Isabel's Daughter

by Judith Ryan Hendricks

  “You’re not the first person to ask me that,” he said. “And it’s a reasonable question. I suppose the only answer is that I don’t want to.” He looked blindly at the stack of papers in front of him. “Or can’t.”

  Highway 14 is empty. The morning sun ignites the cottonwoods, and their tops leap like hot gold flames out of the dusty streambeds. There was a dusting of snow on the Sangres this morning, and long white streamers of cirrus clouds to the west signal another front coming in, although right now the sky is that endless, drop-dead blue of October in New Mexico.

  This is the first time I’ve been to the cabin alone. It feels like some kind of pilgrimage, unlocking the gate, bouncing over the ruts, approaching the house like a penitent approaching the altar. I’m stepping carefully, watching the path, when a grayish brown streak across my field of vision draws me up short. I think of Amalia and her admonitions to never let a coyote cross your path. Except this is no coyote—or at least not entirely.

  He does have the pointy snout and long bushy tail, but his eyes are big and dark, not yellow like a coyote. His coat is brownish gray, matted with dirt and weeds, and he’s so skinny you can count his ribs. We appraise each other from a distance of about ten feet. It’s not clear whether he sees me as a possible friend or potential breakfast. Then he takes a couple steps toward me trying to look ingratiating. He gives a half-assed tail wag.

  I stamp my foot. “Go away.”

  The way he looks at me, head up, ears twitching, I think he knows that sound, the resonance of a human voice. He inches closer, making a wide arc, and I stand perfectly still. When I feel the cool nose sniffing at my hand, I close my fist so he can’t bite my fingers. When I turn cautiously toward him, he shies away.

  “Okay. I know your type. You’re so cute and shy and you come sniffing around and wagging your tail. You let me win you over, then you let me feed you, and pretty soon you’re laying down next to me. Giving me that devoted look. And then one morning you get up and go outside to take a pee and you don’t come back. So just go away now and save us both the trouble.” I stamp my foot and he flinches but doesn’t move.

  “Go bite a prairie dog. Go on, get!” I bend down and pick up a few pebbles and fling them in his general direction. That’s all it takes. He’s gone so fast it’s like he was never there.

  Every sound is exaggerated in the quiet canyon. My footsteps on the wooden floor of the portal. The clang of the key in the lock. The squeak as I push the door open. I jump a little when something darts into the shadows of the corner by the fireplace. Probably a rat.

  It’s not easy for me to picture how the place might look, all cleaned up and snug. I don’t have much of an imagination, and I’ve always believed that what you see is about all you’re going to get. It was Isabel who had the vision of Querencia. Not me. She’s the one who put in the skylight and the woodstove. The curtains that hang from the windows in tatters.

  So why should I trust Isabel’s vision? More to the point, is there any reason to think I should trust myself? In my whole life, I’ve never let myself want anything that much. I’ve never tried to hold anything. Or anyone. Always at the last minute, it seemed easier to open my hands and let go. If I say yes to Querencia, do I really mean it?

  The Rio Bravo is fairly quiet when I finally get there just after 1:30—maybe half a dozen tables occupied, a few cowboys at the counter. I take a table in the back and order posole. Bettina brings it herself, along with the little dishes of sliced radishes, avocado chunks, and lime wedges. The chile and garlic steam rising from the bowl makes my eyes water.

  “I need your help with something,” I tell her.

  She sits down across from me, and her jaw juts forward as she blows a wisp of damp black hair off her forehead. “Of course.”

  I fish in my purse for the scrap of paper and push it across the table. She reads it while I eat.

  “I will call Alonzo tonight. Alonzo Lopez. He is the one to do the roof and the windows and check the vigas for dry rot. Maria, his sister, she is an enjarradora—one of the last.”

  “What’s that?”

  “The enjarradoras were the women who once did all the plastering of homes. The traditional way. It was passed from mother to daughter. Alonzo and Maria are the only ones you need.”

  “You think they might be too busy or something?”

