Steps to the Altar

by Earlene Fowler

  She narrowed her eyes. “That pretty much answers my question. Please lock the front door when you leave.”

  The warm feelings he’d had only moments before turned cold as a winter stream. He’d never allowed any woman to dictate his feelings, his actions, and he wasn’t about to start now.

  “At least she lets me be who I am,” he said, pulling on his jeans, grabbing his shirt from where it had been tossed on the floor.

  “And who would that be? A fickle man who uses women like tissue or a man too cowardly to make a real commitment to another human being?”

  “If you think so little of me, why in the world did you marry me?”

  “That, Ortiz, is certainly the question of the hour, isn’t it?”

  19

  BENNI

  HE SLAMMED THE door on his way out. The sound echoed through the semi-empty house with a reverberating sadness.

  I sank down on the glossy living room floor in such despair I couldn’t even cry. What had I expected when I let him in? That we’d somehow talk this out, reason away his feelings for Del, make some kind of list as if our emotions were chores that we could split and take responsibility for?

  I was angry at myself and humiliated for allowing him to seduce me so easily. What did I think that would accomplish? Did I think it was like some kind of stupid country song, make love to your man so thoroughly, so expertly, that you wipe away his lust for the other woman? I’m sure I was no match for Del in the pleasing-your-man department.

  I lay on my stomach on the oakwood floor, resting my cheek against the cool wood. My body still throbbed with longing for my husband and that made me want to scream in frustration. The physical desire I’d always had for this man had slightly frightened me; it was too strong sometimes, too overwhelming. There were depths within him that I wanted to touch, to smooth away the hurt spots with my bare hands and take some of the pain into myself so he wouldn’t have to bear the agony alone. But those places were also terrifying in their unpredictability, and like the coward I accused him of being, a part of me wanted to hand him and his complicated emotions over to Del with my blessings.

  I lay on the floor with Scout next to me until the morning sun streamed through the window. It was officially Sunday. Our second anniversary and possibly the last day of our marriage.

  A long hot shower and three cups of coffee managed to bring me to some kind of decent mood. Today was also my best friend’s wedding shower and it would take every bit of acting ability within me to hide my true feelings.

  I arrived at Miss Christine’s Tea and Sympathy parlor ten minutes before Amanda. I wore tan wool slacks and an off-white silk cowboy shirt I bought especially for Elvia’s shower and was arranging the party favors next to each china plate when Amanda breezed in.

  “You’re early!” she exclaimed, picking up one of the small mint green baskets I’d just placed. “These are great party favors!” She examined the leather bookmark, small box of Godiva chocolates, and silver heart charm.

  “Thanks. I made a few extra just in case.”

  Within the hour, the shower was in full swing, the tea-house filled with the sounds of women laughing and talking. I realized that the music I’d chosen to play during the show, a combination of Bach and Tchaikovsky, two of Elvia’s favorites, would never be heard. But my best friend was having a ball, her face flushed with pleasure and embarrassment, so it was a minor problem.

  While Elvia opened her huge mound of gifts, I cruised from table to table to make sure everyone had enough to eat and drink. At Dove’s table, she grabbed my arm and pulled me down into the empty chair next to her.

  “Edna’s gone to the ladies’ room,” Dove said. “Sit with me a minute.” She leaned over and whispered in my ear, “What’re you and Gabe doing for your anniversary tonight?”

  I looked her straight in the eye and lied my head off. “We’re going out to dinner down in Morro Bay. I bought him a silver letter opener.” That last sentence wasn’t a lie. What I didn’t say is I wanted to plunge it in his heart . . . or even better, in the heart of his ex-girlfriend.

  Her face grew still, her pale blue eyes thoughtful. I could tell I wasn’t fooling her a bit, but she wouldn’t push me.

  “That’s good,” she said. “Don’t forget we’re working on Elvia’s quilt tomorrow afternoon.”

  “Yes, ma’am,” I said and kissed her cheek, feeling like the biggest sinner in the world for lying to my gramma.

