Little Fox Cottage

by Barbara Cool Lee

  On a shelf over the counter were some bowls and napkins. She grabbed a pretty brown bowl with a pattern of orange lines on it. She shredded the chicken breast from the senior meal into it, stirred in the corn, and then added a cup of the molé sauce. The gray gravy and green jello went down the garbage disposal without a second thought. She may have been raised not to waste food, but she had her limits.

  She grabbed a cloth napkin in stripes of chocolate and apricot, along with the bowl and the leftover chips from her own bag, and went back into the living room. Helena was still sitting with Maisy.

  "I don't want that senior meal stuff," Helena said, a stubborn set to her jaw.

  "Okay," Bree said. "But how about some of Mama Serrano's chicken?"

  After a bit more encouragement, Helena got up and came over to the dining room table. It was a big table, meant for joyous family meals. But the two of them sat at one end and Bree put the bowl in front of her. She took the cloth napkin and spread it out, then poured out the tortilla chips on it.

  Helena picked up a tortilla chip.

  "Try it," Bree said, thinking she should have heated the chips. "Maybe it'll be good?"

  Helena stuck the chip into the chicken and sauce and then after a tentative sniff, took a bite. She smiled. "You did it right. No garlic."

  That was the secret. Helena didn't like garlic, so Henry made this sauce just for his twin.

  Helena kept taking the chips, one by one, and slowly, she ate her way through the bits of chicken.

  "This is good," she said, as if surprised.

  "Henry made it, so of course it's good."

  Helena nodded. "You work with my Henry."

  "Yes. My name's Bree Taylor, remember?"

  "Henry's gone."

  "I know."

  "I miss him."

  "I know. I miss him, too."

  "Mama Serrano would make it for us," she said out of the blue.

  "The molé?"

  Helena nodded. "We would sit at her table in the kitchen and she and Mommy would talk. Then she'd give us molé and tortillas."

  Bree hadn't heard this story from Henry. She felt her eyes tearing up as she watched Helena relish every bite of her lunch, her mind clearly wandering back to happy times as she smiled and hummed her way through the meal.

  When it was done, Helena stood up from the table. "I want to lie down."

  Bree got up. "That sounds like a plan. Do you need help?"

  Helena shook her head.

  "Okay," Bree said. I'll be back later."

  She wondered if Helena remembered that she had invited her to stay for a few days, but then Helena said, "I made the bed for you. It's where Henry stays, in Kits. I won't lock the door."

  "What's a kits?"

  But Helena just walked away, either not hearing, or ignoring, her.

  Bree decided not to say anything else to avoid the risk of another meltdown. Helena was calm, at least.

  Maisy had sat still through this whole process, not begging for food as she usually did. Now her head swiveled back and forth as she looked from Bree, standing there clutching the empty bowl and napkin to her chest, to Helena, who slowly shuffled her way down the hall and into a room.

  Bree heard the creak of the bedsprings as she sat down.

  She hated to leave her alone here, but of course Helena had obviously been alone here all the time, and had managed well enough.

  She had expected something so different: Henry's twin, grieving like she was, but a conduit to the man she missed so terribly. But what she'd found here was a second tragedy to add to the first one. Helena may be having a bad day, as the delivery driver had said, but there was more to it than that. She was ill, and lost, and alone. And what had Henry been planning to do about it? He had left her meals, obviously trying to care for her from a distance. But if today was any indication, that soon wouldn't be enough.

  She would figure out what Henry had intended for Helena, and make sure she was cared for before she left town. She owed it to the man to see this through.

  She took the bowl in the kitchen and loaded it and the other dishes she found into the dishwasher. She found some dish detergent, and started the washer.

  Then she went and got the dog, who still hadn't moved. "Come on, Maisy," she said, grabbing the leash. "Time for a walk."

  CHAPTER FOUR

  THEY HEADED down Tejas toward the main street.

