“You want some more of these, Ms. Warren? Another iced tea?” JoJo asked.
“Most definitely, on both counts. These are great. What are they?”
“They’re called munchers. They happen to be from a recipe that belongs to Rebecca. Matter of fact, she asked this morning to meet you when you came in next, and what do you know...you’re here. Funny, ain’t it?”
“Yeah...funny,” BJ said slowly. “Um, sure, I’d be glad to meet her.”
After BJ finished her meal, JoJo ushered her into a separate apartment behind the restaurant. “Grandmother lives here by herself. Of course, someone’s out front until we close, but she spends her evenings on her own. I’d feel better most days if she’d come live with one of the grandkids, but she says she likes to be independent, and I guess I can’t blame her there.”
BJ recognized that the same hand had decorated the restaurant and the apartment. They both seemed like places reminiscent of another time, as if age had not altered them from their original states.
They walked into the space that in modern-day terminology would have been the living room, but BJ thought the term “parlor” fit this particular room. The wallpaper had thin hunter green vertical stripes. A large Persian carpet lay on the polished wood floor, and a love seat nestled along the north wall under a large window. Two overstuffed chairs with Queen Anne legs sat with a small table between them.
“Grandmother, this is Evelyn Warren’s granddaughter. You said you wanted to meet her.”
“Indeed. Thank you, my dear. Please, sit down, Baylor.”
BJ sat in one corner beside the fireplace, wondering when it ever grew cold enough for a fire on Ana Lia. She could only think of one word to describe the older woman—elegant. She remembered JoJo saying Rebecca Ashby was ninety-five, but BJ would have guessed the woman’s age to be closer to seventy. She had hair that shone silver in the subdued lighting of the room. She wore a linen skirt and jacket in a champagne color. A stylishly carved walking stick with a jeweled crown leaned against a small table beside her. Rebecca seemed very different from the rest of the island’s residents.
BJ suddenly felt out of place. She self-consciously looked down at her cutoff jeans, and Rebecca saw the uncomfortable expression in her eyes.
“Do you enjoy a good tea leaf, Baylor?” Rebecca asked. “Um, I suppose so.”
“This is a Moroccan mint, which I have always found odd considering that the plant is grown in Malaysia.”
“I agree,” BJ said. “You’d think they would have called it Malaysian mint or something more in keeping with its place of origin.”
She accepted a delicate china cup from the older woman, then politely waited until Rebecca took a sip of the steaming brew before doing likewise. The mint flavor was wonderfully subtle and refreshing.
“It’s absolutely perfect. Isn’t it?” “Yes, yes, it is.”
“You see, it merely goes to show you how little, or how much, a name matters. There are some who refuse to try this brew because they happen to know that mint is never grown in Morocco. How foolish I’m sure they feel when they discover that a name is sometimes nothing more and nothing less than a name. It doesn’t have to be the be-all and end-all or even have some hidden meaning. There are times when we affix a particular moniker to something just because it feels right. After all, what’s in a name, eh, Baylor? Even Freud said that ‘sometimes, a cigar is just a cigar.’”
BJ sat with her mouth hanging open a bit, her cup of tea still balanced in one hand. She couldn’t put her finger on it, even if someone had pressed her to do so, but she had the strangest feeling that Rebecca wasn’t just talking about tea leaves from the other side of the world. Then there was the way she kept using Baylor’s given name, a name BJ had grown up detesting.
Had BJ actually disliked her name for any reason other than it had been her father’s idea? Was it because he had repeatedly told the story of how he expected his firstborn to be a son and how disappointed he had been when a daughter was placed in his arms? Perhaps BJ’s extreme dislike for her name had come on the day when she stood toe to toe with the man who had made her life so miserable to confront him over his abominable behavior. His answer had been to turn away from his only child to declare that he was sorry he had given such a pervert his beloved father’s name.
“Are you feeling ill, dear?” Rebecca asked.
BJ came back to the present and shook her head to clear away the old anger she felt whenever thinking of her father. “Yes...yes, I’m fine. Do you know my grandmother well, Mrs. Ashby?”
“Oh, my, yes. I met Evie and her friend Aimee in Greece in 1947. Very turbulent times back then, but of course, wherever there was political upheaval, that’s where you would find Evie and her camera. In fact, it was in Havana, Cuba, that we ran into each other again. It was 1953 and I was on my honeymoon. I remember those two weeks as if they were yesterday, you know. My husband, Charles, met a man who told us about Ana Lia on that trip. I suppose the rest is history.”
“I had no idea,” BJ said in wonderment. “I mean, I don’t remember Tanti ever telling me how it was that she came to Ana Lia.”
“Sometimes people tell us all sorts of things, and it’s not that we’re not listening, just that we’re not quite ready to hear.”
BJ didn’t know what to say to that. Was it possible that Tanti had told BJ all of these things and she had selfishly paid her grandmother no mind?
“Shall we entertain ourselves?” Rebecca pulled a thick deck of cards from a small drawer in the table between their chairs.
BJ chuckled. “So you’re a fortuneteller?”
“Good heavens, no. It’s a game, merely something to pass the time. Actually, I have heard that the tarot came from an Italian game called tarrochi. Some say it was used as a way to pass on stories that the Christian church didn’t want people to know. You see, in the fourth century, one particular faction of the church was declared ‘official.’Up to that point, there were many manifestations of Christianity. Who is to say who knew the truth and who did not? Well, the Roman emperor Theodosius suddenly said that this one was real, and all the others were contrary to accepted belief.”
“So where do the cards come into play?” BJ had studied much history and literature of ancient cultures while working on her doctorate, but she had never heard this tale before. She had to admit she was intrigued.
“Some people say that one of the heretical factions became known as the ‘Hidden Church.’It’s thought that the cards told the real history of the church. The game became a way to disguise them, yet still pass on the truth. I have no idea if any of what I’ve just told you is fact, but it would explain why the Christian church is so vehemently opposed to the tarot, eh?”
“I guess so. You know, I really don’t believe in such things as tarot cards, ouija boards, or crystal balls,” BJ said as Rebecca shuffled the cards in an oddly different manner. The ancient fingers seemed quite nimble. “It’s not that I think people are goofy who do believe, it’s just that I don’t happen to think life works that way. I don’t take it seriously.”
“Good. That is a prerequisite of mine, Baylor. Frankly, I don’t trust anyone who takes the cards too seriously. That’s playing a dangerous game.” Rebecca arranged the cards face down in three piles on the small table. “The worst thing you can do is to take the tarot too seriously or literally. Then again, I’m not sure I trust anyone who refuses to play the game, either.”
BJ felt as if Rebecca had forced her into a corner with that remark. “Okay, I guess I’m up for it.”
“Excellent. Let’s begin. The deck that I’m using is a Rider deck. I enjoy the artwork myself. The three piles represent your past,” she indicated each pile with one hand, “your present, and your future. The tarot is not a way to predict one’s future. I’ve seen the very same cards read differently by different individuals. That’s why it’s good not to take what you see too seriously.”