He sighed and started to speak, but Margaret interrupted him. “Go wash your hands and I’ll dish this up. We’ll eat first.”
Echo was under the kitchen table, her usual spot when Margaret ate. Margaret watched Peter shuffle down the hall. He looked exhausted. She felt just as exhausted. Why did life pull these pranks with such exquisitely poor timing? Here’s your long-lost lover. Tonight’s entrée, MS, comes with a side order of grown-up son with a drinking problem. And for dessert? A new MS symptom: always feeling as if she needed to pee. Or was it a bladder infection? Sex that many times in one day had a price. She listened to the bathroom water running and waited for Peter to be done so she could use it.
They ate salad and pasta without talking. Peter got up and filled his water glass twice. When he finished his plate, she got up and took some chocolate mousse out of the fridge. It wasn’t homemade, but she just hadn’t had the energy. She squirted Reddi-wip on top and set it in front of Peter.
“I don’t think I can eat that,” he said.
“Oh, you’ll eat it. It might be from a box, but I still made it for you,” she said. “And while you’re eating, I have a few things to say.”
He stirred the whipped cream into the mousse, waiting.
“If you’re staying here, even in the guesthouse, there will be no more getting drunk. Apparently you made quite a shameful scene at La Choza last night.”
“So what?” he said. “Lots of people drink a little too much now and then. What’s the big deal?”
Margaret looked up. “Seriously? I live in this town. I go to La Choza. People talk. This morning you went out to an AA meeting, which must have helped tremendously, because you’ve been drinking all day. You didn’t use to drink like this, so why are you doing it now? Is it something new? Do you really think your work won’t be affected?”
He scowled. “Bonnie’s pregnant.”
Margaret put her hand to her heart. “Is the baby yours?”
“I don’t know whose it is, but it’s not mine.”
“So you didn’t tell me the whole truth about the divorce. Why not?”
“Guess I just didn’t want to admit the baby was real.”
Margaret put down her spoon. “Is there anything else you’re not telling me?”
Peter wouldn’t meet her eyes. He picked up his spoon and began to shovel the mousse down his throat as if it were medicine. She sighed. “Whatever it is, I hope you’ll tell me in time. You can do the dishes. I’m going to take a bath. And stay out of my wine. If you want a drink, ask.”
Later that night, Margaret looked up at the vigas above her in the bedroom ceiling. Parts of the house went back two hundred years, and she suspected the vigas, hand-peeled log beams that came from standing dead spruce, were probably that old or older. Between the beams, white plaster arced from log to log. How difficult it must have been to create. The wind rattled her window as if it were storming outside.
“I could replace those windows with double panes,” Owen said. He was propped up against the pillows, Margaret in his arms. His husky voice was a creaky sound that made her think of the groaning of wooden ships.
She asked the question that preyed on her mind. “Why didn’t you write to me?”
After a minute, he answered, “Truthfully? I figured a clean break would free you up for a decent man, one who deserved you, could properly take care of you.”
“Owen. Listen to me. I can take care of myself. There is no man on earth who could take your place in my heart. What we had, what we have, is something special. Or didn’t you see things that way?”
“’Course I did. I still do.” He stroked her hand.
“Thank goodness for that.” She wondered what he thought of her fifty-year-old skin, which had become softer and looser in the decade since they’d parted. She’d cut her long hair, too, and there was a lot of gray in it now. Well, he was older, too, and there wasn’t time to lose. “Will you move in with me?”
“That’s a wrinkle I have yet to figure out,” he responded. “Fact is, I’m supposed to live on site at Reach for the Sky. It’s a good job for me, managing Mr. Vigil’s barn. It makes use of every skill this old farrier has to offer. ”
“You mean you have to sleep there? Every night?” She shut her eyes when she said that, not wanting him to see how badly she wanted him here instead.
“Somebody has to be there to watch the horses. Make sure nobody breaks in. You could come with me. Be like the old days.”
Owen’s bunkhouse at the Starr ranch hadn’t been far from her rented house. His quarters were small, but there was a toilet and a sink, hot and cold running water, even a solar shower. It could have been a lifetime ago. “Is there a bathroom?”
