"Why don't you give the farm a call and tell them I'll pick up the order," I suggested. Khat squirmed and I put him on the floor, where he stalked off in search of his catnip mouse. "I'm taking Brian to spend the night with his grandparents, near Seguin. It's not much out of my way." I glanced around. "We've sold almost all of the mistletoe, too, I see."
At Christmas, mistletoe is our best-selling herb, hands down. I buy it wholesale from a local supplier and Laurel and I package it in plastic bags tied with festive holiday ribbons. During the holiday season, we process hundreds of mail and telephone and E-mail orders for the plant, which grows in basketball-sized clumps on the hackberry and pecan trees in the wooded hills to the west of Pecan Springs. Once you've seen those fresh yellow-green leaves and translucent berries, glowing like huge pearls, you can understand why our mistletoe is so popular—especially when you compare it to the cello-wrapped, dried-out bundles of twigs and scrawny berries you find at the grocery store. Texas Hill Country mistletoe has a special charm, too. When you've been kissed under a sprig of it, you know you've been kissed.
"The mistletoe man was supposed to bring in three bags last week," Laurel said, "but he didn't show up." She wrinkled her nose. "Not a surprise, I guess. He's not very dependable."
Finding reliable suppliers is a challenge in any business, but especially when it comes to herbs. The weather is always a problem, of course. The growers who supply me with live plants and dried herbs have to cope with drought, flooding rains, and blazing sun. But some herbs—mistletoe, for instance—aren't cultivated, they're gathered from the wild. My mistletoe supplier is a guy named Carl Swenson, who brings in two or three garbage bags full of the stuff every week, starting in early November and continuing through the end of the holiday season. During this six-week period, we sell enough mistletoe to decorate every door from here to Dallas.
"Maybe we ought to give Swenson a call," I said.
"Good idea," Laurel replied, "except that we don't have his phone number. For all I know, he doesn't have a phone."
That wouldn't be a surprise. Swenson is a sour-faced man with a straggly beard and an Army private's burr haircut. He doesn't have a regular job and turns a blind eye to friendly gestures. I couldn't imagine that he had enough buddies, or even acquaintances, to warrant subscribing to Five Cent Sundays. I didn't know much about him except that he lived alone about twenty miles outside of town, and that he only came to Pecan Springs to get supplies. The Hill Country attracts people like that—people who value their privacy, elect a simple life, and try to make it without a regular job. Of course, it's not easy to live off the land, and I know only a few people who actually manage it. The Fletcher sisters, for instance, who earn a modest living from their flower farm. And Swenson, who makes some money selling mistletoe and a little more selling goats. They won't get rich, and maybe they're not even happy. But they're doing what they choose, and that's got to be worth something.
I glanced at my watch. "Oops. Ruby's waiting for me." We were supposed to go over the tearoom books together this morning and come up with a projection for the next couple of months' expenditures and income.
Laurel gave me an inquiring look. "What's been going on with Ruby the last couple of days? She seems, well... different. Distracted."
I shrugged. "You know Ruby. She's always distracted by one thing or another. Remember when she started doing past-life regression? She walked around in a trance for weeks. I never knew whether she had decided to live in this century, or was just here on a visit."
"I know, but this is different," Laurel said. "She isn't sick, is she?"
"Are you kidding?" I shook my head. "Ruby takes every vitamin and antioxidant known to humankind, plus she's got a positive attitude that won't quit. Her immune system must be totally germ-proof."
"Well, then, maybe she and Hark are planning something," Laurel replied. "She's acting like she has a secret."
"If she and Hark are up to something, she hasn't told me," I said. Hark Hibler is the editor of the Pecan Springs Enterprise. He and Ruby have been seeing one another off and on for five or six months, and I had been wondering if their relationship might be getting serious. But the paper keeps Hark pretty busy, and Ruby has been working overtime to get the new tearoom into operation.
"Then I must be imagining things," Laurel said. "If anything momentous was happening in Ruby's life—an engagement to Hark, for instance—you'd be the first to hear it."
