“I’ll beef it up. Sit down.”
Her expression thoughtful, Chloe sat down at the oak table and almost immediately began tracing the outline of the grain with her long polished thumbnail. Except for the vermillion nails, Winna was reminded of her sister as a child, her hesitance, the way she waited for Winna to engage her.
Winna went to work. “How are the boys?” she asked of Chloe’s two teenaged sons.
“Right now they are in California with Austin. He wants them to go to school out there next year.”
“How do you feel about that?” she asked, tearing more lettuce into the bowl. She bit her tongue and did not add that Chloe would surely miss them. On the other hand, maybe she would be glad to have them off her hands. In that case, her sister would take Winna’s words as a judgment against her. Talking with Chloe could be tricky.
“Well, I am considering it. It’s a great school and a great chance for them to spend more time with their father—boys need their fathers.” Chloe paused, then looked at her sister, “How are you doing?”
Winna sighed. “This house has made me into a time traveler. I’m no longer living in the last year of the twentieth century. I’m no longer sixty-one. I’m twelve and you’re eight.”
They had lived in the country then, on seven acres of land, in an old farmhouse. Winna’s happiest memory of their days together in the country flashed to mind.
“Do you remember that summer evening on Peach Tree Ridge when you and I sat holding hands on the side of the hill watching the sun set over Pinyon Mesa?”
Chloe’s face lit up. “I remember it perfectly—the sky ablaze with a violent orange and purple fire,” she said, using the words of a painter. “We were close then.” Chloe paused as if she was considering that loss. “Why do you suppose both of us remember that sunset?”
“Because we saw God. Wouldn’t you say?”
“Yes, but I wouldn’t say it that way. You know I don’t believe in a bearded man in the sky.”
“I know. Neither do I,” Winna said as she peeled another hardboiled egg, cut up more lettuce and tomato, and added the rest of a can of tuna. She turned to look at Chloe and caught her staring, her expression filled with questions as she lowered her eyes. “What are you thinking?”
“Oh, just about those days.”
“It’s fun to know someone with the same memories,” Winna said.
Chloe got up and went to the silverware drawer for a fork and knife. “Todd moved in the last of his things this weekend—that’s why I didn’t make it,” she said, looking at Winna. “I’m sorry. I can’t stay long today, but I promise to come back tomorrow—all day if you need me.”
“I do need you. I hoped you’d go through the library and decide which books you’d like and which should be sent for appraisal. There’s so much to tell you—we have to talk. Guess what Emily and I found—a gigantic canary yellow diamond ring worth big bucks, the jeweler says.”
“Here—in this house?” Chloe sat down.
“Yes, we found it in the front hall closet in our old box of marbles. Can you beat that?”
“Are you are just trying to entice me into giving you a hand?”
Winna laughed. “I should have thought of that weeks ago.”
Spotting the satin wrapped package Winna had dropped on the table, Chloe seemed thankful for a distraction. “What’s this?”
“I’m not sure. I just found it in the attic. I’d guess there are letters inside,” she said, dressing the salad and dividing it between two plates. “Open it.”
Chloe untied the cord and carefully folded back the cloth that covered a stack of yellowed letters, bound by yet another tarnished gold cord.
“The letters are addressed to Miss Juliana Smythe, Gunnison Avenue, Grand Junction—this one is from Providence, Rhode Island. It’s postmarked September 5, 1910.” She quickly flipped through the whole stack, “They’re all from the same person. And according to the postmarks, it looks like Gramma kept them in chronological order.”
Winna handed Chloe a plate and took the first letter from Chloe’s hand. The return address on the envelope read “A.G. Whitaker, 472 Benefit Street, Providence, Rhode Island.” She slipped the folded letter out of the envelope and, as if it had been read a million times before, it fell open in her hands. It was dated August 24. She read it aloud.
