The Garden of Happy Endings

by Barbara O'Neal

  She bent her head. Her glittery hair fell forward. “I’ll think about it.” She took another bite of dumpling and it cleared the bowl enough that the Titanic flag and emblem showed through the pale yellow broth. She burst out laughing. “Very funny, sister dear.”

  “I thought you would appreciate that.” Elsa stood, clearing her bowl and Joaquin’s. “Who wants a cup of tea or coffee?”

  “I do,” Joaquin said. “That cinnamon tea you made last time?”

  “Absolutely. Tamsin?”

  “No thanks. I’ll have a glass of wine.”

  After Elsa went to bed, Tamsin stayed awake, playing on her sister’s laptop, drinking box wine. Not bad. It lasted longer, that was all. Maybe by the time it ran out, she’d have some money from somewhere. Surely they couldn’t expect her to live on absolutely nothing, not when she hadn’t known anything about Scott’s business.

  The wine sealed the sucking hollow in the middle of her chest, at least for a while. For the first time all day she was able to stop thinking for more than three minutes about Scott, about the house, about what it was going to mean for herself and Alexa and … well, everything. Her own Titanic, and she was now clinging to a life raft in the freezing waters of the Atlantic, waiting for help.

  For now, cozy on her little raft, she checked the quilting websites and waved at some friends, answered a few questions on the boards she moderated, and read the comments on the photographs of her latest quilt, which made her feel equal parts pleased, furious, and bereft. Pleased because the group was responding as she had hoped—with awe and respect and high compliments. A couple said things like, “This is the best you’ve done yet, Tamsin!” She agreed.

  Which wasn’t vanity. She had made her first quilt, a doll blanket, when she was seven, and she’d been making them ever since. She was a devoted gardener, a cheerful cook and hostess, but only a true expert at this one thing.

  Her pride over the praise gave way to fury. The quilt was locked up in the house, along with all of the supplies she’d collected over the past three decades. All of the fabrics and notions, the Bernina sewing machine, the pattern books, and the piles and piles and piles of quilts. Some simple, some elaborate. Some had won prizes at local shows, and she’d been urged to enter a couple of them in the art show at the State Fair, rather than entering them in the home arts. She had friends who were weavers who had done that, but she hadn’t yet had the nerve.

  Until this one.

  When rage leaked into her eyes, she took another gulp of Sauvignon Blanc, blinking hard to keep the tears at bay. Right now, if she started crying again, she’d kill herself. Her eyes already looked like somebody had punched her a few times.

  Alone in the quiet room, with only the sound of the keys clicking to keep her company, Tamsin wondered how she would continue. What she would do. Listening to Father Jack tonight, she had wondered what her own calling would be. If she had the nerve to ask.

  At last she checked her email, hoping in some bizarre way that there would be something from Scott to explain all this, something that would say, Hey, sorry I left you in a bad place, but I’m just trying to get things together to get us out of this hot water.

  Would he ever come back? Or had he completely disappeared from her life forever? The thought was so enormous on top of everything else that she shoved it away. She had to believe that somehow, some way …

  What? That he’d get a message to her? What would it even say? Sorry, babe, I screwed up?

  But of course there was no email from him. Instead, there were three emails from her daughter. One said only, Where are you? I’ve been calling and can’t get through. The other two had photos.

  She opened them and scrolled through the pictures with a hushed sense of pleasure and sorrow. Her daughter was remarkably beautiful, with a long, lean body and milky skin, her hair as black as Elsa’s but as straight as Tamsin’s. Her face was a triangle of wide brow and cheekbones and narrow chin, her mouth a full pillow over it.

  It was no surprise to Tamsin that Alexa had attracted the eye of European royalty. Her boyfriend was a count or a duke or something, but in a secondary line of succession, which Tamsin didn’t really understand. There had been some schism in the royal family decades ago and Carlos was in very distant line for the throne.