  Maisy walked dejectedly next to her. Bree had always thought of her as a high-energy dog, but that had changed. She had seen Maisy every day when she'd gone to pick up the menus at Henry's apartment, and most of the time, the pup had come to the door to greet her with a drool-covered toy in her mouth for Bree to throw a few hundred times.

  But since being discovered huddled next to Henry's body, Maisy had been quiet and subdued. She wondered if dogs felt grief as humans did. Maybe there was a vet in town who could help her figure it out.

  Then she realized she wasn't going to be here that long. And she wasn't sure whether Maisy was staying with Helena, or if she'd have to find a way to take care of the dog herself. A shelter was out of the question for Henry's beloved Maisy, but keeping her would mean moving to an apartment willing to rent to someone with a big, active dog. That was going to be a bit hard to find unless she could come up with a substantial amount of money for first, last, and cleaning deposit.

  Which meant she needed to start thinking about getting another job. Like, ASAP. The thought made her stomach turn over. Lassiter's had been the only restaurant she'd worked at since culinary school, and Henry wasn't around to give her a reference. No more sous-chef for her, with the paycheck to match. Looked like she would be at the bottom of the restaurant food chain. Well, even if she had to work as a dishwasher, she would find a job and start crawling her way back up the restaurant hierarchy.

  She decided not to think about it any more for now, since she couldn't look for work until the funeral was over and she was free to get out of Pajaro Bay. She doubted there were any gourmet restaurants in a town this size.

  They turned left at the corner. She saw a few tourists were out on the main drag. Some were posing for selfies in front of the Owl's turreted entrance, others were going in and out of the little alleys along the way. Maybe some day she'd come back here on vacation and get to enjoy all the things the tourists did.

  "Hey, Pretty Lady," said a disheveled guy as they passed Hector's Garage. "You the funeral lady?" The man had long black hair tied back out of his face with a red bandana, and his glazed eyes implied he was just a little out of it.

  "Yeah," she answered.

  Maisy wagged her tail at the guy, who despite his unkempt appearance, exuded an air of kindhearted friendliness.

  "Sorry Henry died," the guy continued. He wiped his hands on an oily rag. "Real sorry. Nice dude." He seemed genuinely sorry. In fact, as he spoke, his eyes teared up, and Bree found herself wanting to comfort him.

  "It's okay," she said. "Did you know him well?"

  "Bought a car off me once," he said. "But I'm sorry for you, lady. Real sorry. Sorry you have to have this bum trip."

  "Thanks," she said. She put out her hand to him and he shook it with his dirty one. "I'm Bree Taylor."

  "Pretty name," he said, "like that French cheese, huh?"

  She tried not to laugh. In his own weird way, he was charming, and his good intentions were so transparent you couldn't help but like him.

  He didn't tell her his own name. He just stood there smiling sadly at her, so she smiled awkwardly back and then said, "well, I'll be going."

  She and Maisy walked away, the guy still standing there and looking. How had he known about Henry when, according to Wade, no one in town did? But at least he'd pulled her out out of the self-pity she'd been wallowing in. She was fine. She was grieving, she was a bit lost. But she was fine. She would get through the next couple of days and then get a job and start rebuilding her life.

  They walked on for another block. Sure enough, they soon came to a big
, well-marked street. There it was, Mission Street, in letters big as life. She must have driven right by it when she was following the GPS.

  A large sign like the one directing people to the amusement park had been placed at the corner. Mission Bahia de Pajaro, it read, with a giant arrow pointing up the hill. There was a freshly paved street, with a neat yellow line painted down the middle and crisp-edged sidewalks on each side. Wow. It was like a professional had done it, unlike the odd alleys and the cracked-paving, single-lane drives elsewhere.

  "Tourist Central," said that wonderful, deep voice behind her.

  She turned to see Nico smiling at her. "I was just heading back to tell Father Anselm the news about Henry. Is that where you're going?"

  "How did you know?"

  He held up his cell phone. "Wade's already gotten the word out." Then his smile faded. "It's really Henry Lassiter?"

  She nodded, and felt herself choking up. She cleared her throat. "Yes. He had a heart attack. The funeral is supposed to be on Monday, but I need to arrange things."

