by Ruth Wind
He paused, then sat on the side of the bed. "Are we going to do this, then?"
"I don't know, Eli," she said as honestly as she could. With one hand she traced the sleek curve of his upper arm. "I have no idea what I'm feeling or what I'll feel next week. Can we just take it one step at a time?"
It wasn't quite the answer he wanted; he bowed his head, away from her. "I'll come." He recovered, gave her a sideways glance. "Promise I won't have to go to the emergency room for food poisoning after?"
Sarah raised her eyebrows. "No promises, but I'll do my best."
He laughed, then patted her bottom. "Get dressed. I'll take you home."
* * *
The morning was cool and damp-smelling. Dew clung to the spines of cacti and made beadwork of the loops on yucca and spiderwebs. Sarah paused on Eli's front porch. "This is beautiful, Eli."
He stopped and gazed out over the view with her. "That's why I built here. At night it looks like a thousand stars fell to earth, all the lights glittering in the valley."
"I don't just mean the view," she said. "The land, too. I've never been here before. I didn't know you had so much." It was hilly, with sharp outcroppings of rock, and an arroyo that would be hidden from any angle other than this. Below, a long tall building stuck up above the low juniper and piñon trees that grew higher on the hill. Spread around it for acres and acres were fields of crops. "I wish I could see the herb fields up close."
"Really? We can stop on the way out."
A press of fear made her shake her head. "I'm too afraid."
Eli laughed. "I'd protect you."
"Another time."
He nodded, and they got into the truck to drive down. Sarah quelled the urge to duck down in the seat as they came to lower sections. There were already workers in the field.
"They're working so early," Sarah commented.
"The flowers of most herbs have to be harvested before the sun gets on them and dries out the oils."
She gazed at the scene, her mind capturing quick shots of the gold-glazed fields and the men bent over the plants. Beyond, behind a sturdy fence, a pair of goats frolicked with some sheep with long, brownish gray wool. A man and a black-and-white dog herded them up a hill. "Are those merinos?" Sarah asked in surprise.
"Yes. The wool was out of fashion for a long time, but it's coming back now. We have a hundred head. That wool brings in a tidy profit." He slowed. "Sure you don't want to stop?"
She met his gaze, smiling to show she meant no offense. "I'm sure. But I wish I had my camera."
"Another day."
At the cottage he didn't turn off the engine. "I have a meeting this morning early," he said. "I have to get home and shower." He touched her face. "I'll see you tonight."
She made her way down the path to her cottage, humming happily under her breath. In the courtyard was the big stray tom, waiting patiently, his tail switching. "Good morning," she said to him, and he meowed plaintively, rising to rub against her leg. "Are you hungry?"
He meowed again and trotted over to the door with her, hopefully, she thought. It made her sad – obviously he had once belonged to someone and had been abandoned to make his own way as well as he could. Sarah glanced over her shoulder. "Okay," she said, "you can come in, but just this once."
She found a can of tuna, which she opened and put on a dish for him, along with a bowl of water. "Don't get used to it, okay? The next people who come here might not care about stray cats." The thought of leaving him to that fate troubled her. She wondered if she might be able to find a home for him before she left.
It wasn't until she was untying her shoes that she realized that she did still expect to leave Taos. Expected to go back to the career she'd built on the East Coast, back to her sublet apartment and her friends and the whirl of travel. A tennis shoe hit the wooden floor with a heavy thud. Was that what she still wanted?
She didn't know – and what was more, this morning she didn't care. This morning she wanted only to be in this moment, with a stray cat keeping her company, and the whole day ahead of her to spend as she pleased. She wanted to revel in the well-loved glow that enveloped her, and be free to enjoy the little sensual shocks of memory that pulsed through her. She pulled off her blouse and breathed in the scent of Eli that remained on the fabric. She stood to unbutton her jeans and felt a tiny pull of muscles along her sides. In the bathroom she reached for the shower faucet and thought of her last shower, and Eli washing her hair.
