by E. Joan Sims
“Who says anything about Gran’s recipes. I don’t know anything about her recipes.”
I had a sinking feeling in the middle of my stomach. This could be bad, very bad.
“Then whose recipes are you talking about,” I ventured cautiously. “Not any of mine—I know that for sure.”
“No, Mother, dear. Not yours,” she laughed. “Celedia’s.”
“Celedia! What the hell?”
Celedia had been the cook in the hacienda where we lived in San Romero with Rafe’s mother and father. She had been known for her divine cooking for miles around. The DeLeons were proud to have her and treated her like a queen. Cassie had, indeed, spent a great deal of time with her in the kitchen. As a matter of fact, Cassie was the only one allowed in her kitchen. She had quite a majestic attitude as I recalled.
“You mean that stuck-up old woman…?”
“Mom,” she warned, shaking a wooden spoon in my face. “She was a delightful lady, and she taught me a lot, I think,” she added, a tiny bit of apprehension in her voice.
“You think?”
“Yes! I think. I mean, it was a long time ago, and I was very little, but I do remember certain…things. Like how to make rice.”
“Oh, that’s just great. Rice. We’re having rice. Then what’s all this stuff in aid of?” I asked pointing at the piles of grocery goods on the kitchen table.
“Rice, and carne mechada, and black beans. Yes, definitely, black beans. And tres leches torta for dessert.”
She beamed hopefully at me.
“Tres leches…?”
“Yep! Three milk cake—the most decadent dessert on the planet.”
I didn’t have the heart to burst her bubble. The menu sounded simple but it was one that could take hours of preparation and cooking. We had a big job ahead of us.
“Sounds great, honey,” I offered with a hug. “Thanks a bunch for doing this.”
I was right. Five hours later, every pot, pan, and dish in the kitchen was dirty. The air was full of the stench of burnt rice, and the meat that had been merrily bubbling away on the stove all afternoon was still tough and sinewy.
“Celedia made it look so easy!” she wailed. “I’m sorry, Mom.”
Her eyes were bright with unshed tears, and I aimed to make them stay at bay.
“Never mind, pumpkin. That last batch of rice is perfect, well, almost perfect…”
“Thank, God,” she choked. “That was the last of it. And there‘s no time to go and get more.”
“Well, it’s certainly passable, and so what if the meat is a little tough. It tastes great. And the beans are spot on.”
“That’s because they came right out of a can.”
“Can, smam. Who cares? It’s all okay. And the dining room looks beautiful. That counts for a lot, you know.”
“Yes,” she brightened up. “And these people are not coming for the food, are they? They are mostly interested in my famous writer mother.”
“Yeah, well…”
Chapter Twenty-Four
And Cassie was right. Not that the dinner wasn’t a culinary success, well, almost—but Sandy Simmons was coo-coo for Leonard Paisley and told me so a million times.
“And Virtual Violence, wow! That was the most thrilling book ever! Leonard is so virile, don’t you think, William?”
“Huh?”
William was too busy ogling my beautiful daughter to pay attention to anything else. I was about to kick him surreptitiously under the table when Sandy repeated,
“Virile, Leonard Paisley?” She looked vexed. “Brother, mine, are you not listening to a word we’ve been saying?”
Brother? And that put a whole new light on things.
“Here William,” I offered with the brightest smile I could muster, “Have another piece of this delicious cake. Cassie made it with her own two hands.”
So he ate two more pieces of cake while making eyes at my baby.
Sandy offered to help me clean up, but I was afraid if she saw the state the kitchen was in, she might want to run to the emergency room of the nearest hospital to have her stomach pumped, so she and I sat in the library while she prattled on about Leonard. She was older than William—maybe four or five years, and not nearly so attractive. They had the same dark hair but hers was turning grey and her once pretty face was pudgy and sagged—like the rest of her. But it wasn’t hard to see that as much as she professed to love Leonard Paisley, she really thought the sun came up for her brother.
Cassie and William had disappeared outside, presumably to walk Aggie. But they were gone much longer than it usually took for Aggie’s needs to be met and when they returned, the color was high in Cassie’s cheeks.
Somehow that didn’t sit right with me. Too soon, I thought, for any amorous shenanigans. I yawned hugely, hoping they would take a hint.
“We must be going,” said Sandy, immediately. “We taken up too much of your precious time as it is.”
“Oh, no,” I lied. “We’ve enjoyed every minute.”
“Every minute when you could have been writing!”
“Oh, Mom doesn’t write after…”
“We must do this again sometime,” I interrupted. “Sometime when Mother and Horatio are home.”
“Yes,” William responded. “I’ve heard so much about Mr. Horatio Raleigh. I’m anxious to see if I think some of those stories are true.”
Rather odd way of putting it, I thought, but they were both really so pleasant and appreciative, and I was so glad to see the last of them, I let the thought drift away on the bubbles surrounding the dishes in the sink.
“My word! It will take you two hours or more to clean up all this mess,” noted Cassie. “Well, goodnight.”
