From the vantage of her older self, Claire knew that when disaster struck, no matter how long prepared against, it was always sudden, always took your breath away. That much she understood. Some might consider Claire herself a madwoman, one in a citrus orchard instead of locked up in an attic. But she understood why the mother insisted on riding out on her horse each morning in her shabby clothes, despite the jeers, why she kept walking up and down the glacis, keeping vigil over her abandoned Coulibri and all the things that were now a thing of the past. If one gave up the past, what was there?
In the year following Josh’s death, the newspapers filled with the court case and then the sentencing of the three men, Claire had gone into town, alone or with the girls, and experienced repeatedly the hushed silence when entering a store or restaurant, the whispers, “That’s her!” She had achieved a macabre, unwanted celebrity. The fruit stand sold out daily for a year before attention finally shifted away.
She would not allow her illness to turn her into an object of pity; she refused to be sequestered. Instead of staying in the house, she put on jeans and sneakers, a sweatshirt over her bandaged chest, snuck into the orchards, and took long walks along the snaking rows of citrus. She wore a large-brimmed straw hat, hiding her face, the skin that would be sensitized by the chemo. The workers who saw her, probably thinking that she was indeed a madwoman, dodged out of her way quickly, making her privacy so complete and absolute it was almost as if she were invisible.
Claire spent long hours reading on the couch, and Minna served her thick, frothy health drinks.
“I can’t. I’m not hungry.”
“This is important. Builds the blood.”
Claire sipped and grimaced. “What is it?”
“Secret recipe from Maman.”
* * *
The following Monday would be Claire’s first chemo treatment, so she tried to luxuriate in the last days when she was still free to pretend away her illness. Mrs. Girbaldi was hosting her annual fund-raiser for animals, and although Claire shrank away from the effort of having to socialize, she decided she should go because to attempt to live a normal life seemed essential for what lay ahead.
Saturday morning Minna and Claire sat over coffee and newspapers on the patio. Paz was mopping in the living room, and Claire did her best not to hover over the girl. The house hardly felt hers anymore. Not only did Paz’s presence make her uneasy, she itched to correct details, such as the amount of oil used on the floor. Paz used too much and left behind a faint tackiness on bare feet. Not having control irritated Claire. When the mop handle clattered on the floor inside, she jumped, still groggy from having read late into the night.
Minna stood and looked out over the orchards. “This is a God place.”
“Excuse me?”
“You are lucky to have this. There are powers here.”
“It’s true. I draw strength here.”
“It can heal you if you allow it. Maman said trees healed you.”
“I want to explain some things — just because I hired you doesn’t mean I can’t take care of myself.”
“Of course.”
“I don’t intend to lie around being sick. I expect you to be productive as well. Live your own life, too.”
“Something bothers you?”
“No. Yes,” Claire said. “I’m not a pushover.”
“Are you feeling uncomfortable with me?”
“I’ve had to be strong to keep this place. You should know this.”
“That’s hard to do always.”
“Yes. But it’s who I am.”
Minna sipped her coffee and said nothing. Finally, she sighed. “Sometimes you have to give up power. For a time.”
Claire worried that she had offended the girl. If she left, Claire would be back to square one with her daughters. She had become crafty in her grief, sly in her fanatical attachment to staying on the farm. Minna had slippery edges, which meant she might do better than most. A hunger was there that Claire could work with.
“It must have been amazing to grow up on the islands,” Claire said, lightening the mood.
Minna blew on her coffee, which must have gone cold quite a while ago, an unnecessary, theatrical gesture. “It was a magic place. We owned things there like you do here.”
“Did you appreciate it at the time, how special it was?”
“It was simply our life.” Minna shrugged. “My maman preferred oil lamps at night. I would sit on her bed as she rubbed a cream made from coconut and flowers on my arms and legs and neck. She told me it would give me soft skin for my future husband someday.”
Claire smiled. “An idyllic childhood.”
“A way of life. People came for dinner and stayed a week. My parents had so many friends the house was never empty. I was never lonely there. Always a picnic or a party or an outing to go on. Like here, no?”
“We were happy here. Once.” Claire knew there was no such nostalgia for the girls. To them the ranch was simply earth and fencing and buildings. They were oblivious that it had spawned them as much as Forster and herself. “I’ll be out tonight.”
Minna nodded.
Claire thought of her own first lonely nights on the farm. “Would you like to go with me?”
“Should you bring your help?”
“You’re my assistant.”
Minna looked up and grinned. “It will be a raucous party, I hope? I’ll be your chaperone. Keep the men off you.”
“More like I’ll be the mother hen guarding her chick from the wolves.”
“But I’m a wolf. Just like you, I can take care of myself.” Minna stood and gathered the breakfast dishes. “Can I use the phone for a long-distance call to home? Just to let them know where I am. You can deduct from my wages.”
Claire waved off Minna’s suggestion, embarrassed by the mention of money and pay, dismayed how it ruined her effort at camaraderie, still so tenuous. She felt ridiculous, like having a schoolgirl crush, trying to make a good impression on this girl.
“I insist,” Minna said. “We must keep business and friendship separate.”
Claire was pleased by Minna’s mention of friendship, implying that she looked at this job as something more than a way station. Despite Claire’s protests to the contrary, she wanted a companion to go through her ordeal with.
* * *
Claire spent the morning in the barn with Octavio, going over the coming week’s work. The basket price for avocados was down, but strawberry prices had skyrocketed because heavy rains in Oxnard had spoiled its crop. Both sobering and an act of grace to realize that the world went on despite one’s private turmoil. Late afternoon, Claire came back from shopping to the eccentric sight of Minna sleeping out on the lawn. She lay flat on her back, her arms flung out sideways. Claire touched her on the shoulder.
Minna yawned awake. “What did you buy?” She jumped up like a teenager, eager to look through the bags.
“Go ahead,” Claire said, laughing.
Minna pulled out three velour sweat suits. Tube socks. Orthopedic clogs.
“What’s wrong?” Claire asked at Minna’s obvious disappointment.
“What about something fun?”
“I’m preparing.”
“Prepare for after. Buy a pair of stilettos.”
“I was never a stiletto kind of woman, if you haven’t guessed.”
Minna laughed. “It’s long past lunch. You need to keep up your strength. Let’s eat the leftover salmon.” In the kitchen, Claire sat on a barstool while Minna prepared food, and then they ate.