Turning to take a scrunchie from the drawer to pull up her hair, she caught sight of herself in the mirror, and paused to see her body as he might have. It was only then that she saw the little bruises and scratches, the swollen look of her mouth, the red mark on her shoulder, one very low on her breast. Her clothes would hide them. There was another on her neck below her ear.
Her hair would cover it, she thought, but she leaned forward, touching the mark, remembering with a deep sense of pleasure the moment it had been made. Her skin had always shown bruises like this, and when they were teenagers, she'd made a rule he couldn't even kiss her neck. But she loved it, and he knew that, so he grew adept at pleasing her, leaving the marks where they would not show. When they were in school, or eating lunch, he'd sweep her hair aside and kiss the marks, making her remember all over again what they'd been doing.
Steam obscured the mirror and Sarah straightened, realizing that she was aroused all over again. She leaned against the door, closing her eyes, letting all of it, the rain and his mouth and their joinings, swell up in her like pure pleasure. Pure joy.
With effort, she shook off the drifting haze of sensuality and adjusted the water, chuckling when she realized she'd never had to resort to cold showers before. Only Eli made her feel this way. Only Eli.
As she stepped under the spray, gasping at the cold, a fist of terror punched through the sensual glow. Fear that she was in over her head, fear that this was too much, fear that one or the other of them would be hurt. Fear that—
With the control learned over years of denial, Sarah simply pushed the thoughts away. She didn't have to think about the fear today. Today she would simply live in the moment.
* * *
After she'd dressed and eaten, Sarah loaded a camera bag with film, her favorite old Minolta and two lenses, and wandered out into the world. The golden vision of Eli's land this morning, the peaceful, quiet images, had roused a creative fire in her, and with a sense of anticipation she joined the flow of tourists, letting her feet take her wherever they would.
And the world rewarded her with beautiful and poignant and earthy images: two old Hispanic men sitting in the shade of the plaza, drinking coffee; a tiny girl in a blue dress, trying to catch a pigeon; two elderly tourists arguing over a map. Up the road a way, a Native American man in obviously fancy dance dress rushed out of a bead shop, tiny brown bag in hand, and she lifted the camera, amused that someone would have to make an emergency bead stop. Through the lens she saw he had a giant safety pin in his mouth. He stopped by his truck and scrambled in the bag. Seeing Sarah, he took the pin out of his mouth and mugged for the camera, spreading his lovely arms to show his costume, and Sarah laughed, pleased by his beauty. He called out his name to her, and she lifted a hand in thanks. Obviously he'd been a subject before.
She wandered farther afield, down a side street, and shot the turquoise doorways and windows of very old adobe houses, remembering the color kept out evil spirits. On a back road bordering a field she shot wildflowers and single trees, and landscape photos suitable for postcards. That was always a hard trick – taking a wide-view landscape that meant anything at all – but she did her best, trying to capture the layers of color, the promise of heat, the look of sunlight shimmering over an acequia.
Kneeling in the dirt on a barely used track to shoot a stand of cattails in the acequia, she found herself remembering what Eli had said the night before – that she needed to find a way to put her art back into her life. Her fashion work required expertise and creati
vity, but it was very structured.
Her youthful dreams had never centered around commercial photography of any kind, although she'd known she might have to do calendar or postcard work to support herself. As a girl, she'd dreamed of following the tradition of art in the valley. This morning had given her back small, lost pieces of herself, had made her feel whole and well and—
Happy. She smiled in surprise at that thought, and wandered back to her cottage, sunburned and hungry. She let the cat out and scrounged for something for lunch in the bare cupboards. If she were to cook for Eli this evening, she'd have to get to the market.
Cook for Eli. She chuckled, wondering if he'd mind cold cereal, and then more seriously wondered what she could make. She was pretty handy with various salads, but suspected he'd want something more substantial.
The phone rang, and Sarah picked it up distractedly.
"Ms. Greenwood?" Teresa said.
"Yes, Teresa. Did you get the tea?"
"That's why I'm calling." She made a tsking sound. "I went there yesterday and my bisabuela wouldn't give it to me. She said she'd make it, but you have to come get it."