  Bettina looks vaguely offended. “They will do it. I will ask them for you. I can get you a better price. This cabin, how did you find it?”

  “It was Isabel’s—my mother’s. Her grave is down there too.”

  She pats my hand. “Maybe in this place, you can come to know a little more about her.”

  I rip a tortilla in half and dunk it in the soup. “It’s hard not knowing about her, but it’s even harder that she didn’t know about me. She didn’t want to know.”

  Bettina shakes her head. “There you are wrong, amiga. If you think that she didn’t spend her whole life looking in the face of every girl child she saw and wondering if it was you, I think you are very wrong.”

  When I don’t reply, she claps her hands together. “Are you too full for capirotada?”

  I make myself smile. “When hell freezes over.”

  “Let me just take care of this cowboy, and then I will bring it.”

  There’s something familiar about the cowboy paying his check at the register—the way he stands, rocking back on his boot heels, the way he holds his hat. I know him, and my heart is miles ahead of my brain, thundering in my ears before he feels my stare and turns around.

  His eyes find mine, like a needle finding a nerve. Speaking of ghosts…

  Seconds or minutes or maybe hours pass. Then he’s walking over. When he sets his hat down on the table, the gold ring gleams on his left hand.

  “Avery.”

  “Hi, Will. How are you?”

  “Okay. Yourself?”

  “Fine.”

  Is it possible that we have nothing more to say?

  He clears his throat. “I thought you’d be in L.A. or New York or someplace.”

  “If you really thought that, you didn’t know me very well.”

  His eyes are flat gray, not at all the way I remember. “I figured that out pretty quick when I came back to Florales and you were gone.”

  A wave of heat rises up my neck. “I thought it would be best.”

  “Best for who?”

  “Everyone.”

  The white lines around his eyes contrast with his tan face, and I picture him squinting into the sun. I remember Cassie’s appraisal of him.

  “He’s got a big heart. Maybe he’ll grow into it.” Maybe he has. Or maybe his heart’s gotten smaller.

  “Where are you living these days?”

  “Santa Fe.” I take a drink of my iced tea, gripping the glass like it can save me. “What brings you down this way?”

  “Business,” he says. “I’m working with Darryl Hutt now.”

  “I never thought you’d leave the ranch.”

  “It’s a long story.” One that he’s obviously not interested in telling.

  “Well…things must’ve worked out for you. I’m…glad. Who’s the lucky girl?”

  Before he answers, I know. Like a photograph. I see her face the way I saw it that day, dripping with tears and snot, grass stuck in her hair.

  “You married Randi Klein?”

  His eyes turn to granite. “What difference does it make to you?”

  “I’m…” I scan the Formica tabletop for something to focus on, stopping on the initials of some lovesick cowboy and his sweetie tucked inside a heart.

  “When I came back and you—” His voice is controlled, like a horse on a very short rein. “I waited. I kept thinking you’d call or write. That we could talk about it. Get it straightened out.”

  “We could never have—” I start but he talks over me.

  “I knew you wouldn’t just leave. Without telling me anything. Without even saying good-bye. It took me some time to figure
out that was exactly what you did.” He hesitates. “And then I went kinda crazy for a while. So don’t say a goddamn word about who I married.”

  “Well, I’m sure it made your mother very happy.”

  His fingers encircle my wrist as he leans across the table. “You don’t know a goddamn thing about it.”

  I’m pulling my arm away, but he won’t let go. “I know they never would’ve let you marry me—”

  “I didn’t need their permission.”

  “And I know that if by some chance you did do something that stupid, I would’ve had to spend the rest of my life being grateful that someone named Cameron was interested in doing anything at all to me.” I jerk my arm away at the precise second that he lets go, and my elbow hits the water glass. It rolls off the table.

  He looks at the shattered glass on the floor, the spreading pool pouring off the edge of the table like a waterfall. For a minute I think he’s going to bend down and start picking it up. That would be like him. But he changes his mind.

  “Sorry,” he says. He picks up his hat, bunching the water-soaked brim in his fist.