Chapter Twenty-Five
It did, indeed, take two hours—almost exactly as a matter of fact, to get the kitchen squeaky clean. But it would have taken less time if I hadn’t spent most of it picking goat feathers, as my grandmother Howard used to say. I took the extra time to revisit everything I remembered about Millicent’s death.
Billy was innocent. I had accepted that as the truth and nothing else I had come up with seemed to sway me from that decision. Of course, his hair styling scissors sticking out of her bloody neck might pose a big problem for a jury; but it was up to me, I now realized, to counter that with something big. Something that would keep him from the courtroom in the first place.
The visit to the State Hospital had been a disappointment: an old lady’s demented ramblings down memory lane had taken a detour for sure. And now I didn’t know where else to turn.
I laughed at that bit of nonsense and blew some of the bubbles my vigorous efforts had created up into the air above the sink. Washing dishes, I decided, was good for the soul and the brain. I did not, however, want to make a habit of it.
William Simmons posed a problem. Cassie hadn’t said a word about the evening, but I was fairly certain she liked him. She didn’t go all pink cheeked and girlish giggles over just anyone. And the more I thought about it—she never went all pink cheeked and giggles at all. I definitely had to ask her about that in the morning.
When I finished washing the dishes and mopping greasy spots off the floor, I put away the multitude of cooking utensils we had used and took a cup of tea to the library. To my surprise, Cassie and Aggie were sitting in front of the fire waiting for me.
“You know,” I ventured, “two more hands would have made a lighter task.”
“I cooked. You cleaned.”
I laughed. “We did indeed. And by the way, thanks.”
“Welcome.”
“I think they actually enjoyed it.”
“Maybe”
“Okay, what’s up with you? Did William pull some funny stuff while you two were outside?”
Ignoring my question, she turned to face me. “Is there something wrong with me? I mean, do I attract nothing but weirdoes and losers? You always seemed to pull in the nice guys—a bit wild and woolly, risk-takers, spies—that sort of thing—but hero
es. Not exactly keepers, but really decent sorts you could be proud of.”
She turned to gaze back in the fire and ruffled Aggie’s fluffy white hair.
I held my breath. Aggie never really bit her mistress—badly, that is. But there was always a first time.
I didn’t answer for a while, thinking about her question. I knew the answer was important to her—not something I could just pull quickly out of the mommy hat. This was a heart to heart question and deserved a good honest answer.
“I don’t know, honey.”
“That’s all you can come up with?”
She turned her startled face to me and bounded up and onto the sofa. Aggie jumped into her lap, and after turning around two times, sank down for another nap.
“I mean, this is serious, Mom.” Tears hovered behind luminous dark eyes, and I struggled to come up with a better answer. I couldn’t.
“I’m sorry,” I began. “I really don’t know.” She started to get up and Aggie jumped down in alarm—ready to follow her mistress anywhere.
“Now wait!” I called. “I’m not finished. Give me another chance.”
“Well, okay,” she said, plopping back down with Aggie again.
“It’s something I worried about myself, too.”
“About me?”
“No. About me. About all those so-called heroes. Maybe they weren’t so great, after all. Of course, at first your father seemed so nice and safe. I was sure we would have a nice, quiet, comfortable life together. Live in suburbia, get a dog, raise kids—certainly grow old together. I never dreamed on the life we led.”
“You didn’t know you were going to live in San Romero when you got married?”
She seemed truly surprised. So, I realized, was I.
“No! Not at all. He got a job at the university analyzing core samples in the geology lab, and I played the typical suburban housewife who cleaned the house, took care of the baby, and had dinner ready when hubby came home. Nice and quiet and placid—and well, dull, if you must know. I have to admit I was excited when he first proposed moving to San Romero and taking up the diplomatic post he had been offered. But it was totally unexpected.”
I started dreamily into the fire, remembering those exciting days, when so in love, I never once questioned the wisdom of moving to a foreign country with a small child and forgoing all that I knew and loved.
“How about Gran and Grandaddy? How did they react?”
“They were all for it, as I remember. Of course, I know now that they were brokenhearted when I moved and took you so far away.”
“Would you have stayed had you known?”
“I doubt it. Rafe was my world. I would have followed him anywhere.”
“Wow.”
“Yeah,” I responded sourly. “Wow.”
I answered the rest of her questions about our early life in San Romero by rote, my mind deep in memories of happy times—the beautiful music of Spanish guitars—me swaying in the arms of my dashing husband as we danced the night away on the large patio of our hacienda home…
“Mom!”
“Uh, yeah?”
“You said the same thing twice in the last two minutes.”
“Sorry, honey. What’s that?”
“That you loved Daddy.”
My heart skipped a beat and quick tears flooded my eyes. I didn’t allow myself these thoughts very often. These were memories I had tucked in the deep recesses of my mind—there to stay, jealously guarded—too precious to dwell upon.
My sweet daughter immediately moved from the sofa to sit on the floor beside my chair and hold my hand.
“I’m so sorry, Mommy. I didn’t mean to make you cry. It was a terrible, terrible thing that happened to you, and I didn’t mean to make you…”
“Remember that your father went missing in the jungle and we had to flee for our lives?”
“Well, yes,” she answered, biting on her lower lip. “That.”
I wiped the tears from my face and tried to smile.
