Finding Casey: A Novel Read online

  Contents

  Chapter 1 Santa Fe, November 2005

  Chapter 2 Indian Market, Summer 2008

  Chapter 3 October 2008

  Chapter 4 Española, Thanksgiving Eve, 2008

  Chapter 5 Santa Fe, Thanksgiving Day, 2008

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Acknowledgments

  A Note on the Author

  By the Same Author

  To Sheryl Ann Simpson,

  best friend ever

  There are only two ways to live your life.

  One is as though nothing is a miracle.

  The other is as though everything is a miracle.

  —ALBERT EINSTEIN

  Chapter 1

  Santa Fe, November 2005

  Every house has a story to tell and, over time, will make whoever lives there a character. What happens inside the walls eventually finds its way into the plaster, hardening into the marrow of time. Paint it, remodel it, or set it on fire, but no one can take away its history. At night when the house creaks, tell yourself that’s “settling.” When the wind blows hard, and the house shudders like an earthquake, say, “Foundations shift.” It all comes down to earth and straw, and in time of drought or deluge, a dwelling will crumble. With it go a few stories.

  In 1690, the space this realtor woman is calling “the master bedroom” was a field where Indians grew corn. A century later, the “great room” was a stable for horses. One night, a Spaniard drank too much mezcal, stole one of those horses, and rode it up the dirt road that is now paved and lined with art galleries. It is said that mezcal came about when a bolt of lightning struck a maguey plant, and as such is called “the nectar of the gods.” It’s also called aguadiente, firewater, and responsible for many a deed that seemed brave at the time and stupid the next morning.

  The horse thief galloped that gelding up the steps into what is now called El Farol, the bar the New York Times now rates as one of the best in the world. The oldest bar in Santa Fe, they call it, and he demanded more drink.

  They know nothing of age.

  I watch this woman with the realtor by her side, going from room to room, heedless of the mouse that scurries across the kitchen floor into the cabinet where its babies wait. I pop open a cabinet, but do they notice? They see what they want to see, a room to fill with material treasures, loved ones, and ample food. They don’t see a nursery for the baby that will surprise them, or expect the grief that arrives over time, or sometimes in a single moment. They smell piñon fires in the kiva fireplace, not the burning of the bird’s nest in its flue. Underneath the foundation sherds of bone china tell the story of my life, and so many others, but will likely remain untouched.

  Just look at her face. She’s imagining new glass in the windows will make everything clear, and that homemade curtains will shut out the unpleasant. A silk pillow for her head, new dishes on a shelf, touches that change things just enough to make it hers. Already she’s in love, and what I know of love is this: It can fill a house, and change it into a home. A home can make people happy, for a while. But love has its betrayal and misunderstandings and eventual ends, and they’re just as potent.

  This house has been sold over and over again, yet never truly owned by anyone but me. People come and go, parting with massive amounts of money for their name on a paper deed. In no time they are on the move again, wanting more, or different, enough never being enough, or perhaps wanting less, having bitten off more than they can chew.

  Ah, well. Who knows what might happen when they move in?

  Outside, the wintry wind blusters through the cottonwood trees. Beneath the clay soil the forsythia is hard at work, because in a few months’ time, its nature is to bloom a furious yellow, promising spring. The wisteria that came all the way from China hangs on to the trellis, hoping for sun and nitrogen and its roots to be tenderly attended. Last spring the hollyhocks flourished, and the albino hummingbird gorged herself on red flowers, raising twins, also white.

  The truth is, there is no time here. There is only this moment, which becomes history the second it passes, and leads to the next moment, which is both a miracle and a curse, when you’re a ghost.

  Glory Vigil knew that she had fallen in love with the crumbling hundred-year-old Pueblo-style adobe on a tree-lined street across from the Santa Fe River the moment she laid eyes on it. The picture window was cracked. A dead peach tree stood in the courtyard like a forgotten scarecrow. What little yard that wasn’t covered by snow needed attention.

  When Glory lost her husband Dan after twenty years of marriage, she thought life was over for her, especially in the love department. She was too busy paying the bills to think about the future. Yet here she was now, married to Joseph Vigil, mother to their adopted daughter, Juniper, and moved from her native California to New Mexico. After three months at Joseph’s parents’ farm, not to mention ten pounds courtesy of Mama Vigil’s meals, they needed their own place. The moment Jenny the realtor turned the key into the clavos-studded mesquite door of 103 Colibri Road, she began to use words like charming and quaint and near-historical. Code, Glory knew, for a major fixer-upper. Yet the viga ceilings and arched doorways leading from room to room called to her.

