A Question of Ghosts (26 page)
The low fence Becca had stepped over so blithely was clearly posted, marking this field as off-limits. Apparently, her beloved was quite capable of felony. Jo understood why the officials who guarded Mount Rainier deemed these lush wildflowers too fragile for human traffic. Her attention was divided between stepping carefully and expecting arrest at any moment.
“This place wasn’t cordoned off thirty years ago.” Becca waited for her at the edge of the trees, panting lightly. “At least, I don’t remember my parents smuggling me down here in their picnic basket, way back then. Come on. Through here.”
That dimple appeared in Becca’s cheek, and Jo would have followed her through the gates of hell. Or to prison, possibly, should any rangers find them in this field.
Jo recognized the tall young trees they wended through as white pine and maple, but she wasn’t well versed in nature and couldn’t be more specific than that. Their cool shade was welcome as the sun crested noon. The long box of doughnuts almost slid off her arm, but she pulled a quick save.
They emerged from the trees, and Jo’s mouth fell open. She had always believed in an afterlife, but she’d never had a clear image in her mind of heaven. This came close.
Wildflowers exploded in wide swaths at their feet, cutting through the thick grass that layered the ground. But Jo’s eyes were drawn immediately from their beauty to the stark glory of Mount Rainier above them, looming white and crystalline against the blue sky.
“Have mercy,” Jo breathed.
Becca laughed. “That’s what Khadijah said when she saw this place. Her exact words.” She folded herself gracefully into the grass and Jo tried to follow suit, managing to set the boxes down without disaster.
“Those red, lacey cups over there are Indian Paintbrush.” Becca nodded at a patch of scarlet blossoms dotting a small slope at their feet. “The little yellow claws are Glacier Lilies, and the ones that look like purple daisies are Alpine Asters.”
“You know your wildflowers.” Jo watched Becca’s hair drift off her face with a breeze, grateful for the new peace in her eyes.
“I know the flowers here. Marty and Khadijah drove me up here when I was nineteen years old. Well. They drove me up here several times. We circled Rainier for an entire summer, looking for this meadow. We had a guide to go by.”
Becca opened the satchel in the grass at her side. She drew out a small framed square, her hands gentle on its wooden corners. She studied it, then handed it to Jo.
It was a simple oil painting of Mount Rainier, well done, unsigned, less than a foot square. Its colors had faded slightly, but the perspective was unmistakable. Jo looked up and saw an exact image of the mountain reigning over the meadow.
“My mother drew Rainier during our picnics here when I was little. She made that painting from her sketches. I knew we’d found the right place when the mountain looked down at us from precisely that angle.”
“You found the right place,” Jo agreed. She imagined Madelyn Healy’s fine hand holding a brush, stroking the craggy peaks to life. Becca’s fingers were gentle in the grass between them.
“I could always picture my parents so clearly in this meadow. When I’d been clean for one year, I asked my friends to help me find it. Khadijah and Marty were with me when I scattered my parents’ ashes here.”
Jo could see them too, now. Scott Healy sitting at the base of this very tree, reading a newspaper. His lovely blond wife nestled in the grass nearby with a pad of creamy paper in her lap, sketching. And a very small girl dancing in the sunlight amid the riot of wildflowers.
*
Becca touched the frame of the painting and checked her heart. She was sure. “I brought this with us because I’d like you to have it, Jo.”
Jo looked stunned. “This painting? Your mother made this. It has to be precious to you.”
“It is, sure. I know you’ll take good care of it.” Becca sat back on her hands, the sun warm on her face. “Consider it a thank-you gift from my mom. And from me.”
“But Becca, this is—”
“Joanne. You made it possible for me to bring peace to my dead mother.” Becca smiled. “You’d be astonished how rarely this happens in relationships.” She nudged her gently. “Honey. It’s all right to accept a gift from a friend who loves you.”
“A friend I love.” Jo was quiet, cradling the frame in her hands. “Thank you, Becca. I’ll treasure this.”
Jo lifted the satchel and slid the painting carefully into it. “I wanted to give you a gift, too. I was going to wait for a moonlit night on the beach, but I like this place better.”
Becca realized the gift Jo intended before she drew the music box out of her shirt, and her throat constricted. Aside from her beloved Spiricom, this was the only personal possession she had ever seen Jo touch with true affection. She accepted the box and rested it on her knees. Jo was content to let her sit quietly for a moment, which was a good thing, because she couldn’t speak.
The square she held in her hands was soft, covered by worn purple cloth. The wood beneath it was strong, and it held music, like Jo. Finally, she lifted the lid, and soft, tinkling notes issued from the small speaker. Becca remembered hearing this light Spanish melody the first time she saw the music box in Jo’s home.
“Tell me about her,” she said.
“Her name was Consuelo, and she was my mother.” Jo’s low voice was tender, like the music. “My parents hired her as an au pair. She was with me for six years, until I was ten. She only left me because her younger sister was deported to Mexico. My parents were kind enough, but Consuelo was all I knew of real maternal love. She gave this to me the day she left.”
“And you’re giving it to me.”
“You’re all I know of real love, Becca.”
It would have taken her breath away if she’d had any air to spare.
Jo kissed her, and there was nothing nervous or hesitant in her now. Becca was still aware of the sweet scent of the wildflowers and the sun on her face. She still heard music, but all of that pretty much faded in the warm blend of Jo’s lips against her own.
“You’re getting really good at that,” she gasped finally.
“I know.” Jo sounded proud. “You’re a good teacher. Becca?”
“Joanne?”
“We don’t have to spend the entire three days at the beach sleeping.” The contours of Jo’s side were quite close against her. “If you’d be willing to continue my lessons in Becca School.”
“Hey.” Becca brushed her finger beneath Jo’s chin. “Please consider class in session.”
The kiss lasted longer this time, and Jo’s light touch on her breast was welcome, very welcome, too welcome, and Becca lifted her head quickly.
“Sorry. I’m sorry,” she stammered. “But not here. I simply can’t carry on like trash in this meadow, not with the possible ghosts of my parents looking on.”
Becca bit her lip, but Jo just grinned down at her.
“All right. You’ll find I’m a patient woman. Tell me what you need from me now, Becca.”
Becca thought about this. It didn’t take long.
“First, I want to honor your impulse to feed me. I wouldn’t want to hurt your feelings by refusing this picnic. So now, we’re going to eat a lot of junk food.”
“Of course.”
“Then we’re going to drive to the nicest house on the beach, where we will enjoy three days of Becca School.”
“That sounds delightful.”
“And I’m going to drive.”
“Of course.”
The End
About the Author
Cate Culpepper has resided in Seattle for the past twenty years. She’s the author of the
Tristaine
series,
Fireside
, and
River Walker
. Her books have won three Golden Crown Literary Society Awards, a Lambda Literary Award, a Lesbian Fiction Readers’ Choice Award, and an Alice B. Medal for her body of work.
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