

Margaret bit her tongue as they walked to the parking garage. He beeped open the car doors and she slid into the passenger seat, reaching for the seat belt, her right hand suddenly weak and causing her a moment of despair. She pulled at the strap with her left hand and managed to get it latched.

It was a perfect time to bring up the MS, but she couldn’t bring herself to spoil his smile and the way he was singing along to the radio.

While Peter was at the stable, Margaret went onto Craigslist to look for a bed. The price of mattresses in local stores was insane, and maybe a used one would be in good enough shape. However, she accidentally clicked on employment instead of furniture, and what popped up first was Joe’s ad.

Reach for the Sky, a handicapped horseback-riding program, is seeking to hire a full-time barn manager. You will tend two dozen horses, be responsible for feeding twice daily, mucking stalls, grooming, arranging veterinary care, and shoeing. A background in social work, education, or related fields is a plus, as is being bilingual. Candidate must have a familiarity with horses. Experience working with youth, the handicapped, or challenged is desirable. A strong sense of ethics, and an understanding of the at-risk population we serve, is essential.

This position includes free board in our newly renovated bunkhouse and boarding/feed for up to two horses of your own.

To apply: Call for appointment. Bring a résumé outlining skills and provide a minimum of three references. Tell us why you want to work with horses and children to young adults.

Thank you for your interest in Reach for the Sky. Visit our website to learn more about our programs and other available positions.

Didn’t that sound like a terrific job? Margaret thought. You couldn’t find kinder employers than the Vigils, and there was a bunkhouse to stay in—she remembered the casita on the Starr ranch down to the tiniest detail. The picnic-style wooden table, mismatched salt and pepper shakers, a deck of cards, always a yellow bottle of horse liniment or a roll of Vet Wrap nearby. The bleached cow skull that hung on the wall was the real thing, not something you paid a decorator hundreds of dollars for. The blue tack box chest at the foot of Owen’s bed was always latched tight. She never once peeked inside it, but she’d always wondered what he kept in there. Pictures of his family? His father’s tools?

She remembered the careful way he made his bed every day and the worn Indian blanket he used as a bedspread. She could still hear the mattress springs creak their accompaniment while they’d made love there, when they were trying to keep their tryst a secret from Peter. She could almost feel the roughness of Owen’s hand against her skin. The scar on his face. The secrets he carried, including the one he’d left her over:
I hit a man with a pool cue. I’m pretty sure I hit him so hard he died. I have to go away for a while so I can come back here and be Bill Sampson, not Owen Garrett.

But he hadn’t returned, had he? Not even for his horse. Then Peter went straight from high school to Gallaudet, and, needing company, Margaret had moved to Santa Fe and lived her life, such as it was, never putting herself in the position of being asked out on a date. She painted, tended her aunt, sold prints, and, except for the Vigils, kept to herself. Verbena Youngcloud’s rug in the doctor’s office had brought back so many memories. She should look for Verbena, even if it was just to thank her for being such a good friend all those years ago and apologize for not keeping in touch. Margaret sat down at her small easel and started painting a new watercolor that would reproduce beautifully, appear ordinary, and offer a springtime garden, a birdbath with a bird perched on the lip, or something equally pedestrian. Maybe a cow skull on an adobe wall, she thought. Those sell out quickly.

She worked, mulling over memories, until she heard a car pull up next door at around four thirty. Moments later, the phone rang.

“Margaret?” Glory said before Margaret had time to say hello.

“Glory? How’d it go?” In the background she heard kids playing, Sparrow fussing, and dogs barking, but somehow Glory was an island of calm in the middle of it.

“Joe went out of his mind. You’d think I’d brought about world peace instead of getting accidentally pregnant, for the
second
time.”

“So you’re going to have the baby?”

“Of course. If I can keep it.”

“You’ll keep it.”

“If I have to stop working, or be on bed rest, if it turns out anything like when I was pregnant with Sparrow . . . well, that’s why I’m calling. I’m going to need your help. But only if you’re up to it, okay? We fully intend to pay you a little each week.”

“Oh, hush. You know I’ll be glad to pitch in however much you need me to. Tell me what you want me to do. Babysit every day? Make supper?” It was so exciting that Margaret could hardly wait to start. “This is going to be so fun.”

“Now don’t you make me cry, Margaret Yearwood. Right now I am held together with tissues and hormones. So your son arrived out of the blue? What’s that mean? Good news, I hope.”

Margaret looked out her window. A blur of white zoomed by the forsythia. “Glory, she’s back! The albino hummingbird.” She stretched the phone cord as far as it could go to follow the bird’s path to the crook of her redwood tree. “I wonder where she’ll make her nest this year? I hope it’s in my tree.”

“No fair. You had her last year, so this year it’s my turn.”

“You make it sound like I bribed her. It’s up to the bird.”

“Can we forget the bird for a second? None of this is why I called. On the way home from school Aspen told me that you’re not well. What’s wrong?”