"Me? Did she say why?"
"She said she has to tell you how to give him the medicine. That's the only way you can have it, if you come get it yourself."
"Oh." Sarah thought of the drive down the mountain this morning, trying to remember if she'd seen an old woman in the fields. "I wonder if—" She broke off. "Never mind. Did she say when?"
"She said you should come at three this afternoon. I don't know why she picked then, though. Everybody is around at that time."
To punish her, Sarah thought. If she wanted the tea badly enough, she had to brave the entire Santiago clan to get it. She closed her eyes, wondering if she had enough courage. "Thanks for trying, Teresa. I don't know if I can do it or not. We'll see."
"Okay. I just wanted to tell you."
"See you tomorrow. We should be able to finish up, and start choosing which photos you want in your portfolio this weekend. Are you up for that?"
"I'm s-o-o up for it."
"Good. See you then."
It was only as she hung up the phone that she let the full import of the conversation sink in. It felt like a challenge, a test. Did she have the courage?
The girl she'd been would never have been able to do it. Sarah doubted she could have done it even as recently as yesterday. Today she picked up the phone and called her mother. "Can I borrow your car for a little while this afternoon?"
Mabel sounded peevish and tired. "I suppose so. Are you planning to come over for supper?"
A twinge of guilt touched her as she thought of her plans with Eli and how her parents would react if they knew why she wouldn't be eating with them. "I can't, not tonight. But I only have a very short errand to run, and I'll visit for a while then, okay? Do you need anything?"
"Well, I wouldn't mind if you wanted to go to the grocery store for me while you're out."
"No problem. Make a list."
"And maybe you could pick up some of that ice cream your dad likes so much."
"All right." The twinge of guilt grew a little more insistent. "Are you okay, Mom?"
"Oh, I'm fine. Just tired of this hot weather. You'd think September would be a little cooler."
Sarah made a mental note to pick up a six-pack of beer for her mother. It was her secret vice, one she didn't think she ought to indulge, but loved anyway. Garth couldn't drink because of his medications, but Mabel liked to take a beer into the backyard just before bed. She said it helped her unwind, and never gave her a hangover the way the sleeping pills did.
"I'll be over in a few minutes, Mom."
* * *
Eli had trouble concentrating at his meeting. For one thing, the weather was extremely hot. At eleven, he heard on the radio the temperature was ninety-two, and it felt it. It was muggy from the heavy rain the night before, and the combination of humidity and blazing sun made tempers short.
For another, he'd not had much sleep the night before, and he couldn't stop yawning. He considered going up to his house for a short siesta, but thought instead of his mother's cool basement. An hour in the dark, cool rooms, and he'd be a new man. Especially if she had some tamales left from the batch she'd made for a birthday party the week before.
He found her in her sewing room, working on a quilt for one of the cousins who was expecting a baby. "Got any tamales left, Ma?" he asked.
She answered in Spanish. "There's some in the big freezer. Heat me up a couple, too, please." She took pins out of the fabric, her glasses sliding down on her nose. "Teresa made some sun tea. Maybe look on the back porch."
He found the tea and heated a pile of tamales in the microwave. In his dull state, he burned his fingers taking the husks from one of them, and dropped it with a splat on the floor. Definitely time for a nap.
He took the plate to his mother, and fixed another for himself. Two of his brothers and one sister came in as he was heading downstairs. Miguel carried a huge bag of take-out hamburgers. "Hey, I didn't know there was tamales."
"There aren't anymore." He left them to gather around the kitchen table, and went downstairs. Because her house was close to the plant and the siblings who worked there often went to her house for lunch, many of the others also stopped by at lunch. Eli hoped he'd have the basement to himself. He turned on the television to watch a game show as he ate, then stretched out on the couch and fell into a deep sleep.
He wasn't sure what wakened him, but it was sudden. Blinking, he looked at his watch. Almost three. He'd slept nearly two hours. Overhead, dismayed voices rose and fell, not quite an argument, and he wondered what was going on. He collected the remains of his lunch and went upstairs.
