Bittersweet

by Susan Wittig Albert

  My mother hadn’t known about Laura or her son. In fact, she hadn’t known any of this story until Miles brought to light the old, dark mysteries around my father’s murder. Then Miles was murdered, too, leaving Caitie both fatherless and motherless. The little girl came to us, to McQuaid and Brian and me. We’re now a family.

  I hadn’t known how Leatha would react to Caitie. If you’d asked me, I would have said that she was likely to reject the daughter of her husband’s illegitimate son, or at least, not to welcome her—and I suppose I wouldn’t have blamed her if she had. My father had rejected her for another woman. Rejecting his granddaughter would be tit for tat, an extra fillip of sweet posthumous revenge.

  But that isn’t what happened. How she did it is a mystery to me, but Leatha found it in her heart to embrace Caitie exactly as she would her very own granddaughter. And I’m grateful, for Caitie’s sake and for my own, especially at family holidays like Thanksgiving and Christmas. These are bittersweet holidays because so much has happened to divide us, and yet so much has brought us together.

  Now, Leatha raised her head, her eyes filled with tears. One arm around Caitie, she held the other hand out to me. “I’m so glad you could come, China,” she said, in that soft Southern honey voice of hers. “I needed to see you.”

  I noticed that she was wearing corduroy slacks, a blue plaid shirt, and loafers, and that she hadn’t had her hair done recently or paid much attention to her makeup or her manicure. In fact, her nails looked as if she’d been doing the outdoor work on her own for the past week. She was no longer the carefully groomed socialite I had known growing up. She looked drawn and weary.

  I kissed her cheek. “How’s Sam?” I asked. “What about those complications?”

  “It looks like he’s out of the woods for now.” Leatha put on a bright smile. “I stayed all night at the hospital and only got home a little bit ago. He’s doing fairly well, the doctor says. In fact, he sent me home. He knew I was just dyin’ to see the two of you.” She cuddled Caitie against her. “Especially this one.” She lifted her eyes to mine. “Let’s go inside, dear. I’ve made some chili for our supper, and you can put a salad together for us. And then, if you want, we can get started on those pies for tomorrow’s dinner. Pumpkin, of course. Mincemeat, too—and there’s one jar left of the Fredericksburg peaches I canned last summer. I was saving it for Brian. He always says he loves my peach pie.”

  I’m always surprised when my mother reveals her domestic talents. When I was growing up, she never cooked a single meal. She didn’t have to. She had plenty of household help in our large home in the affluent Houston suburb of River Oaks—and anyway, from the cocktail hour on, she was always so soused she wouldn’t have been able to scramble eggs. I was left to eat my suppers alone, since my father invariably worked late—or, as I now knew, spent the evening with Miles’ mother. He hated Leatha’s drinking as much as I did, which was probably why she did it.

  “Oh, let’s make a peach pie,” Caitie said excitedly. “But I have to get Mr. P out of the car first. He wants to have some supper, too. You don’t need to worry about what to feed him, though, Gramma. I brought his food. Oh, and I brought you some eggs from the girls. Two whole dozen!”

  “Fresh eggs? Oh, that’s wonderful, Caitie!” my mother said, beaming. “What a treat! You can put Mr. P’s dishes and litter pan in the laundry room. I’m sure he’ll want to sleep with you, though. You’re in the room at the end of the hall, where you slept last time you were here.”

  As Caitie raced off to the car, she shook her head. “What a lovely, lovely child,” she said softly. “I hate what your father did, but I just have to love that child.” She smiled. “Enough of that. We’ve got a lot of catching up to do, China. I don’t want to waste a single minute. Come on!”

  She opened the screen door and led the way into the house. Nestled beside a clump of sheltering live oaks, it’s a comfortable old place, low and sprawling, with oak floors throughout, a native stone fireplace in the living room, and a kitchen roomy enough to feed not just the family but all the ranch hands.

  “I want to hear about Sam,” I said. “How did you find out about his heart problem? And how long has it be going on?”