  A count, and incredibly handsome. He was in his late twenties, to Alexa’s twenty-two, a fit-looking man with tumbles of curly black hair and an aggressive nose. He and Alexa were almost exactly the same height. They’d met in Madrid, at a dinner party in mid-October, and had been seeing each other ever since. In all of the pictures, it appeared to be mutual adoration. He was sometimes captured gazing at her as if she were a princess herself.

  Heartbreak was imminent, of course. Alexa would come home and they would write emails and make phone calls and maybe even try to see each other a few times, but long-distance things never worked out.

  She clicked on reply.

  Hi, honey. You look more beautiful than ever, and boy is Carlos good-looking! I hope you’re enjoying every single second of this time, and sucking up all you can about Spain and Europe and everything else. It’s such a fantastic opportunity to really live, and you will look back on this time with happiness. Wish I could have done a European tour at your age. I’m sure I’ll get to it in good time, but there is something really special about doing it when you’re young.

  Sorry I didn’t check email for a few days. There was a lot going on here, but I’m back online. Did you get the picture of the quilt I finished? I’m so pleased with the way it turned out.

  Oh, and this—I know one of the reasons you studied Spanish was because Auntie Elsa had traveled there and told you all those stories. Tonight, Father Jack was here, talking a little bit about their walk on the Camino, and it made me curious. Have you and your friends considered doing something like that? I think I might be intrigued! It changed both of them profoundly, which I somehow never think about. I never thought about it even when they were there, and now I wonder why. You were probably six or seven. Elsa was the same age you are now, so I had to have been about thirty. You were in school and your father [she managed to keep typing even though the word sent a pained electric shock through her system] was building his business. I must have been in the house by then, so I guess that’s what occupied me.

  At any rate, that’s enough babbling. Send me more pics and maybe a little bit of narration on them next time, huh? Where are you in the boat (yacht?)? What does Carlos do, anyway? Does he work at something?

  Love,

  Mom

  By the time she finished, the glass was empty and she’d probably had enough to be able to sleep. Turning off the laptop, she carried the glass into the tiny kitchen and thought suddenly of her own kitchen, every detail designed and carried out to her own standards.

  She bent her head, then took a breath, steeled herself, and placed the glass in the sink. She went to bed before she could cry.

  Chapter Eleven

  On Tuesday morning, Elsa headed for the meeting with Joaquin and Deacon at the field. She brought Charlie with her, heading out the back door to avoid reporters. They walked several blocks down alleyways, heading for the levee and San Roque. Only a couple of dogs were awake so early, and they gave desultory warnings, but no one followed her.

  So many reporters! Elsa had discovered via a stealthy search of the Internet that millions and millions of dollars were missing, thousands of people victimized.

  And where was Scott, anyway? She had always liked her brother-in-law, his big laugh and hearty manner. It was almost impossible to believe that he could have done such a thing.

  After a couple of blocks, she took up her usual route. She wore her winter coat, but the morning was tinted blue and bright yellow, and it tasted suddenly of spring. By the time she made it to the field, the air was so mild she’d tied the coat around her waist. She was the first to arrive, and she let Charlie off his leash to run.

  The field still looked pretty scruffy
, like an old man who’d lived too long, ears and jaw and nostrils tufted with scruffy grass and low-growing weeds, head bare and empty. She kicked at a clump of evil-looking goat heads. Surely they would not be able to turn all of this by hand? They’d have to plow it.

  Not that she knew anything about that sort of thing. Luckily, Deacon and Tamsin did. She’d wait for their input. She picked up a stray bit of trash and a bottle cap, pulled a handful of weeds, and tucked them into a poo bag she had in her pocket.

  Yesterday, she’d gone with Tamsin to see a lawyer, who had agreed to take her case pro bono. Not to defend her pro bono if she ended up as part of the criminal investigation, he clarified, but to help her get her personal belongings. Tamsin had asked if the government would free some money, something to get her through until she could get a job, and he shook his head. Doubtful.

  They would see the judge in the near future, as soon as it could possibly be arranged. In the meantime, Tamsin had to make do, find a job, try not to get on the nerves of those working the case.

