Seven Sisters

by Earlene Fowler

  “Here, here,” Dove agreed.

  Etta looked like a protégé of Georgia O’Keeffe. I guessed that Bliss, with her pioneer spirit, was probably Cappy’s favorite and that maybe JJ, being an artist, might be her great-aunt Etta’s favorite relative, especially since Etta had never married and had any children or grandchildren of her own.

  My assumption proved correct when JJ came in from the back patio and Etta rushed across the spacious room and took JJ’s face in her large hands. Following JJ was an earthy, fortyish woman with lush graying blond hair flowing down her back. She watched Etta’s enthusiastic greeting with an uneasy expression. The earthy woman looked enough like Bliss and JJ that she had to be their mother, Susa—the ex-hippie nurse-midwife. Tonight she looked like any slightly artsy, upper-middle-class San Celina matron with a preference for autumn-toned gauzy dresses and handmade bead jewelry. She stood quietly watching her daughter chatter with her aunt, as much a part of the exchange as if she’d been a stranger at a bus stop.

  Behind us, Cappy started tapping the side of her wineglass with a silver knife, continuing until the noisy voices quieted down. Dove and I stood up and faced her.

  “Everyone’s here but Willow, and she said she’d be here as soon as the city council meeting is over, so I think we’d best get on with the toast and go eat that delicious barbecue Jose has been slaving over. As the oldest member of the Brown family here, I welcome you all to Seven Sisters Ranch. We are—”

  “And winery,” Giles broke in, causing a few titters in the group.

  Cappy stared at him a long, uncomfortable moment, her eyes boring holes in his forehead. Then she smiled. “Of course, Giles. Seven Sisters Ranch and Winery.” She said the last word slowly, deliberately. “We are here to celebrate the engagement of our own sweet Bliss to a fine young man, Sam Ortiz.” She held up her glass, and we all followed suit. “Long life, easy trails, and much happiness. Now, let’s eat.”

  I searched the crowd, looking for Gabe, wanting to catch his eye. He was standing next to Lydia, Etta, and JJ. I watched as he clinked glasses with Etta and JJ, then turned and did the same with Lydia. She smiled at him, and he smiled back. Then they walked over to their son, whose face was flushed with excitement and embarrassment. Gabe hugged Bliss, and Lydia hugged Sam. Then Sam and Gabe hugged. At that moment, Giles passed next to Bliss and whispered something in her ear. Her face flushed pink and she gave him a look that, had she been wearing her gun, might have proven dangerous. Then Sam turned back to her, and in an instant her smile returned. Giles moved over to the bar and poured a glass of wine, then leaned against the bar watching Bliss and Sam with narrowed eyes.

  “Why don’t you go over and stand with your husband?” Dove whispered in my ear.

  “He’s busy right now,” I said, determined not to appear the paranoid second wife.

  “And going to get a might busier if’n you don’t get over there and guard the rooster roost.”

  “I trust him,” I said firmly. “This situation is something he and Lydia have to work out. Sam is their son.”

  Dove made a disbelieving sound deep in her throat. “All I have to say is you’d better keep your eyes open on this one.”

  “Nothing to watch, Dove. They just want to work out what’s best for Sam.”

  “Let’s eat,” Dove said. “I do believe you’re getting light-headed.”

  “Daddy!” I turned to him, exasperated. “Would you please talk to your mother?”

  “Don’t look at me, pumpkin,” he said, setting his empty plate and glass down on the arts and crafts—style coffee table. “Your gramma gets something in her craw, may as well try to wrestle a bobcat as change her mind.”

  “Just be nice to her,” I grumbled in Dove’s ear as I took her arm and we walked out to the patio.

  “Me?” Dove feigned shock and hurt. “Honeybun, I’m always nice to everyone.”

  I scanned the sky.

  “What are you looking for?” Dove asked.

  “The cloud holding the lightning bolt that God will strike you dead with for lying.”

  She smacked my hand. “You are more stubborn than a roomful of Baptists. And that’s all you know. If God wanted to strike me dead, He wouldn’t need a cloud.”