  He’d been experiencing chest pains for several months, she told me as we went down the hall to the kitchen. The doctor had warned him to slow down and take things easy. But Sam was used to setting his own pace. With all the work and planning for the sanctuary, he had plenty on his plate and wasn’t inclined to follow orders. The first attack had come in early September.

  “September!” I exclaimed. “But this is the first I’ve heard of it.”

  “We didn’t tell you,” Leatha said, “because we didn’t want you to worry.”

  The second attack had come on Sunday night. He was rushed to the hospital, where the surgeon put in a stent. But the abdominal artery was compromised, they said, and there was more repair work to be done—soon, they thought. When he recovered, he would have to take better care of himself and “substantially moderate” his activity.

  “Which won’t be even a little bit easy,” Leatha admitted, standing in front of the wide, ceiling-high window at one end of the kitchen. Her hands were clasped, her knuckles white. “That man is as stubborn as a Mississippi mule.” She smiled, but I guessed that she was trying to hide her fear behind that sweet Southern smile. When she grew up, women were taught to control themselves, whatever they felt or feared: “A real lady always stays calm and cool, even when that mean ol’ General Sherman is burnin’ her house to the ground right in front of her.” Then she turned, pointing. “Look at the deer! They’re lovely, aren’t they?” She sighed. “Oh, I do love this place, China. I thought I would never love another place after Jordan’s Crossing, but I was wrong. I’m at home here at Bittersweet, at last, and loving it.”

  Joining her at the window, I could see why. The view opened out onto an expanse of meadow, bordered on one side by Bittersweet Creek and on the other by junipers, mesquite, and several large live oaks. The late-afternoon shadows embraced a pair of white-tailed does, each with twin yearling fawns, grazing without fear.

  “They’re beautiful,” I said, and then did a double take. “Whoa! What are those guys? They’re huge!”

  Those guys were a half-dozen large deer with orange coats and a generous spattering of white spots. They had drifted out of the shadows to join the white-tails. The single male had large-tined antlers; the five females were smaller. They were gorgeous, muscular animals, significantly larger than the deer they were grazing with. The male must have weighed well over two hundred pounds, and the females were twice the weight of the white-tailed does.

  Leatha gave a heavy sigh. “They’re axis deer, escaped from the exotic game ranches in the area.” A sober look crossed her face, and she turned down her mouth. “They’re beautiful, yes, but I’m afraid they’re a terrible nuisance—worse than that, really. They compete for forage with the native white-tails. And they’re more prolific, so there are more of them every year. The ranchers and farmers around here just hate them.”

  “Invasive exotic species,” I said, shaking my head. “I know plenty about that where plants are concerned—kudzu, for instance, and Oriental bittersweet, vines that can smother everything. Trees, too, like chinaberries.” The chinaberry tree, which was brought to Mexico and the American Southwest in the 1840s, certainly has its uses. Mashed, the fruits produce a cleansing lather—in Mexico, it’s called the “soap tree.” In its native Asia, the toxic seeds were pulverized and used to stun fish for an easy catch. In Chinese medicine, the seeds are used to treat liver and intestinal ailments. But the tree, introduced as an ornamental in the 1830s, is on the Texas Forestry Association’s “dirty dozen” list of exotic pests because it forms dense clumps that outcompete native species. I added, “I hadn’t thought about invasives in terms of animals.”

  Leatha turned away from the window. “We t
hink a lot about that around here, I’m afraid. The ranchers shoot the axis deer and net them, and those who can’t use the meat donate it to Hunters for the Hungry. If we could get rid of them totally, we would. It was a terrible mistake to introduce them. They don’t belong here.”

  I went back to the subject. “You mentioned that Sam would have to ‘substantially moderate’ his activity. What does that mean in practical terms?”

  She turned away from the window and went to the fridge, taking out a large container of homemade venison chili. “Well, I imagine it means he won’t be able to do as much, physically,” she said cheerily, and got out some lettuce, a couple of tomatoes, an avocado, a cucumber, and some green onions. “Here are the salad fixings, China. The bowl is in the cupboard beside the sink. We could have an oil-and-vinegar dressing with some of that delicious herbal vinegar you sent for my birthday.”