My Dear Juliana,
You know my heart. I don’t have to tell you how hard it was for me to say goodbye to you today. I write this as the train speeds through De Beque Canyon. I can see its shadow in the still reaches of the river, a long dark train moving east, trailing a plume of smoke. Sometimes I see your tear-streaked face reflected in the window glass. Now you are a phantom. No longer flesh and blood, begging me not to leave you.
I hate to bring pain into your life, my darling, but I must follow my destiny. I cannot count the times you have said that you want success for me, for me to take my place among the great writers both living and dead. We’ve talked about how I cannot thrive in Grand Junction. I should wither there. The only bright light in my place of birth is you, Juliana.
You are my inspiration. Do not begrudge me the four years it will take to graduate from college. You have another year of high school and college to look forward to. In the end, we will be together as man and wife. This we have promised.
Until then, I remain your faithful kindred spirit,
Dolph
“Wow,” Chloe said, smiling broadly. “So formal yet so mushy. I love it.”
“This must be the lover Gramma told me about,” Winna said, laying the letter aside and opening another.
“She had a lover?”
“I’ve told you the story—the guy who died on the train—of a broken heart.”
“Oh, yeah,” Chloe said, leaning back in her chair. “She was so plain and so mean. How could any man have died for the love of her?”
“Look at the pictures of her when she was young—she looked like the girl next door,” Winna said, in defense of Juliana. “You remember her when she was an unhappy old lady.”
Chloe suddenly jumped in her seat, then fanned herself with one hand. “There’s someone standing outside the kitchen door.”
Alarmed by Chloe’s apparent fear, Winna went tentatively to the door, pulling aside the lace panel that covered the window. With a hint of a smile on his lips, Seth stood on the steps.
Surprised to see him, she opened the door. “Come in, Seth. I didn’t expect you.”
“You told me to stop back when I was free. Is this a bad time?” He seemed hesitant.
“No. No. Help never comes at a bad time,” she said, inviting him in.
She turned toward her sister. “Seth, this is Chloe, my sister.”
“How-de-do, Seth.”
Winna could not believe that Chloe actually batted her eyes at him. He grinned and returned her greeting.
“Seth is my new discovery,” Winna said. “He works around the house for me.”
Gesturing toward the kitchen carpet, she asked, “Would you like to rip up the carpet in this room and haul it to the dump? Then we’ll talk about whether or not the floor underneath needs repair.”
“Sounds fun,” he said with a trace of good-natured sarcasm. “I’ll get my tools.”
Seth headed back to his truck as the sisters escaped from the kitchen with their salads and the stack of letters. They settled into the old furniture on the porch overlooking the lawn where they could eat in peace and read Adolph Whitaker’s love letters.
12
“SOLAMENTE UNA VEZ…” Connie Francis’s voice sobbed above the hum of voices in the crowded restaurant. Only one time. Long ago, that voice had come to Winna under the stars, through the magic of Johnny Hodell’s car radio. Now, a candle flickered on a restaurant table and Winna handed the waitress the menu.
John had been out of town and weeks had passed since Winna had seen him at the party. He’d come by that morning to take a look at the foundation and general wellbeing of the
house on Seventh Street. He assessed the condition of the electrical service and pronounced the old furnace terminally ill. After the basement tour, she showed him some of the house’s treasures. He complimented Seth’s handiwork—the newly restored kitchen floor.
The waitress brought their drinks and a fresh basket of warm tortilla chips and salsa.
“Winna, I have a cheeky question,” John said, looking at her a tad sheepishly.
“Shoot.”
“Don’t take this the wrong way. It’s only a question,” he said as he looked into the depths of his margarita. “How’s Chloe doing financially?”
“She gets by, I guess. She picked up a lot of cash from her last divorce—enough to buy a house. I thought Austin was such a nice man—he loved her madly. Anyway, she’s certainly not well-off and she’s not starving.”
He had another question. “How long has Chloe known that your father disinherited her?”
“She learned the same time I did, I believe—after Dad died. We were all sitting in Reed’s office. It was an awful moment—‘everything to my daughter Edwina. To my daughter Chloe, the sum of one dollar.’ Just awful.”