“It’s my fault. You asked a question about you, and I went on prattling about me. I’m a totally self absorbed…”
“Nonsense! And forget I asked the stupid question in the first place. How about another piece of tres leche? A midnight snack just for you and me.”
I laughed. It felt good. Why couldn’t I remember that before I started doing things that were bound to make me sad?
“We can’t. William ate it all.”
“Stupid William.”
“And speaking of Mr. Perfect—what happened with William in the moonlight?”
Chapter Twenty-Six
“I don’t know,” she answered.
“There seems to be a lot of that going around.” I laughed. “If you don’t want…”
“No, no, I don’t mind telling you anything—well, almost anything; but we talked, of course. And then he began to come on to me. Flirting outrageously. ‘I was so beautiful. I was so smart. I was such a good cook.’”
“No wonder you were giggling.”
“Now, Mom. I got the job done, didn’t I?”
“Well, except for the last one, all the things he said were true and it’s not such a rare thing for a potential suitor to tell you so.”
“Potential suitor? I think not!”
“But he’s so good looking and such a nice dresser. He’s got to be smart to hold down the position he does, and most of all—he’s not related to Mavis Madden.”
“Maybe not, but he’s just a little bit too peculiar for me.”
“Peculiar?” I asked, instantly seeing some of the things that happened at the hospital in a new light.
“To put it in Leonard’s vernacular, ‘queer as a two dollar bill.’”
“Queer?”
“Yes. Strange, and just a smidge creepy.”
“Creepy?”
“Mom, you’re beginning to sound like a parrot.”
“How so? And don’t say, ‘I don’t know.’”
She lay down on the floor, deposited Aggie upside-down on her chest and began to rub the dog’s little pink tummy.
“Cassie, I wouldn’t do that if I were you.”
“Well, you’re not me—we’ve established that a long time ago, and beside—she loves it.”
The dog, indeed seemed to be in high heaven—her eyes closed and her tail wagging upside down slowly in blissful relaxation. It was a truly frightening sight.
“Oh, well, you know best.”
“I do,” she stated vehemently. “And I know when a guy is creepy because that seems to be all the ones I attract. Moth to a flame,” she observed sadly, looking into the fire.
“That’s not true! Look at what’s his name—Bert’s son…”
“You mean the one who went to Afghanistan on some ‘funny business’ that had nothing to do with the military, and hasn’t been heard of since? How normal is that?””
“Well, yeah, there is that. But he was very nice when you were dating. And how about that young man from Emory you went to Europe with…”
“David who was arrested in Spain for bringing in pot? Just how normal and grown-up is that? I mean, carrying ten ounces of marijuana on a backpacking trip around the world. My word! How stupid can you get?”
“Have you heard from him lately?” I asked quietly.
“Yeah, we email back and forth all the time. Apparently prison is not so bad. He was a business major, after all, and he has this little scam going. Seems to be doing quite well.”
I laughed until she did, and the room seemed suddenly brighter and warmer—old ghosts banished to another place and another time.
“Back to William.” I prodded. “Just what was creepy about him?”
“You know when you see a big old spider—how you skin gets all tingly and crawly?”
I did indeed. Just thinking about it made me shudder. Spiders were not my favorite thing.
“Well, that’s how I felt when he touched me. It was strange, too, ’cause like you said, he is good lookin
g—and smart. In the grand scheme of things I ought to be overjoyed that he likes me. I mean, what a catch—huh? What’s wrong with me, Mom?”
“In the grand scheme of things, absolutely nothing.”
“You’re my mom, and you have to say that.”
“Let me finish. Like I was saying—nothing is wrong, but you are picky…”
“Now, just a darn minute!”
“Very picky, as well you should be. There are a lot of crazies out there on the prowl, and you have to be aware and protect yourself. I think because of your background in San Romero and the scary things you went through, you have a very highly developed sense of self-protection that many young women lack. The unprepared become easy prey for the less than decent sorts that seem to abound in our world today. Be careful, Cassie,” I warned. “Listen to that little voice who calls out ‘creepy’ every time you hear it. It will serve you well.”
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Cassie appeared to heed my advice. She refused to take the calls that William made to the farm all morning long. First I told him she went to town, and then that she was washing her hair, and finally I just quit answering the phone.
But when around two o’clock in the afternoon a florist van pulled up in the driveway and the driver deposited a beautiful vase with two dozen red roses on the back porch, she began to re-think her decision.
“Maybe I was just tired. Maybe he’s not so creepy after all. And he is so good looking…”
And before I could say, ‘Jack’s your uncle,’ they had made a date for Saturday night.
“So, where you going?” I asked, a bit miffed that she had been persuaded from her original point of view so easily.
“Ummm, I’m not exactly sure. He said he wanted to get tickets for Les Miserables, but it might be too late. And besides he doesn’t think so much of small town players. He says the Broadway show would be better for me to see the first time.”
“And he, no doubt, wants to take you to New York to see the play there? All that way just to see Les Miserables?”
“Well, that and other things,” she answered, a dreamy look on her lovely face.
“It’s the ‘other things’ I have a problem with,” I mumbled.