  I managed to fake it through the rest of the shower, giving Elvia the day she so rightfully deserved. When she, I, and two of her brothers were loading her gifts in the back of the new black Lincoln Navigator that Emory had bought her, she pulled me aside and gave me a fierce hug.

  “You are the best friend a person could ever have,” she said. “Thank you for a perfect shower.” Her voice caught in an involuntary sob.

  “You’ve waited a long time, hermana,” I said, hugging her back, letting the tears pricking at my eyes flow down my cheeks unheeded.

  “Look at us,” she said, laughing, when she saw my wet cheeks matched her own. “Getting sentimental in our old age.”

  “We’d both better wear waterproof mascara to your wedding,” I said, sniffing.

  “No kidding. I’ll see you tomorrow. Oh, and happy second anniversary. Give my best wishes tu esposo Gabriel .”

  “Thanks, amiga buena. And give my cousin a hug for me.”

  After I had settled the bill with Miss Christine, adding a generous tip for her and José and thanking them both profusely for helping make the day perfect for my friend, I was finally free to relax my fake smile. It was two o’clock on the day of my second anniversary and I didn’t have a clue what to do with myself. So I went back to the new house, changed into jeans and a sweatshirt, got Scout, and headed toward the folk art museum. There were still Maple’s trunks to go through and maybe I’d come across some clue to what really happened between her, Mitch, and Garvey.

  The museum was busy with artists getting back to work to restock their depleted inventories. Manuel caught me in my office while I was reading over the report he’d just laid on my desk. Our gamble with three booths had paid off, giving us the highest sales the co-op had ever had. The co-op’s cut was almost seven hundred dollars—a four-hundred-dollar profit. Any kind of profit was worthy of celebration.

  “Great job, boss lady,” Manuel said.

  “No, the congratulations go to you all,” I answered. “Looks like things are finally starting to look up for the co-op.”

  He nodded, patted my shoulder, and walked away whistling, “Happy Days Are Here Again.”

  “For some people, anyway,” I murmured and went out to the large room to work on the trunks.

  It was only when the setting sun shined orange into one of the room’s high windows that I realized two hours had passed. I glanced at the schoolhouse clock over a row of low cabinets. Four thirty-five. My hollow-feeling stomach told me that the few miniature chicken salad sandwiches I’d gobbled down at the shower had not been enough sustenance. Though I scorned myself for doing it, I checked my cell phone for any messages. There weren’t any. Then again, what did I expect? What else did we have to say to each other?

  I decided not to eat in town, afraid I’d run into either him or Del—or possibly both of them together—so I turned left on Lopez and headed away from downtown toward El Maguey, a small Mexican cafe where Jack and I often ate after we’d picked up an order at the Farm Supply. He’d loved their pollo verde, the only place in town that made it. I stopped eating there when he died, one more place where the memories we’d shared there were just too fresh and painful.

  But right now, a big plate of pollo verde and some memories of easier, happier times seemed just the right antidote for my blue mood. When I passed by the old Mission Cemetery, a thought occurred to me and I made a quick U-turn on the mostly empty stretch of upper Lopez Street. I wanted to see Garvey Sullivan’s grave.

  It was now dusk. Blue time, I’d heard Isaac ca
ll it—a photography term. Right as the sun went down, but before you completely lose the light. A time when the best pictures are taken. There is a lavender gauziness hovering over everything, an almost physical presence to the air that makes it easy to imagine that there is more than just the dimension we are living in, that there are, indeed, battles fought and deals made among principalities and angels and with God Himself, and that if you just stared hard enough into the haze, you’d catch a glimpse of flashing swords and dragons breathing fire.

  The old Mission Cemetery was the only Catholic cemetery in San Celina. It lay across the street from San Celina’s main cemetery, where Jack and my mother were buried. I’d been to this cemetery only once as a young teenager when Elvia’s grandfather was buried.

  I drove under a huge black wrought iron archway. I stopped to read the small sign posted at driver level.