  Without another word he turns and walks to the door, his boots making that hollow tapping noise on the wooden floor. He rounds the corner by the cash register and disappears. I hear the sound of the door closing behind him. The two guys at the counter turn back to their food.

  I put my cold hands on my hot face and sit staring at the water. Bettina appears with a towel.

  “Old friend of yours?” She throws the towel on the puddle and stoops to pick up the biggest pieces of glass.

  “I’m sorry.”

  “Bah! Men.” She sits down next to me. “Raoul! Get a broom and get the rest of this.” She looks at me with her sad dark eyes. “Our punishment for the sins of Eve. You still want your capirotada?”

  “No, gracias.”

  twenty-three

  November starts off bitter cold and dry. Clothes have to be peeled apart, crackling with static electricity, when I take them out of the dryer, and every time I touch a doorknob, sparks jump. The main house is so cold in the mornings, I can see my breath in the kitchen.

  One morning I’m getting ready to grind the coffee beans when Paul walks into the kitchen silently in stocking feet.

  “Wait!”

  I swing around, startled. “What’s wrong?”

  He smiles. “Nothing.” He’s wearing jeans and a nubby cableknit sweater the color of whole wheat bread. His hair is soft and loose, tucked behind his ears.

  “Nothing’s wrong,” he says. “I just thought we should go out for coffee. I have some holiday plans I want to discuss with you.”

  “Can’t we do that here?”

  “I want your undivided attention while we’re talking. Besides…” His grin is appealingly boyish. “It’ll be fun. I know that’s a difficult concept for you, but let’s give it a try. Go on, get your coat.”

  I can’t help thinking that we make a strange pair as we stride down Canyon Road with our breath streaming behind us—him in his black shearling rancher’s coat, black cowboy hat, black cashmere scarf, and black leather gloves, and me in gray sweatpants, red wool turtleneck that itches my throat, my navy surplus peacoat, the scarf that Rita gave me five years ago that used to be white, and navy blue gloves with a hole in the right thumb. He doesn’t seem to notice.

  Being perfectly comfortable in his stylish ensemble, he keeps stopping to look in the windows of the galleries, saying things like, “Look at this Paul Signac, Avery. Interesting, the palette he uses in this one. It could almost be here in New Mexico.”

  “Looks like blue sky over brown dirt, to me. I guess you could say it resembles New Mexico.”

  He places his hands on my shoulders and walks me back about five steps. “Voilà. The Quay at Clichy.” Sure enough, from this distance the gazillion little dots fuse into a picture of an empty wharf. I can even see trees and the mast of a tall ship in the background.

  “He’s a pointillist,” Paul says. “They used tiny dots of primary color not only to describe forms but to generate secondary colors. It was an offshoot of impressionism.”

  I try to study the picture, but his face, only a couple of inches from mine as he peers over my shoulder, is a distraction.

  I say, “Paul, I’m freezing my ass off. Could we please just walk?”

  At Downtown Subscription we carry our lattes and scones to a table in the packed, noisy room. The chairs are awful—straight and hard. In the restaurant business they’re called thirty-minute chairs because people don’t tend to linger in them and you can turn the tables fast.

  Paul seems oblivious to the noise, the jostling crowd, the uncomfortable seating. He takes his coat off and drapes it carefully over the back of the chair, neatly folds the scarf, lays it on the table, gloves go on top. By the time he takes his first sip of coffee, I’m halfway through my scone. I watch him dip his index finger into the mound of frothy milk dusted with cocoa and cinnamon, lick it. The gesture is so childlike and unselfconscious, so unlike him, that it makes me laugh.

  His smile warms me. “It’s nice to hear you laugh.”

  Immediately I feel ashamed for all my ungracious thoughts.

  “So what do you want to talk about?” I ask. “Not that we’ll be able to hear each other in here.”

  “I can hear you,” he says mildly. “I want to talk about some entertaining plans I have.”

  “I didn’t bring my notebook,” I protest.

