Regan said, “Jamaica, I am so delighted you came for mass. I’m having a brunch at my place. Why don’t you come? You and Father Ximon can get acquainted where it’s warm.”
As she and the priest walked away, I turned once more to where the mujer had been standing. I panned around the churchyard, but she wasn’t there-only a few people remained inside the churchyard wall. I walked around the side of the church-nothing but a narrow patch of weeds between the building and the wall. I passed through the gates to the area in front of the wall where the road through the village ended in a wide dirt lot. The few cars that had been parked there were now gone. I saw three people walking down the road together, a lone man was walking up a lane to a house in the trees, and I saw Regan and the father leading a group across the bridge over the rio on the way to Regan’s house. I looked all around for the old hag who had wanted me to come for tea. She had simply vanished.
20
Regan held up a nearly empty wineglass. This was her court and she looked like a queen as she perched on the throne of her white leather sofa, her guests hanging on her every word. She had been telling amusing anecdotes about the colorful people in the village. Regan’s experience in show business had made her a wonderful storyteller, and she clearly loved all the attention this was bringing. “So this poor couple from Kansas City who were staying in the brown trailer wake up and find a white bull in the orchard below the house. They ask everyone whose bull it is, but no one will claim it. The acequias that run through their orchard are lined with watercress and wild asparagus, even in the winter, and the bull is eating all their salad vegetables. And the couple’s two big dogs are going crazy with this intruder. Well, of course there is no one to call-there is no ‘Animal Control’ like in the city. Every time the couple tries to go down in their orchard, the bull charges them. This goes on for a few weeks, and finally one day, little Gilberto-Augustus’s son-takes a willow switch and herds the bull out of the orchard. The gringa from Kansas City confronts the boy. ‘If that is your bull, why did your father tell me otherwise?’ And Gilberto says, ‘He probably knew you would ask him to move the bull, and everyone-even the bull-knows your orchard has the best grazing in the winter. Papa didn’t want to claim an empty bull when a full one would be there in his place in a matter of weeks.’ ”
Everyone laughed. This was the same Regan who had schooled me about Los Penitentes-totally in her element when telling a tale, her finger right on the pulse of the people. After a few warm-up yarns about the locals, she began to relate amusing tidbits about the guests present. One couple had brought some of their delicious chèvre to have with the wine, and Regan told about when they had tried to make extra income giving goat-walking adventures to rich Santa Fe women. “These two would pack their goats down with gourmet food, linens, tableware, and even little cushions to sit on. Then they would lead a bunch of wealthy women on a hike up to twelve thousand feet, serve them lunch from the goat packs, and listen to those ladies whine about broken nails and blistered feet all the way back down the mountain.” Regan laughed, and so did her guests. Then she turned to me and tilted her head, trying to decide what she would tell the others. “And Jamaica has taken on her own unique New Mexico adventure. This young woman is working on a book of drawings and stories about the Penitentes.”
The guests gasped in unison.
Father Ximon looked amused. “The Penitentes? Then you should get together with Ignacio Medina,” he sniggered. He looked at Regan as if they were sharing a private joke.
Regan rose gracefully from the sofa and said, “Well, I’m a terrible hostess-look at these wineglasses, they’re all empty! Please excuse me, everyone. I’m off to the cocina for more wine. I’ll be right back to fill your glasses.”
To Father Ximon, I said, “I have talked to Father Ignacio.”
“Well, then, you probably know all there is to know about the subject.” He chuckled, but his sarcasm cut like acid. His blue eyes looked hard, like marbles.
“I don’t get it,” I said. “What’s so funny?”
Before the padre could answer, the French doors at the back of Regan’s house opened and the good-looking renter from Regan’s casita with whom I had talked earlier that week came in. Regan peeked around the kitchen door to see who had just arrived, then hurried across the room to take his arm. “Oh! Look here, everybody, this is my guest in the casita, Andy Vincent. Andy’s from Los Angeles.”
Andy swept the room with a glance, his eyes widening when he got to me. The gesture was so subtle, I almost wasn’t sure whether he had done it or I had imagined it. In the midst of this group, this well-dressed, fifty-something man seemed an outsider-more polished, his look a little contrived. His black hair was feathered with a few perfectly matched wisps of gray, his shoulders broad from faithful sessions at the gym, and beneath the drape of his clothes he looked lean and hard, like a runner.
Regan introduced each of us, beginning with the priest. As she presented her guests, she spoke loud and fast, as if she were nervous that she might forget a name. Andy Vincent appeared not to notice this and was charming and well mannered.
Until now, all eyes and ears had been on Regan. But as she made the introductions, she seemed to grow smaller and fade into the background. And this commanding newcomer-full of exotic intrigue-took center stage.
When they came to me, Andy Vincent engaged my eyes. “Miss Wild and I have already met one another, but we did not have the privilege of an introduction then. It’s very nice to meet you, Miss Wild,” he said.
“It’s Jamaica. Nice to meet you, too, Andy.”
When the introductions were finished, Regan went back to the cocina for the wine. I got up as discreetly as I could and went to join her.
Regan set the bottle she was about to uncork on the counter. “Jamaica, I’m sorry I put you on the spot out there. I didn’t know it was going to go that way when I mentioned your book.” She placed her palm on my back, patted me several times, and then began rubbing between my shoulder blades as if to comfort me. I could feel her hand quivering.
“I want to talk to you about my book in a minute, but first-since we’re alone-let me say something real quick that I need to say.”
She stopped rubbing and looked at me.
“Regan, if I have ever done anything to hurt or offend you, I want to ask your forgiveness.”
My hostess surprised me when her eyes grew moist with tears. Her lower lip trembled, and she reached out with her hand and squeezed my arm. “My dear, that is so touching. I am honored that you cared enough about me to say something like that. Of course, no forgiveness is necessary, but that is a lovely custom. Especially for Lent.”
Before I could raise the matter of my book again, we were interrupted. “I thought I heard something about there being wine at this affair,” Andy said, leaning against the door frame at the entry to the cocina. The light behind him gave an auralike glow to his large, lean frame, his face in shadow. He tucked his thumbs into his pants pockets so that his fingers hung in front of them, and I could see two thin gold bands, one each on the fourth and fifth fingers of his right hand. I caught a faint whiff of citrusy aftershave. His hair gleamed. I stared at him, intrigued. “Regan, you’re in here keeping Jamaica all to yourself. That’s not fair.” He looked at Regan, but he came toward me. He picked up the corkscrew and wine bottle from the counter and deftly removed the cork. “Where’s your glass?” he said to me.
“I’m having tea.”
“Tea? You don’t care for the wine?”