  “Who used to live here?” she asked the realtor, whose family had lived in Santa Fe for twelve generations.

  “It’s been a rental for years. The current owners live in L.A. They’re no longer interested in being landlords.”

  Glory ran her hand across a plaster wall and watched flakes rain down.

  “Wiggle room on the asking price,” Jenny said, “unless you think it’s too much. I have two other houses to show you.”

  Glory thought of Joseph’s bad back. Her husband was a proud Spanish-Indian man and liked repairing things, even though he couldn’t really manage alone. “I’d like to see the rest of it.”

  The first closet she opened was painted a coral pink and turned into a library. Wooden shelves were just wide enough for some old Donald Hamilton paperbacks, their lurid covers chipped and coming loose from the binding. Cowboys and outlaws and Cold War spies—a way of life long gone and never as romantic as portrayed, but people kept reading them. The first bedroom was on the small side, big enough for a twin bed, though a little stuffy. Jenny cranked open the window and a faint, flowery scent Glory couldn’t name drifted in.

  It was a soggy November day, with temperatures in the thirties, but the thick adobe walls kept the interior at a comfortable seventy degrees. In the second bedroom, not as large as the first, Glory felt a chill and pulled her scarf up her neck.

  “North facing,” Jenny the realtor explained, pointing out the kiva fireplace, assuring her that winter nights would be cozy with a fire burning.

  “My daughter might like this.”

  “Or it would make a good office.”

  The hall bathroom was big enough for a claw-foot tub, but the bathroom attached to the master bedroom was tiny, with a narrow shower stall. The chipped sink was rust stained and the faucet was dripping. How much time did a person spend in a bathroom, really? Glory pictured the king-sized bed facing the old window, leaving plenty of room for a dresser, reading chair, and dog beds. The kitchen was so old it reminded Glory of the pink metal toy stove she and her sister Halle had played with as children. “This might be a deal breaker,” Glory said. “My husband loves to cook, and he makes quite a mess while he does it. I don’t think this kitchen is big enough for al
l his copper pots.”

  Jenny the realtor smiled. “Knock out this non-load-bearing wall and you can fit state-of-the-art appliances in here.” Behind her, the cupboard door popped open, seemingly all on its own.

  “What caused that?” Glory asked.

  Jenny laughed and pushed it closed. “Any house this old has a ghost or two,” she joked. When Glory turned the kitchen faucet on and then off, the plumbing let out a creaky groan. Jenny said, “Probably just a matter of replacing a washer.” She opened the French door that led outside onto the portal, Spanish for patio. “I saved the best for last. What do you think?”

  Glory thought she had stepped back in time to an era when water was raised from a well by a bucket. Above her, wisteria vines wove so thickly through the vigas that they made a roof. Here and there a dried blue or purple plume remained, giving off a faint scent of rain-drenched violets, even in winter. She recognized the smell from the first bedroom’s window and imagined the place in summer, when everything was in bloom. The portal’s supporting posts were hand-carved in a spiral design. Corbels blended seamlessly into the lattice roof. Against the wall of the house was an authentic outdoor Spanish kitchen, with open shelves for storing cooking pots and hooks from which to hang spoons, ladles, and whisks. There was a wood-fired stove with iron doors that looked hand-forged. Next to the stove was a sink chiseled out of a single piece of granite that probably weighed a thousand pounds. Its rough edges had rounded with use over time.

  Glory imagined an old woman standing there, adding well water to masa, patting out tortillas in short order. But the part of the kitchen Joseph would fall in love with was the beehive oven. The exterior had been covered with mosaic tiles of gold, blue, and red, making it look Moorish. Since they’d married, Joseph had begun writing a cookbook, re-creating his madre’s recipes so that Glory and Juniper could learn authentic New Mexican cuisine. He would fall in love with this oven just the way she’d fallen in love with the house. Glory happily shivered in the cold. “You were right, Jenny,” she said. “This is the one.”