"I don't know about that," I said, more soberly. "Ruby's been, well, distant lately, but I don't think it has anything to do with her private life." I shook my head. "Let me give you a piece of advice, Laurel. Don't go into business with your best friend—not if you value the friendship, that is. It's pretty hard to be easy and casual with somebody when both of you are nervous about the bottom line."
"I agree that Ruby hasn't been herself for the past week or so," Laurel said thoughtfully, "but I don't know that it has anything to do with your partnership. Both of you seem to be handling the business end of things pretty well, especially now that Mrs. K's in the kitchen. Maybe it's McQuaid."
"McQuaid?" I gave her a blank look.
"Yeah. When Ben and I got married, my best friend decided that there wasn't room for two significant others in my life and excused herself. I had a hard time convincing her that I could love both of them."
Laurel might have a point. Ruby had been in my life for a year or two before McQuaid came along and she'd never seemed jealous of the time I spent with him. In fact, she started encouraging me to make a commitment long before I was ready to think about it for myself. But it was certainly possible that she felt left out, now that I'd actually taken her advice and gotten married. I had to admit that we didn't get together as we used to, and when we did manage to steal an afternoon or an evening for ourselves, we usually spent it talking business—not exactly the best way to nurture a friendship.
Laurel was watching my face. "Why don't you just come right out and ask her what's wrong? It certainly can't hurt, and maybe she'll tell you what's on her mind."
Another one of Laurel's sound, practical ideas. "Thanks," I said. I headed for the door that connects my shop to the Crystal Cave. "Yell if you need me for anything."
The first thing you notice when you step into Ruby's shop is the scent. She burns a different incense every day, and the fragrances mix and mingle in an indescribable aroma that clings to the books and other items even after you've taken them home, a lingering reminder of your visit to the Crystal Cave. She also plays a different kind of music every day—Native American one day, whale songs another. Today it was Celtic, and the haunting melancholy of harp and flute filled the scented air.
Ruby doesn't open until ten, and early morning is a good time to catch her doing her housekeeping: restocking bookshelves, straightening merchandise, dusting the crystals and wind chimes, bringing her account books up to date. Today, I found her at the back of the shop, near the curtained dressing-room alcove where she hangs the hand-painted tops, gauze skirts, scarves, and crazy hats that her customers love. She was dressed in one of her usual eye-catching outfits—a slim, shapely ankle-length black silk skirt and a loose, cowl-necked velveteen top, painted with galaxies of glittering stars—and was standing in front of the full-length mirror, admiring her reflection. Since Ruby is six feet tall in her sandals, there's a lot of reflection to admire, especially when she puts on high heels and frizzes her orangey-red hair, adding several more inches to her already Ruby-esque stature.
I stood and watched, unobserved, while she turned in front of the mirror, running her hands over her breasts and down her hips, smoothing the velvety fabric against her body. As I watched, she did it again, and then again, the gesture of a woman who takes a healthy pleasure in the shape and feel of her body. But there was nothing sensuous or sexy or even graceful about the way Ruby was touching herself. Her movements were jerky and nervous, and in the mirror her face wore an odd, lost look, vulnerable and apprehensive. It was unnerving t
o see Ruby when she wasn't charging around like a dynamo, fueled by her usual self-confidence and whiz-bang kinetic energy.
"Hi," I said tentatively.
Ruby gave a startled yelp and whirled around. "China! I... I didn't see you." Her voice was scratchy and she blinked rapidly.
"You were busy seeing yourself," I said. "That's a very nice outfit." I stepped closer and stroked her velveteen sleeve. 'Touchable, too."
Ruby jerked away as if my fingers were hot.
I dropped my hand. "Sorry."
The bright red in her cheeks contrasted oddly with her gingery freckles. "I thought I could have a little privacy," she muttered testily. "I didn't expect somebody to just walk in on me."
Privacy? That was my issue, not hers. And I had never thought I was just an ordinary "somebody" in her life.
"Maybe I'd better back up and start again," I said, stung. "This time I'll knock." I took two steps backward, thinking that maybe we should go back even further, to the point before we became partners. If Ruby was going to be an* noyed by a little thing like my coming into the shop unannounced—
"No, that's okay," Ruby said. She took a deep breath and pasted on an artificial smile. "So what did you want to ask me about, China?"