  Old Mission Cemetery was first located inside the Santa Celine Mission quadrangle. On August 12, 1878, a law was passed by the city council prohibiting burials within the city limits. After several extensions the present cemetery was opened on November 2, 1878. Some tombstones indicate earlier burials and these were probably moved from the original Mission location.

  There are people buried here who had no tombstones. Information regarding these burials is located on the map available at the cemetery office. This map shows the location of all burial plots, with and without tombstones, by section, row and number. This includes both mausoleums. This cemetery is under the direction of Mr. Joseph Martinez of the Monterey Diocese, Monterey, California.

  The cemetery itself was stark and almost treeless. Most of the grave sites were gravel covered and lined with low, concrete borders. Late afternoon shadows shaded the tall white monuments, giving the faces of the marble angels an almost living countenance.

  I drove straight to the small cemetery office, hoping it would still be open and someone could direct me to Garvey’s grave. Though this wasn’t a huge cemetery, it would take me a couple of hours to search for it on my own.

  “Stay,” I told Scout. “I won’t be long.”

  Inside the office, a sixtyish Hispanic woman in a flowered print dress was watering a bright green philodendron in a brass planter shaped like a sleigh. She jumped when I rapped softly on the door frame.

  “I’m so sorry,” I said. “I didn’t mean to startle you. But is this where I get a map to the cemetery?”

  She smiled at me and set down her plastic watering can. “That’s all right. I’m just not used to getting much company. I have a map right here, but the cemetery closes at dark.” She glanced out the window. “Which looks like it will be in about fifteen minutes. Can I help you find somebody?”

  “No,” I said quickly, not exactly sure why. “I’m sure I’ll find who I’m looking for on the map.”

  She handed me a map, an alphabetical listing of the cemetery occupants, and a one-page history of the cemetery written by the San Celina County Genealogical Society.

  “I won’t throw you out,” she said. “They close the front gates, but there’s a back way out on Fair Oaks Street that’s always open.” She gestured me to the window, where she pointed out the road leading to a small side street. “I’ll be here until five or so. Let me know if you can’t find who you’re looking for.”

  “Thank you. I won’t be long,” I promised. “And I have a flashlight.”

  “Just be careful,” she said. “The paths are a little tricky to walk. Lots of little potholes and uneven spots.”

  “Thanks, I will.”

  Out in my truck, I found Garvey Sullivan’s name on the alphabetical listing. Section five, row three, grave site number one. I located it on the map, a large corner plot, and in less than five minutes, I was standing in front of the Sullivan family plot.

  It was marked with a large white cross at least four feet tall with a three-dimensional lily of the valley carving trailing up the length of the cross. Two stone angels holding swords guarded each side of the cross. One angel was missing the tip of his wing. Only Garvey’s last name was carved in relief—SULLIVAN. Underneath were the names of his father, his mother, and Garvey and the dates of their births and deaths. Nothing else and no one else.

  And lying at the base of the cross, one almost dead long-stem red rose.

  I picked up the dry flower, and its petals were caught by the evening breeze and scattered at my feet. My heart started beating faster in my chest. Who had left this rose? Garvey Sullivan had been dead for fifty years and had had no family living here in San Celina for a long time. Someone, though, still remembered him, and I knew if I found that someone, another piece of this puzzle, maybe even the solution, might be found.

  I jumped in my truck and drove back to the cemetery office. The Hispanic lady was just locking the door when I rushed up.

  “I have a question,” I said.

  “I’ll try to answer it,” she said, pocketing the key. “But I’ve only worked here for three years so I might not know the answer.”

  “There’s a plot at the northeast end, the Sullivan family. It has a white stone cross with two angels guarding it. I found this at the base of it.” I held up the dead rose. “And I was wondering . . .”

  She gave a small laugh. “Oh, the lady in black’s delivery.”

  “What?” The lady in black? Could it be . . . no, it was impossible . . .

  The woman laughed again. “I’m sorry. There’s not actually a lady in black who puts a rose on Mr. Sullivan’s grave. That’s just one of our little jokes here. You know, like the lady in black who visited Rudolph Valentino’s grave for so many years.”