All it would take was two letters. It would be such a relief, having it out in the open. But if she told her neighbor before she told Peter, he’d probably be furious. She took a breath and looked for the hummingbird, but she’d flown out of sight, probably gathering the tiniest of twigs to build her thumb-sized nest. Maybe she’d already built it. After age fifty, Margaret simply could not cry and still have a productive day. “I meant to tell Peter first,” she finally said, “but I haven’t found the right time.”

“Margaret, you’re scaring me.”

“It’s only MS.”

The phone cord seemed to gather weight under all that silence.

“
Only?
Margaret, no. That’s serious.”

“This is why I wanted to tell you in person, Glory. It’s not even noticeable except on the MRI. Very early stages.”

“It sounds bad enough to me. What is the prognosis?”

How did she answer when she didn’t even know herself? “I’m fine right now. It was a shock to hear, initially, but really, there’s nothing major going on.”

“When will Peter be home? I want to meet him.”

“I suppose when he’s hungry. He’s gone to the stable to ride Red.”

“Joe just left for the stables. I’ll call and tell him to look for Peter. Come on over and bring the dog. I’ve got blackberry scones in the oven, and yesterday I made sweet-potato dog treats. Now that I have permission to get fat, we’ll eat butter and sugar and carb out.”

Margaret laughed. “I’ll be right there.”

Dolores smiled as she drifted from one yard to another. The hummingbird had done exactly as she asked. Now it was time to check in on the writer up the street.

Chapter 6

Friday evening, they arrived in Santa Fe. On the stone steps in front of Sheila’s casita, Owen stopped behind Skye and whistled. “Canyon Road. This is prime real estate. I had no idea your mama had got this rich,” he said.

“Well, that’s the positive outcome of getting married five times,” Skye said.

“Five?”

“Okay, four so far as I know, but with Mama, anything’s possible. She isn’t exactly talking to me at the moment.”

“What did you two fight about?”

“Does it matter?”

There were two doors, the carved wooden screen door, painted with hummingbirds and hollyhocks, and behind it another door, this one made of old wood that looked as if it could have been part of a pirate ship a century ago. “It’s not all that fabulous, Daddy. Do you know what a pied-à-terre is?”

“Some kind of ballet dance?”

Skye burst into tears. “Gracie was going to take ballet lessons,” she said.

“And one day soon, she will.”

“I thought for sure she’d be at the Trailer Ranch.”

“I know,” her daddy said. “We’ll find her. Tell me more about the peed-off terrier.”

She sniffled and rubbed her eyes. “It’s pronounced ‘pee-yayed a tare.’
It’s French and means a little place, a temporary stop.”

“I like peed-off terrier better.”

“Well, don’t ever let Mama hear you say that. She’s so proud of having a home here.”

“For the record,” he said, “I was just trying to make you laugh. Think any movie stars live around here?”

“Doubt it. There are much nicer houses in Hyde Park, or on Museum Hill, or in Tesuque.” Just saying the name reminded her of the man who’d paid for her to turn her life around. There had to be some way to thank him. Although Milton, her old boss, wouldn’t be happy if Skye showed up.

The lock was fussy, and after much jiggling of the key, she was ready to scream. “What in the Sam Hill is the matter with this thing?”

“Probably a third generation, copy of a copy,” Owen said. “Hand it to me. When I worked for Rabbot’s Hardware in Blue Dog, I used to cut keys. Sometimes the originals were so worn the duplicates required some handwork filing to get them to talk to the lock.”

Skye had stopped crying, but she’d probably start again. Where was Rita? How could she just leave with Gracie like that and not tell Skye where she was going? Apparently tears had a mind of their own, because here came a new flood.

“Darlin’,” her dad said, “if I was you, I’d go to bed early and get a good night’s sleep. You’re gonna need it for tomorrow when we get to work looking.”

Skye, twisted up with all kinds of emotions, flung some meanness his way. “Well, I’m not you, am I?”

“True enough.”

“I’m sorry.” The last time Skye had cried like this, she was looking at a plastic stick that showed two lines, indicating she was pregnant with Rocky’s child.

“Here is why I know women are the stronger species,” her dad said. “When it comes to a woman and her child, she will hike through quicksand to get to her. And you will do that, too. Albuquerque was just a starting point. You’re stronger than you think. Joe Yazzi used to say that the reason only women were allowed to have babies was because they could cry, whereas men just got constipated and broke things.”

Skye dropped her duffel bag on the porch. “If I was looking for profound truths, that old hermit Indian wouldn’t be the person I’d turn to.”

“You’re awful hard on a guy who’s been my friend for many years.” He finally got the lock to turn. “There we go. We need to get some WD-40 in that thing. Probably a market would have it.”

Once the lock finally gave, Skye pushed ahead of her dad to go in first. “I have to pee,” she said, blazing past him. The house smelled like some horrible Christmas candle had mated with dryer sheets. She opened the bathroom window before she sat down to pee. Although she was proud of her sobriety, and her dad’s, it was unfortunate timing. One of them needed to take the edge off, which would make everything go easier, particularly in a five-hundred-square-foot house with one bedroom and one bath. Even a half tab of Oxy would sure hit the spot right now. She wondered if the bottom of her purse had one.

“Wash up and get ready for bed,” her dad called out to her. “I’ll see if there’s anything to eat.”