  He turns partway, fishing in the inside breast pocket of his coat, hands me a small pad and a slim gold pen.

  “First a dinner party. Next Friday. Or maybe Saturday. I’ll have to check. Intimate. Say two couples.”

  Something thumps in my chest, and I look quickly toward the rack of glossy decorating magazines lining the far wall. “Clients?”

  He nods, lost in his plans. “Can you do something French?”

  I sit up a little straighter. “Of course. What did you have in mind?”

  “Bistro style. Country food. A daube, a braise. Something comforting.”

  My mind is racing. I can braise, but I can’t recall for the life of me what a daube is. Oh well, that’s why God created Julia Child.

  “No problem,” I say. “What else?”

  “Christmas Eve supper for…” He closes his eyes as if visualizing the guest list. “Ten. Maybe twelve. After the Canyon Road walk.” He pauses to throw me a questioning look. “Maybe we should call a caterer. So you can come to the party.”

  “I don’t need to be at the party.”

  “We can at least hire some servers. I don’t want you to be stuck in the kitchen all night.”

  I consider telling him that being “stuck” in the kitchen is far preferable to making small talk with a bunch of rich people that I don’t know, but I don’t want to come on too ungrateful.

  “What about Thanksgiving?”

  “I won’t be here,” he says. “Will you be all right?”

  I shoot him a withering glance. “Of course I’ll be all right. Where will you be?”

  “I’m going skiing.”

  I laugh. “If there’s any snow.”

  “Whistler,” he says. “British Columbia. They’ve got plenty already. Tom and I and some other people are going.”

  I find myself wondering whether the “other people” are male or female people, but he doesn’t elaborate.

  We eat in silence for a few minutes, while he pretends to read the paper. Then, abruptly, he asks, “What will you do for Thanksgiving?”

  I shrug. “Sleep late. Read. Take a couple of long walks. Maybe a bubble bath. If I get really ambitious, I might go rent a movie.”

  “What about your friend? The one who owns the Rio Bravo.”

  “Bettina? What about her?”

  “I just thought maybe you’d get together with her one afternoon.”

  “We’re not that kind of friends.”

  “What about your old roommate. Is it Rita?”

  “I ha
ven’t talked to her.”

  “I hate to think of you being here alone.”

  “Why? I don’t mind. In fact, most of the time, I prefer it.”

  “It just seems…sad somehow.”

  I set down my latte. “I told you when we first met that my life might not look like much to you, but I’m content. I don’t need sympathy, and I sure as hell don’t need you patronizing me.”

  He looks around. As if anyone could care what we’re saying—as if anyone could even hear what we’re saying. “I’m not patronizing you—”

  “Of course you are. You assume that if I could, I’d be going on a ski trip or having a big dinner with friends, but since I can’t, you picture me as Poor Pitiful Pearl standing out in the snow with my nose pressed against the window.” I stand up and pick up my plate. “I assure you that isn’t the case.”

  “Avery.”

  “What?”

  “I’m sorry.”

  I let my breath out slowly and sit down. The whole atmosphere of our “fun” outing darkens abruptly with my mood.

  “I almost wish I weren’t going,” he says.

  Having successfully cast a pall over the morning, I’m now determined to salvage it. “You’ll have a great time once you’re there. It’ll be good for you to have a break.”

  He pushes the scone around with his fork. “It’s just that if I really think about it—oh, the actual skiing will be fun, although Hemmings has to make a competition out of everything. But the rest of it—too much food and booze, listening to him talk about football and how many times he got laid last month—”

  “Are you trying to tell me you don’t like football?”

  His eyes crinkle when he laughs.

  We stand up, shrug into our coats. He, as usual, has stopped to talk to somebody, and I’m halfway to the door when I hear my name.

  “Avery. Over here.” My eyes sweep the crowd until they’re caught by a dark hand waving from the other side of the room by the door to the side patio.

  “Cookie, hi.” We wade through the tables, chairs, and bodies toward each other, and she surprises me with her big hug.