by Ann Myers
“Suet bells sound kind of fun,” I said. I loved Christmas crafts, if only I had time to do them.
He shrugged. “Yeah, well, I’ve got ‘Rudolph, the Red-Nosed Reindeer’ stuck in my head and popcorn clogging my keyboard. I’d rather have a challenge. A little major theft. A tidy murder . . .”
“You do not mean that!” I said. “And don’t even mention murder. You know my mother’s in town, and I’m throwing a quiet, crime-free Christmas!”
Jake chuckled. “I do wish one and all a peaceful holiday. I suppose I could use a vacation, especially if I can get some time with you.”
“I’d love that too.” I didn’t see it happening. Not with Mom sleeping in my room and me on the foldout sofa of my minuscule casita. Sneaking out like the rebellious teenager I never was didn’t seem likely either. Jake ordered chiles rellenos with over-medium eggs, spicy green chile, and extra-crispy hash browns.
“Oh, and one more thing,” he said as I was turning to go retrieve table one’s check. “When do I get to meet your lovely mother?”
I froze and stammered something about Mom’s jet lag and dehydration. “Soon, though,” I said, mercifully saved by the rude finger-snapping man at table one. “Ah . . . once she gets settled in and drinks more water and . . . well, she can’t wait to meet you.”
As I grabbed the bill from table one, Lorena Cortez came to mind. Don’t believe in jolly St. Nick, she’d said. I hoped she was right. Otherwise, Santa would know I’d been very naughty.
Later during the midmorning lull, Juan went out to run an errand, and I helped Flori make bizcochitos to feed a crowd. The anise-spiced shortbread cookies are the signature sweet of Santa Fe holiday spreads. Flori was making her grandmother’s recipe, which called for sugar and spice and lard. Lots of lard.
“What about vegetarians?” I asked, measuring out fragrant cinnamon and anise seed. “Or vegans.”
“Vegans?” Flori’s head lopped to one shoulder, as if toppled by incomprehension. She could pretend, but I knew she was aware of vegans. When she served bizcochitos at the café, she made two kinds and labeled the cookie jars “award-winning traditional recipe handed down for generations” and “no lard.”
“This is different,” she said after I reminded her of her own two-jar strategy. “Las Posadas actors are local. They’ll know that lard is necessary for proper taste and texture. My mother and grandmother and her grandmother before her used lard. That’s how it’s done. I bet when the legislature voted in the bizcochito as state cookie, they specified lard. I bet it’s a law.”
Who was I to question centuries of bizcochito knowledge or the state legislature? Some other states also have official cookies. I knew at least two states chose good old chocolate chip cookies, which I’m sure garner opinions about crispy versus chewy (chewy all the way, and eaten melty, straight out of the oven, I say). But that’s nothing compared to the New Mexican passions aroused by the bizcochito. Flori told me that during the legislative debate, representatives took to the floor, holding forth on their favored spelling: biscochito or bizcochito? The “z” spelling came out on top, but the matter will never be settled.
“You’re right,” I said, admitting defeat. “Locals will know the usual recipe.”
“Absolutely,” Flori said. “And if they have any doubts, they’ll know I used lard the second they taste the exceptional tenderness.”
I supposed that vegetarians and/or lard avoiders knew what they were up against in holiday cookies, tamales, beans, and other delicacies around here.
“Anyway,” Flori said. “We’re donating them, aren’t we? Bizcochito beggars shouldn’t be choosers.”
Flori was making the cookies for the gathering of actors and fans following the first Las Posadas performance. I reached for a round of dough and started rolling it out.
Flori passed me a diamond-shaped cookie cutter. “So you met the hunky devil Judith Crundall recruited?” she asked with a devilish grin. My elderly friend is an incorrigible flirt and appreciator of handsome men, some of whom she has been known to pinch on the tush.
“Behave,” I said, jokingly. “What do you know about Judith Crundall’s collection?”
Flori’s grin faded. “Nasty business. From what I hear, the Crundall collection includes actual bones. Skulls. Objects taken from Native graves. Sacred items for ceremonies that no outsider has a right to touch, let alone own. Judith is doing the right thing, having it all sent back. She’s not asking for a dime either.” Flori patted together another ball of dough. “She has enough money, and it’s probably payment enough to watch that hunky consultant all day. He’s not as manly as your Jake Strong, but he’ll look nice in tight red devil pants.”