  "I'm so sorry," he said simply. He came closer, and without thinking about it, she found herself reaching for him. He put his arms out and she fell against him, sobbing. He just held her, patting her on the back, while she cried out all the worry and sadness.

  After a minute or two she realized what she was doing and pulled back. His gray polo shirt was wet. "I'm so sorry," she said. "That was totally out of the blue. I don't know why I did it."

  "It's totally normal. Happens all the time."

  She looked up at him, thinking he was being sarcastic, but he didn't seem to be.

  "Dr. Nico," someone said. He turned, letting go of her, and she took a step back. She bent down to hug Maisy, who had just stood quietly through the entire exchange.

  The man who had spoken was asking Nico questions. Apparently his son Zane had gotten a bad sand rash when beaching his kayak, and it wasn't healing right.

  Nico—Dr. Nico—patiently explained the process for cleaning and bandaging the injury. He must be a doctor. He could go from comforting a blubbering woman to explaining antiseptic procedures without missing a beat.

  The man thanked him and walked away. Nico bent down to where she was burying her face in Maisy's fur. "Nice dog," he said.

  She looked up. There was no judgment in those rich, dark eyes. Just warmth, as if he were enjoying having a pleasant conversation with a stranger. Okay. If he was willing to ignore her crazy emotional breakdown, she could probably avoid dying of embarrassment and be polite in return. "She was Henry's dog," she said. "I was supposed to be delivering her to Helena."

  Nico held out a hand and helped her stand up. Touching his hand set off that odd feeling again, of comfort and home. She ignored it.

  "I'm sorry about the blubbering," she said. She let go of his hand.

  "I told you, it's totally normal," he said. "Grief hits you like that. I've seen it. I'm not judging you."

  "Just reading my mind."

  "As long as you don't start reading mine, or I'll be in trouble." He grinned at her, and she felt herself wondering if he was always this flirty with women.

  Then he frowned. "Wait a minute—? Was that Henry's wish?" He stopped. "The part about the dog you said before. I mean, did he specifically say that he wanted the dog—"

  "Maisy."

  "—Maisy, to go to Helena? I mean did he tell you that recently?"

  She shook her head. "No. He didn't say anything specifically. But Helena's his only family. They haven't even found a will." She sighed. "It's all a mess, really. It was completely unexpected."

  He waved a hand up the hill. "Let's go talk to Father Anselm. That's a first step, anyway, getting the funeral arranged." Then he stopped. "Unless you'd rather do this alone?"

  She laughed. "Are you kidding?"

  He smiled. "Then let's go."

  The street was gorgeous. There were flowers planted all along the sides: mostly purples and reds, but some spots of pure whites. He pointed out the different flowers, calling them by their Latin names: Salvia farinacea, Jacaranda mimosifolia. They came upon a patch of orange California poppies waving in the breeze, "Eschscholzia californica," he said. The Latin rolled naturally off his tongue as if he'd said the names many times. She wondered about that. Maybe it was his hobby. She opened her mouth to ask about it, but then he pointed to a pink rose climbing up the pale trunk of a eucalyptus tree: "Cécile Brünner rose," he said.

  "It is!" she said. She explained about Henry and the rose, and he listened so patiently she again thought he was just being polite, but then he said, "you must have known him a long time."

  "Less than a year," she said.

  "But you cared deeply for him." It was a statement, not a question, and she didn't even try to justify or explain it. She just nodded. And he seemed to understand.

  She held Maisy on a short leash so the dog wouldn't use any of the flowers for a bathroom area. But the dog walked dejectedly beside her, not seeming to care about the flowers, or even a squirrel that skittered across the road in front of them and up a tree. She talked to Nico about that, too, and he listened sympathetically.

  Bree didn't know why this man was being so nice, unless that was just the way doctors were. She told herself it was just his way, that he obviously thought nothing about holding a sobbing woman in his arms. Business as usual for Dr. Nico, apparently.