“Nope. Outhouse and cold water.”
“What with the MS, and Peter, I think I have to stay here. When do you start?”
“I’m already working, but I don’t have to live at the bunkhouse until the fund-raiser gala. But don’t worry. We’ll figure out how to make this work. Now that I have you back, we’re not going to do this halfway. We’ll find a way. Who knows? Maybe after a while I can hire someone to do nights part of the week.”
“I’m worried about Peter. He’s drinking too much.”
“And I’m worried about Skye. If she doesn’t find her little girl soon, she might have a slip.”
“You mean drinking?”
“Or pills. She wants to borrow a couple hundred dollars from me to go look for Gracie. I’m going to have to ask Joe for an advance on my paycheck. Not the best way to start a job.”
“I can help some.”
“No,” he said. “You’ve got your hands full with Peter, and taking care of yourself. It pains me to say this, but I think I have to call Skye’s mother.”
“For money?”
“That would help, but most important, those two have got to mend fences. What happens if Skye doesn’t find Gracie? What if this thing is dragged out for years? I’m going to encourage Sheila to come to Santa Fe.”
“That makes sense.”
“Lord, I hope so. Maggie, I’ve missed so much of Skye’s life. I can’t let her down anymore. I have to make amends. I have to stay close enough to them that we can have Sunday supper, so I can watch Gracie sometimes. Have a real family again.”
What about me? Margaret thought. Don’t I get to be your family? She nodded. “That’s important.”
They kissed. Margaret tasted coffee and green chile, and a dash of sadness. Owen’s beard brushed her forehead. All she wanted to do was close her eyes and feel his warmth and never have to be apart again. She held his face in her hands, tenderly cupping the place that Peter had hit him, which had turned all colors. After all this time, the sex was still great, but she never remembered it being this strenuous. She laughed inwardly and stifled a yawn. She bet each of them was waiting for the other one to say, Can we go to sleep now?
Life was different. And she had a feeling it was only going to get weirder.
Margaret copied the messages from Peter’s phone by hand. He’d left it on the table last night after dinner. As far as she could tell, he hadn’t gotten drunk last night, but who knew what he had out there hidden away in the guesthouse? She had awakened at three a.m., feeling like she needed to pee. Then came a headache. She’d found the aspirin, chewed two, and made herself a cup of herb tea. Peter’s phone was just sitting there, beeping like an alarm. When she picked it up, she saw that there were twelve text messages. All from Bonnie.
Message one: Please sign papers, notarize, and send overnight.
Message two: There’s no reason to drag this out.
Message three: Why haven’t you responded to my texts?
They grew in nastiness.
Message four: You’re probably out whooping it up with some girl. Don’t you have any respect for me? I will make sure everyone knows what a prick you are.
Five: I hope you’re not hiring a lawyer. Remember, I can still ask for alimony.
Six: Every sin
gle one of my friends thinks you’re an asshole.
Seven: You are an asshole. I put up with you longer than I should have.
Eight: You could never understand deaf culture because you weren’t born into it.
Nine: I never loved you.
Ten: You don’t deserve love.
Eleven: I’m not returning your mother’s ring.
Twelve: I am going to punish you.
The Twelve Steps of Divorce, Margaret thought. She considered deleting them before Peter could read them, but that wasn’t right, any more than invading his privacy was. The part about her ring was upsetting. She told herself, It’s just a ring. But it was a ring that had belonged to her mother. Why was Bonnie so angry when she was the one wanting the divorce? Regardless of who the baby’s father was, she was technically married to Peter. And Margaret knew that deep down, she was just as mean as Bonnie, because the thought of dragging the divorce out until the baby was born just tickled her pink.
At breakfast the next morning, Peter picked up his phone. “There it is. I was starting to worry that I’d lost it. Where’s Owen?”
“Working at the stable. Peter, I have something to confess.”
“Now what?” he said.