  Charlie galloped toward Elsa, stick in his mouth, ears flying backward, and she laughed. He pretended he was going to drop it, but kept running, even faster, to the opposite end of the field, then turned around to race back to her. He dropped the stick at her feet and backed away with an enormous grin, body practically shivering in excitement.

  Elsa said, “What? You want me to throw this or something?”

  He woofed happily, tongue hanging out, and bowed.

  She picked up the stick. “Ew.” She looked it over, taking her time. “This stick?”

  He ruffed.

  “Are you really, really sure?”

  He yipped.

  She laughed and flung it hard. He dashed after it, paws kicking up mud. He was going to need a bath. In Seattle they had a shop where she could wash him, but she hadn’t bothered to track one down yet in Pueblo. They’d been making do with the bathtub and a hair dryer, which Charlie thought was fine, but it made a huge mess. She’d look around this afternoon, bring Tamsin along. It would be good for her to get out and do something different.

  She caught a flash of blue from the corner of her eye and swiveled toward it, expecting Deacon. Instead, a trio of boys, maybe fifteen or sixteen, swaggered toward her. They were dressed in gang regalia, oversize coats and pants and a bandanna tied around a head or a wrist. Tattoos wound around their wrists and necks and even over the face of the leader, a hard-eyed boy who stared at Elsa without friendliness.

  She met his eyes, standing her ground. “Good morning, boys.”

  “We saw youse guys cleaning the field. It don’t belong to you.”

  Elsa whistled for Charlie. “No, it doesn’t belong to me. Doesn’t belong to you, either. We got permission from the owner to plant it. Do you live in the apartments?”

  “None of your business.”

  “Mmm.” Charlie raced to stop at her side, dropped the stick, but did not smile. He sat close to Elsa and she leashed him. “The thing is, if you live there, you’re free to have a plot for yourself or your family. Fresh vegetables.” She grinned. “You look like you could grow some mean chiles.”

  The boy laughed, putting his hand on his chest. “You hear that? Vegetables? You want to grow some carrots, Toby?”

  Toby was skinny, the youngest, with pale cheeks and enormous dark eyes. He snorted, on cue. “Maybe if I could grow me some herb, man.”

  “This is all that crazy-ass priest’s doing, I know it is,” the leader said. “He comes in here like some Mother Teresa or some shit and thinks he’s gonna save all of us, like he knows us. But he don’t know nothin’.” He stepped closer to Elsa, pointing a finger at her chest. “You tell him he don’t know us, and we don’t need him.”

  “He grew up in this neighborhood, you know. Right around the corner.”

  “I don’t give a shit. You think that makes him some homey or something, bitch?”

  Elsa looked up at him, strangely perfectly calm. He could not be more than sixteen. Sixteen. What was his life like that this was the best he could come up with? “No. He’s just not a stranger. He gets it, this neighborhood.”

  One of the other boys snorted. “He’s a priest, chica. He don’t know nothing.”

  She reached for that place, the deep well of calm that had served her in her ministry. “Maybe not. But maybe he knows more than you think. He’s a good man. He’s been my friend for a long time.”

  “A good priest!” the leader said with a whinnying laugh. “Ain’t no good priests, chica, ain’t you heard?” He stepped forward, and in a flash of movement produced a knife with a gleaming blade, which he held in Elsa’s face. She instantly realized that if she gave off any sense of fear, Charlie would attack, and they would hurt him. Maybe even kill him.

  The petition emerged automatically. Help, Mother.

  She met the boy’s eyes. He leaned in close, and slid the flat of the knife down her cheek, over her jaw, then put the edge against her neck. It could only have lasted a few seconds, the boy leaning in so close their noses nearly met, his blade cold and light against her throat, but it seemed to go on for a very, very long time.

  It was the thought of Charlie that kept her still. She thought of him and reached for the essence of calm, trying to imagine a column of white light descending to protect them. Her hand loosened on the leash. She felt Charlie sit down.

