Holly Blues (3 page)

“Cass is in the kitchen,” I said. “Spinach salad is on today’s menu, so I’m sure she’ll be glad to see you.”

“I’ll get her order out of the truck,” Donna said. She cocked an envious eye at Ruby. “Woo-hoo, Ruby. That outfit is really cool. I sure wish I could wear clothes like that.” She sighed, looking down at her plaid shirt and denim overalls. “But if I tried, people would say I looked like a Christmas tree.” She glanced up. “Not that you do,” she added hastily. “You look great.”

“It helps to be tall and thin,” I put in. “Ruby can wear anything she likes and get away with it.”

Ruby frowned down at herself. “I don’t know. Maybe it’s too Christmassy. Do you think?”

“Of course not,” Donna and I exclaimed, in unison. “There’s no such thing as being too Christmassy,” I added heartily.

“All you need is a star on top of your head and some tinsel scattered here and there, and you’ll be perfect,” Donna said with a wicked grin. She turned to me. “Don’t forget that I’m saving a Christmas tree for you, China. We’re cutting tomorrow.” Several years ago, when she bought some nearby acreage and expanded her operation, Donna planted twenty-some acres in several types of pine trees. They’ve just begun maturing. A few weeks ago, I went out to Mistletoe Creek Farm on an errand, spotted a tree that I thought would be perfect, and asked Donna to hold it for us.

“I haven’t forgotten,” I said. “McQuaid and I thought we’d bring the kids out tomorrow evening. Will that work?”

“That would be perfect,” she said. “I’ve opened the Christmas shop, and we’re planning a bonfire and a hayride for tomorrow night. There’ll be caroling, too.”

“Sounds great,” I replied enthusiastically. “The kids will love the hayride—it’ll be a first for Caitlin.” I grinned at Ruby. “Maybe I can talk Ruby into coming with us.”

“I’d love to,” Ruby said promptly. “I’ll get a tree, too.”

“Fantastic.” Donna grinned again. “Support your local tree farmer. Oh, and be sure to wear your Christmas outfit, Ruby. We’ll put you in the shop. You can be Mrs. Claus.” She headed for the door. “I’ll get Cass’ veggies and take them around to the kitchen.”

When she had left, Ruby got off the stool. “I’m going to change before the tearoom opens for lunch,” she said in a huffy tone. “I am tired of being mistaken for a Christmas tree.”

I chuckled and gave her a quick hug. “We love you, Ruby.”

“It’s a darn good thing,” Ruby muttered. “I’d hate to think what you might say about my clothes if you
didn’t
love me. Keep an eye on the shop while I change, will you?” With that, she headed for the door that connects Thyme and Seasons and the Crystal Cave. We keep it open during business hours to encourage customers to shop in both places.

At the door, she turned. “Drat. I forgot. I have to go to Castle Oaks to take Mom some cookies. You’ll be here all afternoon?”

“I’ll be here,” I promised. “Take all the time you need.”

Ruby’s mother’s senior care facility is only a ten-minute drive from the shop, which makes things simpler for Ruby—although her relationship with her mother has never been simple. Doris is one of those mothers who always has to have the upper hand. When Ruby was nineteen, unwed and pregnant, Doris made her give up her newborn daughter for adoption. It was decades before Amy—the long-lost daughter—came back into Ruby’s life, and both deeply regret all the time they wasted.

But now, instead of having the upper hand, Doris has lost her grip. It all started when she was living in a retirement community in Fredericksburg, about an hour’s drive from Pecan Springs. She began mislaying her checkbook and car keys, forgetting appointments, and getting lost in familiar places. Then she bloomed into a full-fledged kleptomaniac with a deep-seated passion for pricey doodads—hand-painted silk scarves, jewelry, alligator bags. Apprehended by security guards on her way out the door, she claimed that she had forgotten to stop at the cash register, but Dillard’s surveillance videos told a different tale. There was more stolen merchandise stashed under Doris’ bed, too, which Ruby found and returned.

A month or so later, the diagnosis was inescapable: Doris was suffering from dementia. As the colorful colloquial expression has it, she was a few fries short of a Happy Meal. Or, variously put, a few carrots short of a casserole, or just back from surfing in Nebraska, or—

But of course, it’s not funny. Ruby moved her mother to Castle Oaks, here in Pecan Springs, so she can have better supervision, closer to home.Which does not please Doris—but then nothing has ever pleased Doris, even when she had all her marbles.