  Laughing, we walked out to a brick patio overlooking the neat vineyards with the Santa Lucia mountains in the distance. It was almost dark, but the patio, thick with clay pots filled with flowers and ferns, was cleverly lit by recessed lighting and electric lamps made from old mining lanterns. Part of the patio was glassed in, facing west with a clear view of the Seven Sisters peaks. The rest of the patio was tiered with steps leading down to deep second and third levels, plush with emerald grass. The second level had long tables covered with white tablecloths and set with china plates, silverware, and linen napkins embroidered with the Seven Sisters brand and huge bowls of green salad, coleslaw, wild rice salad, San Celina sourdough bread, spicy pink pinquito beans, sliced avocados, tomatoes, and ripe strawberries the size of small apples. In the middle of it was a cake inscribed with Bliss’s and Sam’s names and a detailed picture of two horses nuzzling—one a deep, dark brown, the other a palomino. At the bottom level, with only a white rail fence separating the grass from the grapevines, a traditional Santa Maria—style cast-iron barbecue was being manned by a thin Latino man in his sixties and a younger man who looked like his son. We helped ourselves to the food and made our way back up to the top level where round tables were set up.

  “I’ll go eat with my husband if it will make you happy,” I told Dove.

  “Doesn’t make no nevermind to me. It’s your life,” she said, shrugging.

  I found Gabe at a table inside the glassed-in porch where he was sitting with Bliss and Sam. We were joined shortly by Lydia, Cappy, and Willow, the third sister, who’d left the city council meeting early. She was dressed elegantly in a navy tailored pantsuit with a maroon blouse. An antique watch hung from a thin gold chain around her neck. Her hair was the same iron gray as Cappy’s but cut in a soft wavy halo around her head.

  “I’m going to sit right here next to the chief,” she said, smiling mischievously. “See if I can convince him to loan me some of his officers for a charity fashion show the Monday Club is putting on.”

  Gabe smiled his politician smile, but I knew he’d rant about her nerve to me later on that night.

  The conversation wasn’t as awkward as I feared it might be. Lydia was subdued and pleasant and didn’t hog the conversation or make any more veiled references to her former relationship with Gabe. Sam clearly loved his mother and was excited to have both his parents in the same place, even under the strained circumstances.

  After we’d eaten once and people were milling around contemplating seconds, I excused myself to find a bathroom. I found a guest bathroom right off the front hall and was coming out when I heard an argument on the porch. The front door was partially open so only a screen door separated me and the people arguing. Nosiness getting the better of me, I paused to listen.

  “Don’t think I won’t,” a man’s voice said, low and mean.

  An older female voice answered in a tone so low I couldn’t make out the words. I edged a little closer, telling myself it wasn’t being rude, that I was looking out for my stepson and that any conflict in this family would eventually concern him.

  “. . . not by you,” the man answered, his voice louder. It was then I recognized it was Giles’s voice. “I’ll do it tonight if I have to.”

  “You won’t,” the female voice answered. Cappy’s? Etta’s? Their voices sounded enough alike I couldn’t tell. Then there was silence.

  I ducked back into the bathroom, afraid they would come through the partially open door and find me behaving so tacky. I combed my hair and inspected my makeup for a good five minutes before emerging. I glanced out to the porch. It was empty except for a fat calico cat licking one paw. One thing for sure, I didn’t envy Sam’s entry into this turbulent family.

  When I got back, Chase
offered to open the tasting room for a private tasting and Dove, Daddy, Gabe, Lydia, Susa, and Sam accepted. Willow, Arcadia, and Etta went upstairs, and I decided to take Cappy up on her offer to show me the horses. With Bliss riding in the backseat, Cappy drove down to the stables in her faded blue Jeep Wagoneer.

  “I’ve had this baby since 1972, and she’s never broke down on me once,” Cappy bragged, dodging a pothole in the dirt road leading to the stables. She gave a cheerful honk to the group walking down the long driveway toward the winery and tasting room.

  “Sam’s mother is quite a looker,” she said, glancing over at me, a mischievous glint in her eyes. “No doubt Sam got the best of both parents. I can see why my granddaughter would fall back on her heels for him. Just like you did for his father.”