"Excuse me," I said. "I thought we had planned to get together this morning and talk about money. You know— the green stuff that pays the bills and keeps the tearoom going. We were going to make some projections."
Ruby's phony smile slipped, and I saw the lost, vulnerable look again. "Oh, right. Money." She straightened her shoulders, repaired her smile, and became suddenly business-like. "Well, then, come on. Let's get to it."
People may think Ruby is a flake, but one of the things I've learned since we became partners is that she has a hidden talent for organization. I followed her to her mini-office, which is tucked compactly behind a bookcase. She sat down at the small table she uses for a desk, and I perched on a stool, watching her. She took out the ledger and the checkbook and put them on the desk, and I saw to my surprise that her hands were trembling.
"Ruby," I said, "what's wrong?"
"Wrong?" She hesitated, then looked up at me, widening her eyes and offering that counterfeit smile. "Why does something have to be wrong? Can't a person take a good look at herself in the mirror without somebody giving her the third degree?"
"The third degree?" I gave a short laugh. "Is that what you think this is?" I worked as a criminal defense attorney before I moved to Pecan Springs, and I was pretty good at interrogating reluctant witnesses: The more disinclined they were to tell me what they knew, the more determined I was to get them to cough up their secrets—one way or another. Faced with the challenge of Ruby's denial, I could feel some of the old instincts kick in. Anyway, Laurel had encouraged me to find out what her problem was.
"Come on, Ruby," I coaxed. "I'm your partner, remember. And your friend. Something is gnawing at your insides and making you very upset. You know what you always tell me—if you don't let it out, it'll just grow bigger and bigger until it consumes you."
A look of something like fear crossed her face and she sucked in a deep breath as if I'd hit her. For a minute I thought she was going to fall apart; then she stiffened. "You have no right to cross-examine me," she snapped. "I'm not under oath. I don't have to bare my soul to you."
"I just hate to see you so disturbed about something you're not willing to share," I said truthfully. Ruby may be volatile, but she doesn't usually stew about things, or bury them deep inside her. When something's bothering her, she talks about it. And talks and talks and talks. I have never known her to keep a secret—especially her own—for more than about thirty seconds.
Ruby's mouth tightened and her green eyes blazed. She banged her fist on her desk. "So now this is all my fault!"
"Of course not," I said, trying to defuse her anger. "It's nobody's fault. It's just—" I stopped. I didn't like the way this conversation was going. It might be better to walk away and come back to it later. But if we didn't confront the problem now, the eventual eruption might be even worse.
"It has something to do with us, doesn't it?" I said quietly. "You're upset with me because I don't spend enough time with you now that McQuaid and I are married. And you wish we hadn't gone into business together."
She hesitated, biting her lip. I leaned forward, hoping that she was deciding to be honest with me. Instead, she crossed her arms over her chest and said, "If it had anything to do with our partnership, I'd let you know, wouldn't I?"
"That's a non-denial denial," I said. I was no longer coaxing or cajoling, I was commanding. "Be straight, Ruby. Tell me what's going on."
She rubbed her arms as though she were trying to get her circulation going. "You don't have to be confrontational. That's no way for a friend to act."
"I'm not being confrontational. But there's no use trying to deny it or sweep it under the rug. Something is on your mind, and it's affecting the way you act. Why, even Laurel has noticed."
"Laurel?" Her voice rose. "What business does she have poking around in my affairs?"
"Forget Laurel," I said. "Directly or indirectly, this thing has to do with us. I need to know what's going on."
Ruby uncrossed her arms and took a deep breath, drawing herself up with great dignity. "Do you really want to know what's going on?" She didn't give me time to answer. "What's going on is that you're pissed off. You're mad at me because for once, I won't let you intrude into my private life." She balled her hand into a fist and thumped the ledger. "I'm telling you, China, back qffl" And with that, she burst into hot, angry tears.