Ruby appeared in the doorway once again. “I forgot,” she said. “I ran into Alice Mitchell when I was at Margo’s yesterday. She wants Party Thyme to cater her New Year’s Eve party.”

“Three cheers for Alice!” I said. We’d catered for the Mitchells before. Their parties were a lot of work—planning, cooking, hauling, serving—but a party brought us as much as we’d make in a day at the shops, especially in the slow couple of weeks after Christmas. “And for you, too, Ruby.” Ruby is a go-getter when it comes to bringing in the clients.

“Thank you,” Ruby said modestly and disappeared.

Still thinking happily about the prospect of a big-ticket catering job, I opened the top box on the stack Donna had brought. I took out a fragrant herbal wreath, added a price tag, and hung it on the wall behind the counter. Donna and most of my other suppliers work on consignment. When their products are sold, I write them a check, minus my consignment fee. Good for them (their wares are nicely displayed for sale) and good for me (I can return what doesn’t sell). A fair deal all around.

Ten minutes later, I had hung the last wreath and was stepping back to admire the arrangement, when the bell over the shop door rang again and a pair of customers, both women, came in.

“Are we in time for lunch?” the one with the purple scarf asked brightly. “What time does your tearoom open?”

I smiled cordially. I love it when people arrive early for lunch. It gives them time to shop. “In about ten minutes. Please make yourself at home.”

“Oh, look, Ruth!” the other one exclaimed. “There’s some of that rosemary-mint soap I was telling you about. It’s handcrafted, isn’t it, China?”

“Yes,” I said. “Sarah Paulson makes it. She lives in Wimberley.”

“She makes it herself?” Ruth asked, impressed. “Isn’t that awfully hard?”

“Sarah is a gifted soap maker,” I said. “A good teacher, too. There are some of her cards by the cash register.”

With a murmur, both of them moved toward the display I had just finished putting together. A few moments later, they had bought not only Sarah’s soap, but her matching toilet water and one of Donna’s holiday wreaths, as well.

While the ladies were making their purchases, the UPS guy brought in the day’s shipment, a box of books and another, smaller box, a new product—not new on the market, of course, but new to the shop. Pepper sprays, tiny canisters filled with pure capsaicin, extracted from chili peppers and pressurized to make it aerosol. The canisters are packaged to resemble lipsticks, key rings, even rings, and while they might look like toys, they’re serious weapons of self-defense. I was carrying them for a serious reason, too. There had been several rapes in the campus area over the past six months, and some of the coeds had asked me to stock the sprays. They’re not legal in all states, but the Texas penal code permits the carrying of “small chemical dispensers sold commercially for personal protection.” That’s what these are, and while they’re purse- and pocket-sized, they pack a substantial punch. Hot peppers for potent personal protection—so combustible that they’re over the top on the Scoville heat scale, which is used to measure the heat in hot peppers.

By the time I finished putting the pepper sprays on a shelf at the back of the shop, safely out of reach of small fingers, several other people had come into the shop, ready for lunch. I opened the door to the tearoom, announced that lunch was being served, and seated everyone. Laurel Riley, who helps out in the shops when one of us is gone, was handling the serving today. She lives a block away, so it’s easy for her to come in for just a few hours at lunchtime—which is especially good, since Cass is temporarily one-handed.

We don’t offer a large menu, but our lunches (soups, mini-croissant sandwiches, Cass’ specialty quiches, imaginative salads, and fresh fruit) are a welcome alternative to the fast-food burgers and Tex-Mex cookery that is standard Pecan Springs lunch fare, and we’ve developed a group of loyal lunch patrons. The tearoom looks very nice, with hunter green wainscoting halfway up the old stone walls, green-painted tables and chairs, and floral chintz napkins and matching table runners. At Christmas, the tables are decorated with mistletoe, holly, ivy, and rosemary—herbs appropriate to the season—and fat red candles that give off a cinnamon-scented glow. Cass leaves her Thymely Gourmet card at every table, and Ruby is always glad to mention Party Thyme. It’s our theory that each business helps to boost the others.

I was on duty in the shops, so when things quieted down a little in the tearoom, I fixed a lunch plate and perched on the stool behind the counter. I turned on my laptop, and settled myself to munch and work on a piece for my weekly garden page in the
Enterprise
. I’ve been doing these features for several years now, in return for free newspaper advertising. It’s a good trade, especially in times when business is slow and I don’t have many advertising dollars to spend.