  Obediently, I opened the cupboard and got out the salad bowl. But I wasn’t going to let it go. “Will he be able to work around the ranch?”

  Leatha was spooning the chili into a pan. Reluctantly, and in a more cautious tone, she said, “I suppose it means he’ll have to slow down some. Which he won’t.”

  I began tearing lettuce into bite-size pieces. I knew that Leatha didn’t want to discuss this—she probably didn’t even want to think about it. But she needed to look ahead. I didn’t want to borrow trouble or worry her unnecessarily, but what would she do if he wasn’t able to do very much—or, worst case, if he wasn’t around?

  “I’m asking,” I said carefully, “because I’m wondering how you’ll manage. I saw your new sign beside the main highway, and I know you’re planning to open January first. You’ve renovated the old guest lodge. And Sam told me he was putting in new trails and observation points. He even mentioned building a tower or something.”

  “Oh, yes,” she said brightly. “I can’t wait to show you the new observation tower, China. It has two platforms, one at fifteen feet, the other at forty, with a great view of the Sabinal River. You walk up to it on a two-hundred-foot-long ramp that takes you up through the trees.” She put the pan of venison chili on the stove and turned on the burner. “It was a big job, and we didn’t get it finished as quick as he wanted because . . .” She sighed. “Because of the attack he had in September. But I found somebody who could help him with the heavy work—the things I couldn’t manage. And I posted the photos on the website just last week. I’m sure it’s going to be a big attraction for our guests.”

  I began chopping tomatoes. “So you and Sam are going ahead with your project—in spite of his heart surgery?”

  “Of course we’re going ahead. Actually, we’re counting on the income. It’s been . . . well, a little rough lately. You know, hard times.”

  I was startled. I’d never inquired deeply into my mother’s financial business. My father left her well-off, and Sam had plenty, as well as this ranch. But of course things change, and the economy wasn’t in the best shape. Had their situation changed, too? Did they actually need the money this venture would bring in?

  She was going on. “When I checked the computer this morning, I found another January reservation—four people, two guest rooms, for a full week. Sam will be thrilled to hear it. He says he expects the lodge to be fully booked before the birding season gets under way. The spring migration doesn’t start until late March, but there are plenty of resident birds that people will be thrilled to see. Why, just yesterday, I saw a vermillion flycatcher and a beautiful belted kingfisher. I hope you and Caitie brought your binoculars so you can—”

  I put down my knife. It was time to face facts. “Mom,” I said quietly, “how in the world are you going to manage? I mean, it’s entirely possible that Sam won’t be able to help with the guest rooms, not to mention the cooking and the logistics. You’re going to need somebody here on the ranch to do the heavy work and help with the guests and—”

  “Oh, that.” She waved her hand dismissively. “Don’t worry about it, dear. I’ve already got it all figured out.”

  “Figured out how?” I asked, trying not to sound as worried as I felt. I didn’t want to discourage her, just to make her look at things realistically. The sanctuary was a beautiful place, and I was sure it would attract plenty of guests. But except for the little town of Utopia some fifteen miles away, it’s isolated. Leatha and Sam would find it difficult to hire anybody to come in by day, and the chances of locating live-in help were slim, at least at the wages they could afford. And they would need help, lots of it. Leatha was past sixty-five now, and Sam . . . well, to put it in the best light, Sam was recovering from serious heart surgery.

  But if Leatha had heard my worry, she was ignoring it. She took a large spoon out of a drawer and began stirring the chili. “It was a stroke of luck, actually. Lucky for us, I mean—not for her. I hate to take advantage of somebody else’s heartache, but in this case, we’re helping each other out of a tight spot.” She put down the spoon and turned to face me. “Sue Ellen Krause is going to move into the lodge and give us a hand until Sam is back on his feet.”

  “Sue Ellen Krause?” I frowned. The name was familiar, but I couldn’t place her.

  “I’ve mentioned her before, but I don’t think you’ve met her. She’s been at the Three Gates Game Ranch for five or six years, managing the guest lodge there. She’s had a lot of experience dealing with guests. I know she’ll be a big help.”