  “Grandma!” Bliss said in an aggrieved voice.

  I stuck my tongue out at Cappy. Bliss gave an uncharacteristic giggle.

  “Benni Harper, you haven’t changed a bit since you were sixteen,” Cappy said good-naturedly.

  “That’s not true,” I said, turning to grin at Bliss. “I know way more cuss words now.”

  She and Bliss laughed, and for the first time this evening, it seemed as if Bliss relaxed a little. About a half mile from the house, we reached the stables. Cappy had built a beautiful setup—a row of freshly painted double stalls, enough for forty horses, two hot walkers, an outside wash rack, three corrals, a separate tack room, a graded half-mile training track, and plenty of shade trees.

  “Are you full up?” I asked as we walked through the first stall row. A black-and-white long-haired barn cat followed us, darting between our legs, mewing loudly.

  “Almost,” she said. “We’ve got six free stalls, but they’ll be filled soon.” She bent down and picked up the complaining cat. “Figaro, you’re almost as big a nag as Giles. You don’t need one more saucer of cream.” The cat purred as she stroked his black head.

  I reached over and scratched under his chin. “He looks like he’s wearing a hood.”

  “He’s a criminal, all right,” Cappy said. “Stole our hearts a long time ago.” The cat purred a reply.

  “Grandma’s been taking in boarders this year,” Bliss explained, stopping to fondle the nose of a strawberry roan filly with a pencil-thin blaze. She put her face close to the filly’s and blew softly in the horse’s nostrils.

  “Quarter horse breeding isn’t what it was,” Cappy said. “Not since the early eighties when they took away the tax benefits for racehorse owners.”

  “JJ mentioned that this morning. How would that affect you?” I asked.

  Bliss jumped in with the answer. “It affects everyone involved with racing or breeding. If rich people can’t use racehorses as tax write-offs for their other businesses, then they don’t buy them anymore, and people lose jobs all the way down the line—trainers, grooms, pony girls, breeders, feed brokers, people who work at the racetrack, farriers and tack suppliers. I could go on and on. A lot of people are involved with the business of horse racing and breeding who don’t work directly with it and usually they don’t have the education or means to find jobs anywhere else so they end up on welfare or robbing liquor stores.” She smiled. “Which, of course, gives me job security. One thing about being a cop, there’s always bad guys.”

  Cappy smiled and passed me a handful of carrots. “Got her trained pretty good, don’t I?”

  “You sure do.” I took the carrots, breaking them in half as I followed her down the center aisle of the stalls. “I understand what she’s saying. It’s like when beef consumption goes down. It affects more than just the ranchers who raise cattle. And most of the jobs involving cattle are the same as with your industry, people who can’t get jobs in other industries. Not everyone can be a computer programmer.”

  “Exactly,” Cappy said. “I wish a few politicians understood that.”

  We walked from stall to stall, feeding carrots to the horses as she relayed their histories, showing me the ones she had high hopes for and the ones she intended to run in claiming races.

  “Claiming races?” I said. I’d been to a few horse races in my life, but didn’t know much about the intricacies or terminology of the industry.

  “That’s when the horse is basically up for sale in a race,” she explained. “People can make a bid for the horse by filing a claiming form and leaving a certified check on deposit before post time. The purse”—she paused and looked at me—“ . . . that’s the money awarded to the winners of the race, goes to the owner who entered the horse, but the horse will legally belong to the successful claimant so even if the horse gets injured during the race, it’s the responsibility of the new owner. It’s a gamble, though. But if you know your stuff and have a good working crystal ball, you can pick up some great deals in claiming races. We’ve bought two claimers that went on to become stakes horses and bred them into our line.”

  “What’s a stakes horse?” This was a whole new world to me. Good ranch horses only needed three qualities—excellent health, no fear of cattle, and a willingness to learn. Some of our best ranch horses were uglier than a bucket of mud, but they had a magic sense when it came to working cattle.

  “In simple terms, a stakes horse is one that, after it’s shown exceptional talent by winning races and clocking some fast times, can run at the big money. Stakes horses are the best of the best.” Cappy stroked the nose of a muscular bay with friendly “people” eyes.