“I read your texts from Bonnie. You need to show them to the lawyer. Otherwise, I have a feeling you’re going to be paying alimony and child support. Look,” she said, setting down a plate of toast and scrambled eggs before Peter could complain. “I’m paying for the lawyer, so I get a say. You need to go on the offensive. I’ve been where you are, the injured party. Your father—”
“Mom, I don’t want to know any horrid details about Dad cheating and your failure to keep the marriage together. I don’t want to get into that nightmare again.”
Margaret was stunned. “My failure? Do you still blame me for that divorce, like you did when you were fifteen years old? You know what? Do whatever the hell you want.” She flung the frying pan into the sink, and the hot metal hissed. “Don’t you ever talk to me like that again. You’re still my son, even if you are grown up. And I’m your mother. I’m sure it makes no difference to you, but I love you, and I want the best for you and you’re acting like a twerp.”
She stomped down the hallway into her studio, shut the door after herself, and ripped the watercolor she’d been working on from its board. She pushed the small easel away and brought back the easel with the unfinished oil painting of the horse. She was going to paint that effing hummingbird and be done with this painting for once and for all.
Peter stood outside the studio. “Mom?”
She squeezed shades of white onto her palette, starting with Titanium, Flake White No. 1, a touch of Zinc, and finally, a color she’d never used before, Cremnitz, a lead-based paint she’d had Nori send her from London. “I’m working, Peter. Go away.”
“Sometimes I can be a real asshole,” he said.
Margaret was glad he couldn’t see her smile. “Yes, you certainly can. Now get lost. I plan to be in here all day,” she said. “I’m sure you can find something to occupy yourself with.”
“Mom? Are you mad? Do you want me to move out?”
Well, of course she was angry. Stupid question. “What I want is for you to do the chores we agreed on, starting with emptying the trash. You promised to take Echo for walks, and to feed her, and so far you’ve done that once, and only because I reminded you.”
“All right,” he said. “Listen, I’ll make dinner tonight. Do you have fresh garlic, Parmesan, and tomatilloes?”
Oh, Lord. He loved spicy food, curry and habanero peppers, marinara sauces made crunchy with way too much oregano. If a recipe called for one clove of garlic, he’d put in the entire bulb. “No garlic, no peppers, and Parmesan on the side.”
“All right.”
“No more watching cartoons in the daytime. You’re twenty-five years old. And call the damn lawyer and make an appointment!”
“Okay.”
Just like that, while yelling at Peter, Margaret had painted the white hummingbird. She’d captured the curve of its beak and the motion that separated it from everything else. Of course, it needed finessing, but that would come in time. She picked up her favorite brush, the hog-bristle Manet-Soies Pures from France. She’d waited all her artistic life to have a use for it and now she did: painting iridescent hummingbird feathers.
Yesterday, after returning from Las Vegas with no leads on Rocky, Skye had gone to Goodwill and bought herself a pair of running shoes for five dollars. With a little bleach and scrubbing, they didn’t look that bad. Today she planned to sell her Old Gringo forget-me-nots to Home on the Range, the custom bootmaker in Santa Fe, near the courthouse. It was killing her to let them go, but the money she’d get would finance her trip to Truth or Consequences.
She tucked cardboard into the shafts, then wrapped each boot with tissue paper. She set them into the box they’d come in, nearly overcome with the memory of buying them. It had been the PRCA Rodeo Finals, and Rocky was winning huge amounts of money. He’d hired a babysitter for Gracie, given Skye a thousand dollars, and told her to go shopping. When she’d discovered the Old Gringo Trunk Show, she’d stopped in her tracks, and later, a thousand dollars poorer, she’d walked out with the most beautiful cowboy boots ever designed. All day she’d walked around the booths, and people had stopped her to ask her about the boots so often that she wished she’d taken business cards and handed them out.
It killed her to put the box into a canvas Trader Joe’s bag she found in the cupboard. She loved those boots as though they were a person. She set the bag on the floor and picked up the new cell phone her dad had bought her. If she was lucky, they’d net her five hundred bucks, half their value. But money was what she needed, and five hundred, though a good start, was not enough to get her own place, feed Gracie, get her school clothes. She pressed number three on her speed dial, and it rang twice and then went to voice mail. “Y’all’ve reached my message thingy. So, either I’m traveling, shopping, or having too good a time to pick up! Leave a message, y’hear?”