Instinctively, I reached forward to put my arms around her, but she turned away, shaking her head hard, rejecting me. The back of her neck where the hair curled looked fragile and vulnerable, and I longed to comfort her. But all I could do was sit there, stunned by the violence of her weeping, by her fierce dismissal. It was hard not to be angry with her for behaving so irrationally.
After a moment, though, I began to calm down. Although I had no idea what Ruby's problem was, I could certainly understand her insistence on keeping it to herself. After all, personal privacy has always been important to me, and I have my own ways of fending off assaults on my personal space, of defending myself when circumstances seem to close in around me and threaten my security, even my identity. Right now, I could only respect Ruby's way of dealing with whatever was bothering her. The best thing I could do was leave.
Still, if I had known what was eating away at Ruby—if I could have reached past her anger and her fear to the dark and secret thing that was hidden deep within her—I would have folded her in my arms and held her until there were no more tears. And then I would have held her even harder, and never let her go. Never, ever. For the thought of life without Ruby is ... well, unthinkable.
Chapter Two
In Norse mythology, the sun god Balder had become invulnerable because of the powerful spells of his mother, the goddess Freya. But Balder's vengeful enemy, Loki, discovered that Freya had neglected to protect her son from the mistletoe. He crafted a dart from the wood and gave it to the blind god, Heder, to use in a game. Heder threw the dart, missed the mark, and Balder was killed, an invincible hero slain by an insignificant twig thrown by a blind man.
China Bayles "Mistletoe Magic"
Goldthwaite, a small town in Mills County in West Central Texas, is "the mistletoe capital of the world" because more than a million packages of mistletoe are sent out each Christmas season to cities all over North America.
V. M. Bryant, Jr.
"Why We Kiss Under the Mistletoe at Christmas,"
1991
Brian leaned over and turned up the heater of McQuaid's old blue pickup. "Are we there yet, Mom?"
"In a minute," I said, and turned a sharp corner from the blacktop highway onto a rocky road. I pointed to a sign that read Mistletoe Creek Flower Farm. "See that? It's not far now."
When McQuaid and I were married, Brian decided, without any prompting
from his dad or me, to call me Mom—and I'm still new enough at this business of mothering to feel touched and a little surprised when he says the word. (Surprised, as in "Is he talking to me?") Brian's real mother, Sally, lives in New Orleans and occasionally sends inappropriate gifts, but that's the extent of her mothering. I'm mostly it for Brian, and he's definitely it for me. At forty-five, with the big hand of my biological clock approaching the witching hour, a child of my own is out of the question.
"Mistletoe Creek Flower Farm," Brian read out loud, peering out the window at the cheerful red-and-green painted sign, surrounded by yuccas and prickly pear cactus. He wiped the steamy window with his sleeve and peered at the sign through the light drizzle—a cold drizzle, since the temperature wasn't much above freezing. "What do they do in the winter when the flowers don't grow?"
"They make wreaths and things out of flowers they gathered in the summer," I replied. "And they take care of their greenhouses and fields. There's always a lot of work, even in the off-season." There are only a half-dozen houses along Comanche Road, which traces a twenty-mile loop off the main highway south of Pecan Springs, and there's so little traffic that the county doesn't bother to maintain it. We hadn't seen another vehicle since we pulled off Route 12.
The Texas Hill Country is a beautiful place in three seasons of the year—spring, summer, and fall. By early winter, though, the colors and textures of the landscape have subtly altered, and the Edwards Plateau, rising westward from I-35 and the lip of the Balcones Escarpment, can seem bleak and unwelcoming, especially on a rainy afternoon. The cedars keep their rich bronze-green color all year and the live oaks clutch their foliage possessively until March, but the early-winter pecans and hackberries and mesquite are only skeletal reminders of their luxuriant August selves, and the last ragged leaves on the post and shinnery oaks have already turned the color of mud. The witch grass and Indian grasses are brown and sere and even the all-weather prickly pear seems shriveled and naked among the chunks of limestone that litter the hills and ridges. Look close, and you might see a white-tailed deer among the willows along a creek; look closer and you can glimpse the wild turkeys stalking like elusive brown phantoms through the brush. But since this is hunting season, you'
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