  “This business sounds about as predictable and profitable as cattle ranching,” I said, stroking the neck of a young mahogany-colored horse who had finished his carrot and was tossing his head for more. “Young man, that’s all you get tonight.” I held out my empty hand. “See, all gone.”

  “That’s Churn Dash, a two-year-old we’re planning on running in a few races this year. He foaled out late so we’ve waited on entering him. His mama was Seven Sisters Dash. She wasn’t a great runner herself, but she sure can produce them.”

  “He’s beautiful,” I said, rubbing my fingers along the star and stripe on his face. “What a great name. Did you know it’s a quilt pattern?”

  “Actually, I did,” Cappy said. “In my office I have a quilt made by Mother in that pattern. We named him in honor of her.”

  “I never got to know Great-Grandma Rose that well,” Bliss said, coming over and running her hand down Churn Dash’s neck, scratching his withers. “I wish Susa hadn’t moved us away when we were so little.” Her tone was slightly bitter.

  “Your mother always was one who had trouble taking the bit,” Cappy said. “Guess she wanted her own life.”

  “Your great-grandma is certainly a famous person in this county,” I said to Bliss. “They practically have a shrine to her down in General Hospital’s children’s wing.”

  “She raised most of the money that built that wing,” Cappy said. “And she started both the candy striper volunteer group and the home nurse program. Health care in this county, especially for children, owes a lot to Mother.”

  We went into the tack room and working office, and I couldn’t help but admire the rich assortment of shiny, well-cared-for tack. As Cappy listened to her answering machine messages, I walked past the long row of photos of winning horses on the panelled wall. In the center was a large, expensively framed photograph of Seven B winning a race by a length. A photo underneath showed a younger Cappy and a bunch of other people posing in the winner’s circle with the horse and his trainer, a strong-looking blond man with a thick, reddish mustache. Everyone wore wide smiles.

  “That was taken fifteen years ago,” Bliss said. “When Seven B won the All-American Futurity. That’s the biggest quarter horse competition in the world. It’s a million-dollar purse.”

  “How exciting that must have been,” I commented.

  Cappy came and stood next to us. “Yes, but like anything else this competitive, you’re only as good as your last win. Seven B hasn’t even produced a stakes winner in a few years. We’re hoping that will change soon. Believe
me, when you aren’t winning at the track, only the feed man knows your name.” She checked her watch. “We’d better get back and see to our guests. They’re probably ready for dessert about now.” At the Jeep Bliss hung back.

  “I think I’ll walk,” she said. “I need the exercise.”

  Cappy, her face aggravated, started to say something, but I broke in.

  “Want some company? I could use a walk, too, after that fabulous spread.”

  Bliss shrugged. “I don’t mind.”

  “Okay,” Cappy said. “I’ll see you two in a few minutes.” She reached into the glove compartment of the Jeep and took out a small flashlight. “Take this. There’s lots of holes in the road.”

  “Oh, Grandma ...” Bliss started.

  “Don’t you, ‘Oh, Grandma’ me,” Cappy countered. “I’m only—”

  “Thanks,” I said, breaking into her sentence and taking the flashlight. “We’ll be careful.”

  “She’s already driving me nuts,” Bliss complained as we watched her grandmother drive up the road, a small cloud of dust trailing after her. “She’s the last person I expected to be treating me like I was a piece of expensive crystal.”

  “She’s just concerned,” I said, falling in with her irritated strides.

  “She was breaking green horses when she was pregnant with my mom. Great-Aunt Willow said they considered locking her in her room the last three months.”

  “Maybe that’s why she’s so concerned about you. ‘Do as I say and not as I do. If your friends wanted to jump off a cliff, would you? Don’t make that face, young lady, or someday it will freeze that way.’ All the things mothers and grandmothers say to us to try and keep us from being hurt. What they’re actually saying is—‘I’m afraid the world will hurt you the way it did me and I don’t want that to happen.’ Of course, they can’t stop it and they know it, so they tell us dumb things and for the moment they’re saying it, they feel better.”