  Disappointment enveloped me. I should have realized it wouldn’t be so easy. “So, what do you mean, her delivery?”

  “Well, the story is that for as long as anyone can remember, a red rose has been delivered once a month to that grave. Regular as clockwork. I could have told you that if you’d told me who you were looking for.”

  I tried not to sound too eager. “Who delivers it?”

  She shrugged and opened her black purse, tossing the ring of keys inside. “Mission Floral downtown is all I know. They have a couple of regular monthly orders like that. As for who pays them, I guess you’ll have to ask them.”

  “Thanks, I will.”

  As I suspected, they were closed by the time I drove back downtown. And they were also closed Mondays. There was not even an emergency number to call so it looked like I would have to wait until Tuesday to find out any information about this mysterious mourner. Could it be Maple? But if she’d been doing it for years, why hadn’t a police officer traced it back to her?

  I spent the rest of the evening at the new house reading one of the few books I’d brought with me, a book by Gerald Haslam called Workin’ Man’s Blues about the history of country music in California. The phone didn’t ring once. What a difference from last year on this day when Gabe and I celebrated our first anniversary with a drive up the coast for a romantic dinner, then two nights in a cabin in Big Sur. I touched the necklace he’d given me, which I wore every day under my flannel shirts—a simple platinum horseshoe, the chain extending from the open ends of the shoe so the luck wouldn’t run out. Part of me was tempted to take it off, but it had become such an accustomed feel around my neck, I couldn’t.

  The next morning after checking with Elvia to see if she needed any emotional support or errands done and hearing all was running smoothly on the wedding front, I decided to take Dove’s advice and go talk to Mac about questioning Oralee. I called his office, knowing that Monday is the traditional minister’s day off and managed to pry out of his very protective assistant that he was out at the Martinez ranch practicing his team penning.

  The Martinez ranch was only a short half-hour drive away near Santa Flora. At the big ranch house, Maria Martinez, a woman I’d known for years through the Cattlewomen’s Association, directed me to the corrals out back of the house.

  “Come back by for a cup of coffee when you’re through,”
she said. “I want to show you my ideas for an opportunity quilt for the Women’s Shelter auction. Got some great horse fabric in Paducah last year. Besides, I just baked three cherry pies and we’d better grab us a piece before the men get in here.”

  “You’ve got a deal,” I said.

  Out back, a crowd of ten or so men were perched on the pipe corral’s upper rungs cheering Mac on as he and his huge bay stallion, Peck (short for Peckerwood, which, not being the most appropriate name for a minister’s horse, he’d shortened to assuage the delicate sensibilities of some of his more straitlaced church members), did their best to steer one last recalcitrant calf in with his penned buddies.

  A man on the fence called, “Give it up, padre! The calf wins!” The men sitting on the fence cheered and hooted.

  Mac yanked off his brown Stetson and slammed it against his muscular Wrangler-clad thigh.

  “Dang it,” he yelled. “I’d best be keeping my day job, I guess.”

  The men laughed again, two or three spit, then razzed him some more.

  “Hey, guys,” I said, walking up behind them.

  They all nodded and said hello. Most of them I knew by sight and name, the ag community getting smaller and smaller every year.

  “Hey, Roberto,” I said, greeting Maria’s husband. “I’ve got a question for the padre here. Can I borrow him a minute?”

  Roberto, a tall, lean Hispanic man with a salt-and-pepper handlebar mustache, said, “Why not? He obviously ain’t no kinda cowboy so hopefully he’ll be better at ministering to his flock.” A wide grin punctuated his words.

  “I heard that,” Mac said, riding up to us. “You all can kiss my patootie. Peck’s too distracted by those mares over in the barn. Definitely living up to his name.”

  Roberto winked at me. “I do believe patootie is minister-speak for ass. And I believe the padre may be putting his own feelings on that old horse of his. What do you think, Benni? Believe our young reverend over there is as horny as his horse?”