  Jenny smiled. Since she represented both buyer and seller, she would make a killer commission on 103 Colibri Road, and thank goodness, because whether anyone else noticed or not, realtors could see that the bottom was beginning to fall out of the market. Already houses she might have sold in a weekend were sitting on the market for six to eight months.

  “By law I’m required to point out that the roof will need replacing within the next five years. The master-bath toilet runs, and wasting water in Santa Fe is practically a felony. The fridge and the two-burner stove aren’t Energy Star rated. They’ll run you a thousand or so each to replace.”

  All her life Glory had worried about money. When she lived in California, she’d sold eggs to the cooperative market, baked cakes to sell, and catered weddings; she’d even worked at Target for minimum wage and maximum sore feet. When she and Joseph decided to marry, she’d leased her California ranch, Solomon’s Oak, to Gary Smith, one of her former foster sons, on a lease-to-buy option. Though she’d formally adopted Juniper, Glory had no children to inherit the property, and Juniper had no plans to farm. It needed a family. When Gary converted the lease to a sale, it gave her the money to put down on the Santa Fe house, so it would belong to both Joseph and her equally, and that was important to her. And she had fallen as madly in love with 103 Colibri Road as she had with her new husband. But longtime habits are hard to break, so her tendency to justify big purchases kicked in.

  The house was a short walk from the historic Plaza, which hosted free concerts, Spanish and Indian Market, and museums she never grew tired of visiting.

  There was room enough for Juniper, who was starting college, to come home on weekends, and there was a guest room for her mother to visit.

  The run-down state of the house made it affordable. Well, almost affordable. She’d have to get a job, but she liked working.

  “Is that a garage?” Glory said, pointing to yet another crumbling structure at the end of the garden.

  “Por supuesto,” Jenny said—of course—“but as is common with Santa Fe homes it’s actually a carport. There’s also a casita, a guesthouse. Follow me.”

  They made their way through the snowy yard on no discernable path. Skeletons of hollyhocks rattled their seedpods in the wind. Yellow-headed rabbit brush and sage lay dormant under snow, waiting for the sun to bring them back to life. She’d have to employ one of her father-in-law’s goats to mow down the weeds, but beneath the icy crust, she just knew there was a garden waiting. She pictured rows of vegetables. Window boxes cascading with flowers she was still learning the names of. There was room for a few chickens. She could put in three dog kennels, and someday resume rescuing and rehabilitating death-row dogs as she had in California. Halfway across the yard they brushed snow away from a shapeless mass that turned out to be a fountain, clogged with leaves and muck. Now that Glory no longer lived near an ocean, any running water would be a comfort, plus it would attract birds. She particularly loved New Mexico’s array of hummingbirds, and planned to hang several feeders.

  “Let me call my husband,” Glory said, taking her cell phone out of her handbag. “Then we can go back to your office to write up the offer.”

  Jenny Montoya smiled and reached into her shoulder tote. “No need. I brought the contract with me.”

  That very afternoon, Jenny the realtor, who was one of Joseph’s cousins’ wives’ in-laws, presented the offer to the out-of-town sellers by fax and within an hour they accepted the offer without a single concession. There were Vigils in mortgage, lending, banking, and home inspection, and they closed escrow in nine short days. Jenny had done everything correctly, signed and filed and faxed and notarized, performed her “duty to disclose” by listing the defects in the house. Call it splitting hairs if you like, but she had mentioned the ghost.

  Just not any details about the ghost.

  Chapter 2

  Indian Market, Summer 2008

  Glory and Juniper had waited until Sunday to visit the two-day art event because on the last day prices were always more flexible. She’d heard longtime Santa Feans refer to it as “Indian Mark-up,” but anyone who worked on their art all year and hoped to sell it to afford another year of making art had Glory’s respect and support. She had been hoping to find the perfect micaceous bean pot for her husband so he could cook the Santa Maria pinquito beans her friend Lorna had sent them from Jolon. Because today was Glory’s birthday, Joseph was making her a fancy dinner. There would be Vigil relatives everywhere laden with cakes, side dishes, and chiles her in-laws grew on their farm in Hatch. Birthdays were nice, but tomorrow was the day Glory was looking forward to. It was Glory and Joseph’s third wedding anniversary, the year you were supposed to give leather (traditional) or glass (modern) to your beloved. Glory had bought Joseph a braided leather key chain with a silver concho shaped like the sun, surrounded by rays. Tradition said you were supposed to be married eight years to give pottery, but what could possibly happen if she gave him pottery five years early?