I was holding my sandwich in one hand and bringing up the file with the other when the bell tinkled again and the door opened. “Hi,” I said, without looking up from the screen. “We’re serving lunch in the tearoom, if you’d like to step on through.”

“I thought maybe you and I could have lunch together, China,” a tentative voice said. “If you have time, that is.”

“I’m afraid I don’t, actually,” I said. I glanced up and put on a friendly, half-rueful smile. The woman, in her late thirties, looked vaguely familiar, but I couldn’t place her. Probably a customer who hadn’t dropped in for a while. “Somebody’s got to mind the shops,” I added, “and it’s my turn.” I brandished my sandwich.

“That’s too bad,” the woman said. She dropped her canvas duffle bag and rubbed her shoulder as if it hurt. “I think both of us could use a little break. It’s only been a couple of blocks, but it feels like I’ve been carrying this thing for miles.”

“I’m sorry,” I said slowly. “I’m afraid I don’t—”

She tilted her head, with a little sidewise smile. “You don’t recognize me, do you, China?”

I frowned. “Not exactly. I mean, you certainly look familiar, but—” I stared, disbelieving, as the light dawned. “Sally? Sally Strahorn? Is that
you
?”

“Yep, it’s me.” She grinned broadly. “Fooled you, did I?”

“You certainly did,” I said, still staring. “Are you in disguise or something?”

It had to be a disguise. The woman wore jeans, a faded CTSU sweatshirt, dirty sneakers, and a well-worn denim jacket. Her hair was pulled back in a ponytail. She wasn’t wearing makeup, and her eyes looked naked. This was not the Sally Strahorn I knew—my husband’s first wife, Brian’s mother.

Sally has had her ups and downs. Lots of downs, unfortunately, but even when she was all the way down, she had always managed to look like she’d just come out on top. The last time I saw her, she had been wearing a chic, tight-fitting beige suit with a matching silk blouse, clunky gold jewelry, and beige stiletto heels. Her eyes were darkly lined, her lashes were heavy with mascara, and her honey-colored hair was worn in a classy chignon, wrapped in gold net. She looked and acted like a million dollars.

But what looked and acted like Sally, it turned out, wasn’t always Sally. Sometimes she was a character named Juanita, Sally’s other self. Juanita loved to party, dressed to kill, and spent Sally’s money as if the sky was the credit-card limit. Juanita emerged, it seemed, whenever Sally was under a great deal of stress.

After we learned all this, McQuaid realized that he had met Juanita often during the few years that he and Sally were married, although the two of them were never formally introduced and he’d never known that this fragment of Sally’s personality had her own name. After their divorce, Juanita began appearing with greater frequency—we saw her several times, although we still didn’t know who she was. It wasn’t until we found out that Sally had been diagnosed with dissociative identity disorder that we could begin to make sense out of some of the silly, senseless, and dangerous things that Sally—or was it Juanita?—had done in the past.

Ultimately, McQuaid learned that Sally was in treatment and that Juanita had finally (and permanently, it was hoped) gone away. We hadn’t gotten that information from Sally, of course. She has always been very secretive about what was going on in her life. The news had come from her sister Leslie, who lives in a small town north of Austin and whom we see and hear from on a regular basis. Not so Sally. In the past year, Brian had received only a birthday card from his mother. It didn’t have a return address, but it was postmarked in Kansas City, where—according to Leslie—her sister was working and living.

To tell the truth, Sally’s prolonged silences aren’t a problem for me, since I’m not anxious to have my husband’s kinky ex-wife living in our laps. McQuaid doesn’t find it a problem, either, for Sally is a raw reminder of a very bad time in his life. It’s Brian who suffers. When he was younger, it was painful to watch his disappointment when his mother promised him something and failed to come through. Now he’s a teen and “cool to the max,” so he tries to pretend that he doesn’t care whether she remembers his birthday or calls to congratulate him on his science project. But he does. He cares, and he worries about his mother, although he knows there’s nothing he can do to change her. And when she finally does show up (usually without bothering to email or phone), he has to be even cooler. He has to keep from showing how much he cares—which probably makes her feel even less inclined to connect with him again. Funny how that works, isn’t it?