  She held the boy’s gaze steadily, noticing the edge of amber that rimmed his dark chocolate irises. His eyes were almond-shaped, with very long, downward-sweeping lashes. She thought of his mother, putting him in a crib when he was a baby, and his girlfriend perching on a chair with an oversize T-shirt pulled down over her knees, watching him sleep, those eyelashes laying like a feather fan across the sharpness of his dark cheekbones.

  “You ain’t afraid of me,” he rasped, “but you should be.”

  “Ese,” said one of the other boys. “Vamanos.”

  The leader backed off, pulling his knife away, his mouth bunched up into a sour expression. “You tell him, your priest”—he spat the word—“what I said.”

  She nodded, not moving, not giving Charlie a reason to do anything. The boys turned and sauntered off. She didn’t see Deacon or Joaquin. Only a young man carrying a little white cat. “You okay, lady?”

  “Yes.” She took a breath to see if it was true. “Thanks.”

  He scratched the ears of the cat, his fingers blunt and not terribly clean. Now she saw the tattoo of a rose beside his eye and recognized him as the boy she’d seen the other day, the one in the hoodie.

  “Watch out for that guy,” he said now. “That’s Porfie Mascarenes. He’s the leader of the Wilson Street Thugs. He’s killed people.”

  “Hmm.” Elsa sank to the ground beside her dog, a tremor of aftershock moving through her limbs. Charlie’s big body braced her, and she leaned into him, smelling sunshine in his fur. She closed her eyes and pressed her cheek against his furry neck. Let go for a minute. “That was scary.”

  For a long minute, she held on to him. Breathing. Feeling him pant.

  “Elsa?” Joaquin’s voice said. He touched her shoulder. “Are you okay?”

  She turned her head to look at him, still not letting go of Charlie. Sun made a halo around Joaquin’s head, and it broke through her sense of suspension.

  “I’m fine.” She stood up, brushed off the knees of her jeans, and looked around for the boy to thank him, but he was already down the block, walking toward the church. “I just had a little run-in with a trio of gangbangers. We might have some problems.”

  His face blanched. She’d never seen that happen before—every drop of color drained right out of his skin, leaving his flesh the color of a worm. He took her arms. “What happened?”

  “Nothing. Don’t worry. I was fine.”

  “Who was it?” His fingers were uncomfortably tight.

  “I don’t know. Three boys. Somebody said they were the Wilson Street Thugs. That one of them is the leader of that gang.”
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br />   Joaquin let her go, putting his hands on his hips, turning his body away. He cursed, softly. His fear made her feel tender and protective. “I’m fine, Walking.”

  He closed his eyes, bent his head. He was so very thin, she thought, his shoulders like a shelf. “You are running too much, my friend. You need to either eat more or cut off some miles.”

  “Maybe this was the wrong approach.”

  “Don’t be ridiculous. They’re bullies.”

  “Dangerous bullies.”

  “They’re also kids, Joaquin. Really young. Isn’t it partly the duty of the church to reach out to them?” She put her hand on his sleeve. “Help them change?”

  “Maybe.” He scowled into the distance. “Not like that’s ever been tried before.”

  She smiled, shaking his arm a little. “C’mon, Father Jack. I know you can come up with something.”

  Deacon drove up in his truck, and she waved. A big black dog had his nose hanging out of the window, his face nearly entirely white. “Go say hi, Charlie,” she said. He bounded away. “Walking.”

  He looked at her. “I couldn’t stand it if one of them hurt you. If one of them had hurt you.”

  “You could stand it,” she said without sentiment. “But as you see, I’m fine.”

  He patted her hand. “You’re right. I’ll think about ways to reach out.”

  Deacon came toward them, walking at the same slow pace as his dog. His head was bent toward the black Lab, as if he was offering him encouragement. At this distance, the weariness in his face was blurred. His hair was thick and wavy, the dark streaked with blond from his long days in the sun. Appealing, she thought, those long legs, his tanned forearms, the kindness in him. The nerves at her inner elbows and the base of her throat rippled ever so slightly.

  Charlie picked up a stick, tossed it in the air, raced ahead, raced back, offered the stick to the dog, then the man. Elsa chuckled. “I wish I had that much energy.”