  “You hungry?” Glory asked Juniper as they completed the first lap of Spanish Market, having found no candidates for the micaceous pot.

  “A little. I never had breakfast.”

  “Why?”

  Juniper smiled. “I wanted to get my run in before it got too hot.”

  “That’s no excuse for skipping meals. Should we go to the Plaza Bakery?”

  “Are you kidding? Look how crowded it is. Let’s try Pasqual’s. I love their food and they have that community table so we shouldn’t have to wait.”

  “Good idea.” Glory was thinking of ordering a side dish, a quick bite to tide her over until dinner because her stomach was a little upset. She kept a careful watch on Juniper, who’d entered college at age sixteen due to acing entrance exams and Joseph’s pull at the university. Stress was part of college, but was Juniper ready for it? Glory worried about eating disorders. The books said overexercising was one of the symptoms, a
nd skipping meals, well, that was a no-brainer. Outside the restaurant, a line of hungry people snaked around the corner of Water Street and Don Gaspar. Glory excuse-me’d her way to the counter. “Is there any room at the community table? We just want a quick bite.”

  The waitperson pointed. “There are two spots you can have right now. Follow me.”

  When it came to sitting at the community table, your fellow diners might be strangers when you sat down, but not by the time you pushed your chair out to go. Glory had lived in Santa Fe long enough to resist making snap judgments about anyone. That crusty old cowpoke in the scuffed boots sitting next to you might own three hotels. The woman in the Chanel sunglasses and cowboy hat pulled low could be a movie star, because New Mexico catered to the industry for mutual benefit. The middle-aged balding guy scribbling notes on his napkin might be writing the next Pulitzer Prize—winning novel, because in this town you couldn’t help but run into a writer, artist, or both. UPS had once accidentally delivered them a package addressed to George R. R. Martin, the famous science-fiction fantasy writer. Juniper squealed when she got to take it to his house, even though it turned out he wasn’t home at the time. For a solid week the only words out of her mouth were: How many people can say they live down the street from George R. R. Martin? Until Joseph pointed out that their house was worth a quarter of what his was, Juniper got a lot of mileage out of being neighbors. “You think he’s the only writer that ever lived in Santa Fe?” Joseph said. “Google that topic, and come back and tell me what you find.”

  “P. L. Travers, Donald Hamilton, D. H. Lawrence, Cormac McCarthy, Tony Hillerman, Judi Hendricks, Rudy Anaya, Gary Paulsen, John Nichols, Sharman Apt Russell, William deBuys, Lynn Stegner, Roger Zelazny …”

  “Now you get the idea,” Joseph said. “I’d tell you to search artists but you’d die at the keyboard of old age.”

  That was life in the oldest state capital in the nation. New Mexico had history and infamy in every corner, from train robbers to Spanish conquistadors to aliens. Visitors traveled from around the world to mix with the Wild West, explore the site of religious wars and the fabled Cities of Gold, petroglyphs, adobe architecture, and Georgia O’Keeffe—there was drama aplenty to fuel great books, breathtaking landscapes for film backgrounds, and here, ethnicity had clout. A twelfth-generation Santa Fean trumped the wealthiest retiree. Tourism was key to the economy, but also drove up housing prices. Longtime families who had occupied houses on Acequia Madre and Canyon Road now lived in Pojoaque, Española, Rio Rancho, or even farther out. Galleries were filled with art the majority of people could never afford, but relied on the few who could. Every Indian Market there would be a newspaper story about some art dealer waiting in line all night to buy the grand-prize-winning pot or straw crucifix or turquoise nugget nestled in sterling silver. Meanwhile, grimy musicians sang in the Plaza with their guitar cases gaping open for spare change. Indians sat in the shade of the Palace of the Governors with handcrafted jewelry spread out on black cloth as they had for hundreds of years. For some it was an easy place to live, but to Glory it was a little lonely, even though she quickly got to know her multitudes of cousins and in-laws that came along with her marriage. After four years in Santa Fe, she could almost remember their names. She called her sister in California twice a week, and exchanged e-mail with Lorna Candelaria, who kept her up to speed on the doings in Jolon, California.