“He’d better watch out for you,” I said. Flori didn’t fool me. She only had eyes for the love of her life, her husband of over sixty years, Bernard. Flori chatted on about Judith’s current health problems, something undiagnosable involving pain and weariness and endless doctors. I felt sorry for Judith, but I admit, I zoned out a little, fixated on my own minor problem of telling Mom about Jake.
“So, how are your mother and Jake getting along?” Flori asked, startling me back to attention. I realized I’d been about to mix up a bowl of cinnamon salt instead of cinnamon sugar for coating the cookies.
I tried to change the subject. “Ha! I almost used salt instead of sugar. Can you imagine?”
Flori eyed me through her Harry Potter–style spectacles. A month ago, I’d confessed. I’d told Flori—and only Flori—about keeping Jake a secret from my Illinois family.
“You haven’t said anything yet, have you?” she said.
Denial was futile. Flori was right, and she can easily sniff out my inept lies. She also claimed to have a sixth sense. At times like this, I believed her.
My elderly friend shook a jar of cinnamon at me. “I knew it. I saw you scuttling off from Jake’s table this morning and I just knew. Rita, you have a hot, successful boyfriend. Go yell it from the bell towers. Ooo . . . there’s an idea. We’ll get a bullhorn and go up to La Fonda’s rooftop and make sure your mother’s walking down below and—”
I let Flori have her fun. She’s bold and would actually make bullhorn announcements from landmark hotels if I let her. My hesitation was hard to explain to the bold. Heck, it was hard to explain to myself. “I waited too long,” I said. “You know when someone sends you a Christmas letter and you mean to write back, and then all of a sudden it’s February and you feel bad, so you put it off. Then it’s June and you still haven’t written, so you decide to write something extra-special but you wait some more and it’s way too late?” I paused to take a breath. Waiting too long was part of my problem. Another part was feeling protective of my feelings and the budding relationship.
Initially, I’d resisted the handsome lawyer’s romantic intentions, taking time to figure out my post-divorce life. Then, as our relationship deepened, I worried that potentially skeptical people, like Mom, might squelch the spark. I’d wanted to nurture the relationship and keep it to myself. Now I’d waited way too long.
“I could tell her,” Flori offered. “We could get together and knit. My knitting’s progressing very well, you’ll be pleased to know. That Senior Center class has been quite helpful.”
When most elderly ladies mention knitting progress, you imagine an incoming bounty of mittens, socks, and throw blankets. Not so with Flori.
“Miriam and I are ready to hit a lamppost,” Flori continued. “We made long panels, like for sweater sleeves. As soon as this pesky full moon goes away, we’ll get out there in the dark and stitch that post right up. We have a bunch of pompoms to tack on too. Pretty and quick. Good for our purposes.” She chuckled.
I grimaced. I’d always thought the Senior Center should offer knitting classes. Of course, I should have known that the organization which introduced bifocal wearers to deadly tai chi, Taser take-downs, and carnivorous plant cultivation wouldn’t offer peaceful textile crafts. Flori and her classmates were training
to be rogue knitters, also known as graffiti knitters, yarn bombers, and fiber-art taggers. They worked at night, or in those early hours that only shift workers, insomniacs, and those over seventy tend to see. Their mission was to adorn public objects in colorful knits. Flori said that the more surprising and whimsical, the better. With Addie’s Googling help, Flori had shown me examples of graffiti knitting legend: a double-decker bus decked out in a rainbow sweater, a redwood grove sporting turtlenecks, and a flock of abashed sheep in wooly jumpers.
Flori and her friend/co-conspirator Miriam were starting small. They’d outfitted a statue of New Mexico’s legendary territorial governor, Don Diego de Vargas, in knitted slippers and decorated a park bench in festive Christmas colors. Flori contended that rogue knitting counted as exercise. Others, like the police and statue owners, considered it vandalism. A few nights ago, the two had nearly gotten ticketed for knitting onto a street sign. Flori had flirted with the patrolman, while Miriam cut off the evidence and stuffed it down her blouse. Confronted by one flirty, pinch-happy elderly lady and another flaunting a bulging, yarn-padded bosom, the patrolman had let them go with a warning.