“You realize your father’s accident could have been arranged—that’s if one is prone to conspiracy theories, which I’m not.”
“It sounds like you are.” Winna doused her indignation with a big sip of her margarita. “My God, John, there’s no way Chloe would ever do such a thing. Frankly, I find it offensive that you would even suggest it.”
“I’m sorry, Winna,” he said, pulling back. “I know it’s none of my business.” He paused a moment in silence, took another sip, and said, “Are you saying you never even thought of the possibility?”
“Never.”
“Everyone in town wondered why he went over the cliff when his car didn’t—it was such a weird accident. Did the police check out the car?”
“I don’t know—it was an accident.” Winna stirred her drink with the straw. “I told you what I thought happened—what the police believed.”
“But how? Did they do an autopsy?”
“Yes, of all that was left. They found nothing suspicious, John.”
The food arrived. John was silent while the waitress bustled nearby.
“Enjoy!” she said and disappeared.
Enjoy? Ten million grams of fat. Winna stared into a platter full of chicken enchiladas under bubbling chili verde and melted cheese slathered with sour cream and sliced avocado, trying to decide which upset her more: her lack of discretion in ordering, or the man across the table.
“Looks good,” John said, digging into his enchiladas.
Winna said nothing as she cut into her food. She lifted a healthy bite of chicken smothered in tangy chili and cream into her mouth. “I’d like another margarita.”
“Now I know I’ve upset you,” John said. “Are you going to get drunk?”
“No, you’re right, John. I won’t have another but I am upset. Surely you don’t blame me,” she said, tasting a bite of succulent chili relleno stuffed with melted cheese.
Their silence lasted until the warm food and tequila did their magic and Winna felt herself let go. “Okay, I admit I have had dark thoughts about Dad’s accident.”
“Of course, it’s only natural with all the stuff that goes on these days. The TV and newspapers are full of it.”
“Let me tell you my dark thoughts.” She rested her fork on her plate. “I’m afraid of Todd Cody, Chloe’s lover. I don’t know the man—but I do know Chloe. She’s not capable of murder,” she said, picking up her glass for a sip of melted ice. “Todd, on the other hand, might be capable of arranging things so that he marries into money.”
John looked skeptical. “Is there that much—worth the bother?”
“Yes, it would be ‘worth the bother.’”
“And you think that’s why he’s going to marry your sister? See, I’m not so twisted after all,” he said with a wink.
THE NEXT MORNING as Winna and Emily sorted through shelves loaded with three different china patterns, Winna could not get her conversation with John the night before off her mind.
“John thinks that something sinister happened in Unaweep Canyon—that Chloe had something to do with Dad’s death.”
“Really? I doubt we need to worry about that. But, Mom, I’ve been feeling guilty for not visiting Poppa Henry more often.”
“I’m to blame, honey,” Winna said, separating the Willow Tree plates from the Spode. “He was tough to visit—didn’t know how to make you feel welcome. I didn’t understand him so I couldn’t help you understand him either.” She sat down and looked at her daughter. “Let me tell you a story about him—about the day he took me to Unaweep Canyon. Come sit down a minute.”
Emily took a chair as Winna’s memory returned to the early eighties. “Once, when I came back home to see Daddy, he drove me there for a picnic. He knew all the side roads, how to get to the top of the cliffs. Those were still his drinking days and as we headed out of town toward Whitewater, I was glad there was no traffic. I couldn’t tell if he was sober or not, but I’d seen him tuck a silver flask into his back pocket.
“We made it into the canyon just fine. It must have been late spring because the wet meadows were green and filled with wild blue lupines. The sky was another shade of blue with bright white clouds drifting south—you should see my pictures. Dad didn’t mind stopping every time I shouted, ‘Photo op!’ He’d pull over, I’d get out and wander around with my camera as long as I wanted. Each time I went back to the car, it seemed like he was a little drunker.