  I began slicing the cucumber. I visited Three Gates a couple of years ago with Sam. At 4,200 acres, it’s one of the largest game ranches in Uvalde County. Completely surrounded by an eight-foot high-tensile galvanized wildlife fence, it’s located five or six miles south, between the Sabinal River and Blanco Creek. It belongs to three Gateses: Jim Gates, Houston’s most famous brain surgeon, and his two sons, Benny and Alec, lawyers practicing in San Antonio.

  The ranch isn’t the Gates family’s home on the range, though. It’s strictly an investment. A humongous investment, when you figure in all the costs. I looked up the ranch on the Internet after my visit there and found that they have trophy white-tails, which are bred on the ranch, as well as elk, axis deer, fallow deer, sika deer, buffalo, and several other high-dollar exotics. Then there’s the the hunting lodge, the swimming pool, the fishing lake, and the payroll for the staff it takes to maintain and service the place. And that fence. At twenty thousand dollars a mile, the fence alone would’ve set the three Gateses back by almost a quarter of a million dollars. All those costs can be written off against their income. Even a brain surgeon and a pair of lawyers can figure out that a hunting ranch doesn’t have to make money to make money, when it comes to what they owe Uncle Sam on April 15.

  I dumped the sliced cucumber into the salad and started to work on the avocado. “If Sue Ellen Krause is coming to work for you, she must’ve left Three Gates. How come?”

  Leatha gave a little sigh. “She and her husband, Jack, are getting a divorce—that’s the heartache. He’s the assistant foreman at the ranch. He’s been making things . . . well, difficult.” Putting place mats, plates, and large soup bowls on the table in front of the window, she added, “The situation has gotten too intense, so she’s decided it’s time to get away.” She looked up at the clock over the sink. “In fact, she’ll be here any minute. She’s coming for supper.”

  “Tonight?” I asked in surprise, then noticed that Leatha had laid out four red plaid place mats and was putting down four plates and bowls.

  “Uh-huh.” Leatha got a handful of silverware out of a drawer. “She phoned me this morning and said that she and Jack had a big fight and asked if she could move in this evening instead of next week, as we were planning. I’m sure the ranch manager at Three Gates must hate to see her go, especially during hunting season. They’re probably booked full. I hope he doesn’t think that Sam and I have hired her away.” She paused, surveying the table. “Of course, we won’t have any real work for her until the guest
s start arriving in January.”

  “But she can help you get set up,” I said. To myself, I added, And she would be here, in case . . . well, in case Sam’s recuperation didn’t go as well as we all hoped.

  “Of course, we can’t pay her what she’s worth.” Leatha began laying the silverware beside the plates. “But we can give her a safe, rent-free place to stay for as long as she needs it, which is what matters most right now. She’s really sweet, China—and so kind and thoughtful. She always calls to let me know she’s going shopping down in Uvalde and asks me what she can get for us or what errands she can run. She’s a local girl, so she knows her way around. And she’s been such a help to me.”

  “That’s nice,” I murmured. I felt vaguely uncomfortable at the thought that another woman was running my mother’s errands for her—and then wondered why I felt that way. I hoped I wasn’t jealous. Shouldn’t I be glad?

  “It is nice. It’s such a neighborly thing, not something you expect from most young women these days.” Leatha put four red napkins down, one beside each setting. “She brings me little gifts—you know, candy and soap, even my favorite perfume. And she called right away when she heard about Sam, wanting to know what she could do to help.” She looked up at me and smiled in that twinkly way of hers. “Sue Ellen can’t begin to take the place of my dear daughter China, but it’ll be good to have her living here with us, even if it’s only for a few months. And she’s looking forward to meeting you.” She put salt and pepper shakers on the table. “She might even have some questions for you about her divorce. She seemed especially interested when I told her that you’re a lawyer.”

  “I’m not that kind of lawyer, Mom,” I protested. In my former incarnation, I was a criminal defense attorney. I know next to nothing about family law.

  “Of course, dear,” Leatha replied soothingly. “But you may be able to answer some of Sue Ellen’s questions. And I’m sure that just talking to you will help her feel better. Please do what you can, China—she’s been so helpful to me.”