Mama’s voice had gotten all Texas since she’d married that plastic surgeon. Probably he had fixed up every inch of her by now. Skye hoped he wasn’t just another loser Mama had latched on to, to take whatever she could from him before abandoning him for something better.
After the beep, she said, “Mama, I sure do need to talk to you. I’m not in trouble. I’m out of rehab and in Santa Fe and I have a lead on a job. Please call me back.” She recited her cell phone number, and then she looked at Margaret’s painting and burst into tears. “Mama,” she said in a choked voice, “please, please, please, will you call me? I don’t know what to do. I can’t find Gracie. And I’m not ashamed to ask you for some money to finance my drive to Truth or Consequences to look for her. I know I’m a disappointment to you and I fully accept that. But Mama, Gracie is my little girl. You’re her grandmother.”
She ended the call and walked to the kitchen window, her shoulders rounded, her neck feeling as if she had a yoke across it. Damn the early morning sun breaking through the cloud cover. Damn the nice weather. Double damn her father being happy and in love, things she’d never know again because she’d messed her life up so bad.
She opened the fridge and looked at the half-price day-old bagels and store-brand orange juice she’d bought. Bagels probably had like nine thousand calories, but so what? She wasn’t having sex with anyone. That got her thinking again about the Cottonwoods rules, and Nola, and Duncan. Crazy place, Cottonwoods. Crazy roommate, Nola. Crazy Indian dude trying to make her well through a bunch of stories.
On the morning of her departure, he’d knocked on her door before dawn and said, “Even when you leave here, promise me you won’t sleep past sunup.”
“Why not? What if I’m working nights? Will that offend Grandfather Horny Toad? Or invite a skinwalker into my house?”
That same I-love-everybody smile. “No, Skye. It’s because you’ll miss everything.”
She t
ook out two bagels and the carton of orange juice, deciding she’d bring breakfast to her dad. She shut the fridge door, walked across the room to fetch the newspaper, and then just like that a name came to her—Diego Iglesias, JD, the judge who’d handled her DWI. Who’d given full custody to Rocky. Why hadn’t she thought of this earlier? Surely the judge’s office had Rocky’s contact information.
Hell with Home on the Range.
On the way to Reach for the Sky, Skye used the five dollars she’d lifted from Peter’s wallet—he owed her that—on gas. How stupid does it feel to drive a Mercedes and not be able to fill the tank?
As she turned onto Airport Road toward the stable, a snake was crossing the road, so she slowed down. Big one. Duncan said snakes were a “manifestation” of the Lightning People. “Never run over a snake,” he said, “or you will have bad luck for seven years.” Must be a broken mirror snake, she figured. Down the newly tamped driveway to the stables, she recognized Peter’s Land Cruiser. Awesome, because she wanted to yell at him for leaving her downtown yesterday morning. She practiced what to say as she parked between it and her dad’s truck.
She walked into the barn, where the horses were busy eating. Leaning against the barn wall was a sack of feeder carrots, so she shook out a few and broke them into pieces, petting the muzzles of the nosy horses who looked up from hay flakes or pellet feed. Joe let Owen board two horses as part of his pay, and when Skye came to Lightning’s stall, he nickered. “Hello, handsome,” she whispered to her horse as she unlatched the door and went in. They visited for a long time, and Skye checked his feet and his legs, picked the boogers from the corners of his eyes, and brushed him until his black spots were as glossy as patent leather. Even after all this time he still let her hang on his neck and slide up on him, bareback. He didn’t even so much as twitch. She lay down across his back until as much of her as possible was touching her horse. He kept on eating. She ran her hands down his neck, feeling the muscles and then the throb of his pulse. An average horse’s heart weighed ten pounds, an astounding fact in itself, but Secretariat’s heart had weighed in at twenty-two pounds. She imagined having a heart that size. All it could hold, room for life’s ups and downs, gains and losses. If there was a God, why hadn’t He made human hearts the biggest of all? After a while, she slid down and said, “Finish your Wheaties, buddy,” and locked the stall door behind her.
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