“At some point he turned off the highway and we drove up a dirt road that took us to the top of the canyon wall. He knew the way—exactly where he wanted to go. When we reached a turnoff, he parked the car and got out. He asked me to bring the picnic basket and follow. He headed down a footpath toward a cluster of pinyon pines. Walking toward a group of flat rocks shaded by junipers, we stopped at a spot very near the edge of the cliff with a view of the wide canyon below. From there, the road running through the canyon looked like a narrow gray line drawn on a map. I could feel the pull of gravity and was glad for the twisted tree limb that came between me and the sheer drop below—almost like the bar on a Ferris wheel seat.
“We sat down to eat in silence. Then Dad told me a story. It’s the only story I remember him ever telling me. As he spoke, I realized what the canyon meant to him and that he had been there often. It is the only memory I have that helps me deal with the way he died.
“He said no one knows for sure how the canyon was formed—some say it was the rivers that came through there millions of years ago and others say glaciers created the canyon. Neither theory can be proven.
“Showing my geological ignorance, I suggested to him that the canyon had been there from the beginning of time. Who says it had to be formed by anything? Maybe that’s just the way it is—the way it’s always been.”
Winna paused and looked at her daughter. “And, Emily, here’s what interests me—the old question. Is it nature or nurture? Was Daddy, am I, are you who you are because of how your parents raised you, or because you were born with a certain nature? The canyon made me wonder about that and it still does.”
“It’s nature,” Emily said. “That’s why people raised in the same family can be so different—like you and Chloe.”
“I don’t know. The family treated Chloe and me very differently. Anyway, Daddy and I didn’t talk about that. You couldn’t talk about things like that with him.”
“Did you ever try?”
“Sure. If you asked a personal question, he’d drift away. Like once I asked why he dropped out of college and he said, ‘I wasn’t much of a student.’ He said it in a way that closed me off. It didn’t help that he turned his back and left the room.”
“Maybe he had something to hide.”
“Maybe, but let me finish telling you about that day. He had more to tell me. The mystery of the canyon’s formation wasn’t the
only unusual thing. He was drinking from his flask while we talked and the more he drank the longer his silences grew. I had always hated the silence between us and had a habit of rushing to fill it with words.
“He said that the canyon is open at both ends—that’s unusual. There isn’t a river there, but there are two streams. One runs in one direction and the other in another direction. He seemed to think that was mysterious and asked how two streams could run in opposite directions out of opposite ends of the same canyon.
“I didn’t know and I doubted that what he said could possibly be true. He was slurring his words and his eyelids had dropped, making him look sleepy. By then I wanted to go, but he wasn’t ready.
“I can still see his eyes moving slowly down the canyon and up to the blue horizon. He looked as if he had gone into a trance. He reached up and out with one hand like he wanted to show me whatever it was he saw. ‘This place—’ He didn’t say any more, but his face seemed alive—like it does in his baby picture—as if he were lost in a beautiful vision. For the first time in his life he was trying to share something with me.”
Winna suddenly stood up and returned to the stacks of plates on the dining room table. She looked at Emily and quickly wiped the tears off her cheek. “I was afraid, Emily. He was experiencing a beautiful moment, and I was afraid. All I could think was how I was going to get him back to the car and would he let me drive home.”
Emily hesitated and looked away from her mother.
“He scared me too, Mom. I don’t know why. He was just so distant, so vacant—like nobody was home.”
13
WINNA ARRIVED AT the Crystal Café for her lunch date with Kate. She picked a table with a view of Main Street. The street had changed since the fifties when she and Johnny had dragged Main in his convertible. Now it was more like a downtown mall with planters full of trees, shrubs, and flowers. Bronze sculptures decorated the sidewalks. Traffic had to slow as the street curved and snaked its way past all the plantings. The trees are a nice addition, Winna thought. They filtered the hard-edged light, giving a pleasant cooling shade to the sidewalks and parked cars. But Main Street no longer looked like the nineteenth-century Western street she first knew.
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