“I think Mom’s more into quilting recently,” I said. My mother could also knit with the pros. She would not, however, approve of messing with statuary or skulking around dark places after midnight. Mom followed the rules and she went to bed promptly at ten.
“I could still tell her about Jake,” Flori persisted.
The offer was tempting, if only Flori could be trusted to drop a subtle hint. My elderly friend might get carried away and supply details Mom didn’t need to know, like the suppleness of Jake’s backside.
“I’ll tell her tonight,” I promised both myself and Flori. “Or tomorrow. I’ll bring up high school, and then she’ll mention this dentist she wants to set me up with. It’ll be the perfect way to ease into the subject of Jake.”
“Or you invite him over for dinner,” Flori suggested. “Tell him to wear some nice flannel and tight jeans and that hunky cowboy hat of his. Your mother should be so enamored that she’ll demand you flirt with him. Then you can surprise her by saying you’re going steady.” Flori nodded, pleased with her own plan.
I decided to stick to my original idea. And why was I worrying so much, anyway? Mom would surely love Jake. What wasn’t to love? He was professional, handsome, and kind. He had good manners and always polished his boots and belt buckle and wore ties, although sometimes of the bolo variety. On the other hand, Jake represented another reason for me to stay in New Mexico. Mom wouldn’t like that. For reasons I didn’t understand, Mom also seemed to dislike lawyers. My cousin had dated a noble public defender once. To hear Mom talk about it, the cousin might as well have taken up with a cult member. My late father had worked in tax law. Perhaps if I knew more about him, but he’d passed away when I was in kindergarten and Mom rarely spoke of him.
I realized that Flori was saying something about calling cards. “The best rogue knitters leave their mark. I’m Night Knitter. Miriam’s the Silver Purl, spelled P-U-R-L. Get it? Like the stitch? Pretty snappy. Addie says we need a logo too. I’m thinking thunderbolts in the shape of knitting needles. What do you think?”
I thought Addie was being way too encouraging. “Isn’t it awfully cold for knitting?” I said, knowing that Flori considered any temperature less than seventy degrees practically arctic. “What if your fingers freeze to the needles?”
Flori stirred her red chile. “I know what you’re trying to do, Rita. You’re trying to dissuade me. You don’t want your mother to think you’re working with a knit bandit, a Zorro with needles. Ooo . . . that’s an idea for our calling cards. There’s no need to worry, though. I’m taking precautions.” She reached under the counter and produced a fluffy black bundle that looked like a wooly winter cap. She tugged it over her glasses and revealed a ski mask decorated in a pretty chain stitch.
“See,” she said from behind the mask. “Isn’t this clever? It’s convertible. Looks like a regular winter cap if I roll it up, but when I pull it down I’m the Night Knitter!”
I groaned.
Flori said, “If you’re good, you might get a handy little knit gift like this for Christmas. Stop worrying about your mother. She’ll see that Christmas here is just like her holiday back home, only a little different.” She tugged off her bandit’s wear and added, “Different in a good way.”
I was about to answer when a noise somewhere between a wheeze and a honk erupted on the patio.
“What the . . . ?” I rushed to the window, thinking we’d been hit, but by what? A deflating blimp? A truck full of wild hogs?
Flori calmly patted her silver bun. “That’ll be Juan,” she said over the din. “I forgot to tell you. His cousin’s donkey will be staying out back for the Las Posadas season. He’s a star. The donkey, I mean. His name is Mr. Peppers, and Juan brought him a few days early so he could settle in.”
“He’s staying here?” I asked over an ear-piercing wheeze.
Flori raised her voice, “Mr. Peppers doesn’t like to travel. Gives him unmentionable digestive issues. He’ll be safe and secure behind the wall. Juan cleared out that little garage in the back to make a manger.” She winked conspiratorially. “Just don’t tell the zoning commission or historic review board. They’ll fine us silly if they find out.”
I shuddered. No one wants to get on the wrong side of a Santa Fe zoning board. Hiding a donkey was more risky business. Still, I was curious to meet our four-legged visitor. I followed Flori out the back door. What had sounded like a beast of Godzilla proportions was actually a miniature donkey the size of an overweight St. Bernard. Mr. Peppers wore a Christmas-themed bandana and was accompanied by a black goat with a white stripe down his forehead, a low-slung bulging belly, and nubby horns.