Miguel turned from the window, a bitter look on his mouth. "She's driving her father's car, right in here, as bold as can be."
"What? Who is?"
Teresa materialized at his side. In a quiet voice she said, "It's Sarah. She asked me to get a tea for her father from Great-Grandma Octavia."
Still befuddled from his nap, Eli shook his head. "I don't get it."
"Sarah," she said, "is outside."
Suddenly it penetrated. He bolted for the door and nearly ran into his mother, who stood on the steps with her arms crossed, her chin lifted in a haughty expression as Sarah stepped out of a late-model Buick to speak to a field hand. Asking directions, obviously.
"What is she doing here, Elias?"
His heart felt like a rock in his chest. "I don't know," he said harshly, and walked toward the car.
"Sarah!"
She turned, putting a hand over her eyes to shade them from the sun. That same sunlight struck the top of his head with fierce late-afternoon weight as he walked toward her. The hesitant welcome on her mouth faded as he approached.
"You could come so your father could have medicine," he said, his pride smarting, "but you couldn't stay for me earlier, so I could share the morning with you."
"Eli, don't. Please." She glanced over her shoulder. "I'm so nervous my tongue is sticking to the roof of my mouth. But I had to come. She would only give it to me personally."
"You should have asked me, Sarah. I would have got medicine for your father. A few ounces of hemlock should do it."
All expression bled from her face and Eli found himself looking at a stranger. "Excuse me," she said. "I have an appointment." She climbed into her car.
For one moment Eli considered just letting her go, but his anger was too wild, his sense of betrayal too deep. He rushed to the side of the car and put his hand on the hood, bending to look at her through the window. "I can't believe you," he said. "I can't believe you still put him ahead of your own happiness."
She stared out the windshield, her face stony. Around her mouth was a thin white line. "Let me go, Eli."
On her shoulder was a love bruise, edging out from the neckline of her dress, and the sight of it was like a bucket of water over his raging emotions. He reached in thr
ough the window to touch her, but she flinched away.
Slowly he straightened, took his hand off the car, feeling mingled regret and panic and fury. "Sarah—"
"Don't bother to come to supper," she said, and threw the car in gear.
Watching the car pull away, he swore, a feeling of despair welling in him. They were doomed. Doomed to repeat all of it, unless one or the other of them could break the cycle. He seemed unable, and Sarah seemed unwilling.
He slowly became aware of the eyes watching him. From the fields, from the porch of his mother's house. Probably from the offices of the plant, as well. With as much dignity as he could muster, he turned and moved toward the plant, refusing to meet anyone's gaze.
Safely behind his closed office door, he allowed himself to put his head in his hands, wondering how a few moments could change everything so drastically. Again.
It was her father. Always her father. His dark emotions metastasized into hate. Hate that was black and cold and hard, hate focused upon one man, the man who had tried to steal his life, and, given the chance, would steal it again.
And as it always had, the coldness steadied him, made him strong. To reinforce it, he named the sins Garth Greenwood had committed against him. He called forth the indignity of his arrest, and the weeks in jail. He thought of Sarah, sent into exile and bullied into giving up their child for adoption. He thought of the baby. The baby that Sarah still carried in her heart, an open wound that would never heal.
And he thought of the years that had been stolen from him. He could not get them back, but he vowed this time he would not lose the war with Garth. This time, Eli was stronger.
This time, Eli would be the victor, and Sarah his prize.
* * *
Chapter 12
«^»
Sarah followed the directions the man had given her, up a road that was little more than a dirt track. It gave her time to calm her racing heart, shove Eli and her nervousness and everything else out of her head. She found the old woman's cottage easily enough. By the size of the ancient cottonwoods towering over the small Territorial adobe, Sarah thought it must sit over an underground spring. The window and door frames were painted traditional turquoise, and the walls had been freshly mudded, probably during the past spring. Sarah could almost make out the handprints of the woman's daughters and granddaughters in the smooth adobe finish – or maybe her sons and grandsons. Chores were not always divided by gender lines these days, after all.