  Finally, at the top, they came to a big parking lot, all marked with crisp, freshly painted lines. "The mayor got the street improvements done this spring," Nico explained. "Now they won't have tour buses parked all along the main street, clogging traffic."

  "I managed to park in the middle of the street without being in anyone's way," she pointed out.

  "That's because you chose to get lost on a weekday before the summer season started. Apparently summer's a whole different story."

  "Apparently?"

  "This'll be my first summer," he said. "I'm looking forward to treating sunburn and poison ivy. And let's hope for the tourists' sake I don't have to stitch any shark bites."

  She laughed.

  The parking lot was set back from the church, but she could see the bell tower beyond a little group of trees. Here, as below, there were big signs pointing the way to the church and the gift shop, but Nico led her around to a side entrance.

  "The padre's in the garden right now," he said. "He doesn't know about Henry yet. He doesn't take a phone with him when he's out in what he calls God's creation."

  They came to a vine-covered arbor. In the shade of it the air was cool and a bit damp. At their feet was a brick path, covered in moss.

  "Watch out, it's slippery," he said. He stepped aside to let her enter first.

  Beyond the arbor was an open hillside, sloping back down toward the village. The view was breathtaking. They could see all the little cottages scattered along the winding streets, and then beyond the village, the vast turquoise of the sea. In the middle of the bay, a tiny island poked up out of the water, its lighthouse tower looking like a toy from this distance.

  On the hillside itself, an old-fashioned garden held neat rows divided by dusty little paths. Beyond the garden, there was a graveyard with upright headstones and the occasional crypt. It had tidy gravel walkways cutting through the rows, and in the distance there was an older man in a black cassock walking away from them. They went through the garden and down one of the gravel paths to meet him.

  Bree noticed that the man was carrying a big tin bucket filled with cut flowers, and in his wake, the vase at each headstone held a flower or two.

  When they caught up to him, he was just entering a small fenced area of the graveyard. This part appeared older, and there were no gravestones, just small wooden crosses.

  "What a charming dog!" the priest said. "I had a collie mix when I was a boy." He bent to pet Maisy, who did her non-reaction thing again, just sitting and accepting the petting but apparently not caring about it one way or another. Then the man straightened up.


  Nico introduced her to Father Anselm. The padre, as Nico called him, stood silently with his head bowed as Nico told him about Henry. He was a middle-aged man, a bit on the round side, a bit on the stooped-over side, and with a calm demeanor that was immediately comforting.

  In this ancient setting, she might have expected the gray-haired, balding priest in his old-fashioned black cassock to launch into an eloquent soliloquy on the transitory nature of death. But, "I'm sorry for your loss, Ms. Taylor," was all he said. "Helena must be very upset."

  He bent down to place a flower at one of the wooden markers. He stood silently for a moment, crossed himself, then moved on to the next marker and repeated the procedure. They followed along behind him, Maisy trailing at the end of her leash in the rear.

  "I put flowers on the graves of the Indios each week," he explained. "It's the least I can do. They had a hard time during the mission period. Many died. Did you grow up in California?"

  She nodded.

  "Then you had the California Mission Project in fourth grade?"

  "Sure. I made a little church out of rice crispies with a macaroni tile roof. But yes, I remember the story of how the Native people were forced to work for the missions."

  He nodded. "Yes. It is a part of California history that we still are coming to terms with. So I do this to remember."

  Then he said briskly, in a turn of the subject, "yes, of course, we can certainly arrange Henry Lassiter's funeral for Monday," he said. "I'll have my secretary call the funeral home in Sacramento."

  They followed him while he finished with the flowers, then he led them over to a different section of the cemetery. This was almost the opposite of the abandoned Native graveyard with its simple markers. Here stood a huge crypt marked MADRIGAL, and nearby were plots with headstones for ROBLES, O'KEEFFE, and LASSITER.

  "This is where Henry will be," Father Anselm said, standing at the Lassiter plot. "It gets complicated. His twin is a Lassiter by birth, but a Madrigal by marriage. So she'll be in the Madrigal crypt with her husband."