Juan introduced the goat as Sidekick. The donkey tilted his head back, bared yellowed teeth, and mimicked the sound of a train wreck. Different was good, I assured myself. That’s what made Santa Fe great. Now if I could only convince Mom.
Chapter 3
Two nights later, I was feeling pretty good about Mom’s holiday. Celia had entertained her grandmother with museum visits. Mom had encountered some spicy foods, but her greatest fears hadn’t manifested. No chiles had appeared in her breakfast cereal. No one had succumbed to altitude illness either, although Mom risked becoming waterlogged. Now, under twinkling strings of lights and the sparkling Milky Way, Mom scanned the Plaza. Her neck craned, her eyes darted. She was seeking out tall men in cowboy hats. One man, in particular. Jake Strong.
I’d finally mentioned Jake last night, over a relaxing, home-cooked dinner of chicken potpie casserole and lemony green beans. We’d just dug in when Mom, as if on cue, brought up Albert Ridgeland, DDS. I let her describe his whitened teeth and tastefully remodeled dental clinic. That’s when I saw my opening and pounced on it. I’d like to think I said, “How nice for Albert. I’ve been seeing a fine, professional gentleman who remodeled an adobe house down the street from Tres Amigas. It makes a lovely office.” In reality, I blurted out something along the lines of “I’m seeing someone, Mom! A lawyer! He has an office! And teeth! Good, straight teeth.”
Whatever the exact embarrassing words, they threw Mom into stunned silence. The eye-of-the-storm lull didn’t last. “A lawyer?” Mom had said, in the tone one might use to utter, “An unemployed serial killer?”
Mom then set forth a tornado of questions, most of which I either couldn’t answer or deflected. Celia provided the juiciest tidbits, telling her gran to expect a hotshot criminal defense lawyer in cowboy boots. Mom had taken a second helping of casserole and held forth on the honest, trustworthy business of tooth care.
“Well, where’s that lawyer?” Mom asked now, eyeing a group of ladies decked out in Santa Fe chic. Long, patchwork leather jackets, wooly boots, and enough turquoise jewelry to stock a small boutique. “I hope he hasn’t stood us up, Rita. You know how lawyers can be. Especially the kind who defend criminals.”
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In Jake’s case, that meant dependable and courteous. “We’re early,” I assured Mom, and myself, while surreptitiously checking my watch. We’d spent the afternoon helping Celia refine her devil attire before dropping her off at the Las Posadas staging area. We’d then picked up Flori and several trays of bizcochitos and delivered them to my neighbor Dalia, who was helping her frail sister and Las Posadas benefactor, Judith Crundall.
I’d been shocked to see the feisty society woman confined to a wheelchair in the play’s staging area. I’d offered to take her out to the Plaza with Mom and me, but Judith had waved a dismissive hand webbed in prominent blue veins. “I’ve seen this performance before,” she said. She started to say that someone needed to watch over the food, but a rasping cough cut her short.
As we left, I silently gave thanks that my mother, only a few years younger, was in fine health. We walked to the obelisk at the center of the Plaza, where Flori was waiting. She looked ready for a trip to Santa’s workshop in a red, puffy snowsuit likely handed down from one of her grandkids. The hood jutted inches over her forehead and was pinned in place by candy-pink earmuffs. A thick white scarf covered the lower half of her face, and her snow boots were suitable for a penguin-spotting expedition.
The meteorologists were predicting temperatures in the mid-thirties with a chance of flurries. I hoped they were right about the snow. I wanted Mom to see the beauty of adobe iced in fluffy white. Santa Fe was pretty in all seasons, but my favorite was a snowy winter.
“Tell me when you hear the singers or Mr. Peppers,” Flori said in the booming tones of the hard of hearing.
I raised her left earmuff and said the whole town would hear Mr. Peppers coming. Mom said we were looking for signs of Jake Strong.
Flori’s chuckles fogged her glasses. “Helen, you’ll recognize Mr. Strong. Look for the hunkiest cowboy in town.” She stood on her tiptoes, an effort that still left her shorter than me. Mom once again pointedly checked her watch.