The Inheritance of Orquídea Divina (4)

But he couldn’t deny that when he entered Orquídea’s home, he felt something, though he couldn’t truly name the exact sensation. Comfort? Warmth? As she led him through a hall filled with family portraits, he ignored the feeling. The wallpaper had been sun-kissed and the floors, though shining and smelling of lemon rind, were scuffed. There was an altar on a table in the foyer. Dozens of candles were melting, some faster than others, as if racing to get to the bottom of the wick. Bowls of fruit and coffee beans and salt were front and center. He knew some of the folks from the Mexican community nearby had similar reliquaries and statuettes of the Virgin Mary and half a dozen saints he couldn’t name. He sat through every Sunday mass, but he’d stopped listening a long time ago. His grandmother had been Catholic. His memory of her had faded but, standing in the Montoya house, thoughts of her slammed into him. He remembered a woman nearly doubled over with age, but still strong enough to roll a pin across the table to make fresh pasta on Sundays. He hadn’t thought of her in nearly fifteen years. The scent of rosemary that clung to her salt white hair, and the way she wagged her finger at him and said, “Be careful, my David, be careful of this world.” Ramblings of an old woman, but she was more than that. She’d watched him while his mother was sick and his father was breaking his bones at the mill. She’d prayed for his soul and his health, and he’d loved her infinitely for so long. So why didn’t he think of her anymore?

“Are you well, Sheriff?” Orquídea had asked, glancing back at him. She waited for his reaction, but he wasn’t sure what it was he should say.

He realized that he was still standing in front of the altar, and his cheeks were wet. His pulse was a frantic thing at his throat and wrists. He pressed his lips together and did his best impression of politeness.

“I’m peachy.” He wasn’t sure if he was, but he shook the emotion out of himself.

“Make yourself at home. I’ll be right back.” Orquídea went into the kitchen and he heard the water running. He sat in the large dining room, the barest part of the house. No wallpaper or decorations. No drapes or flowers. There were stacks of papers out on a banquet table fit for a dozen people.

Now, he wasn’t trying to pry. He believed in the rights of the people of his township, his small corner in the heart of the country. But the papers were right there inside an open wooden box. The kind his mother had once used to store old photographs and letters from her father during the war. From his cursory glance, he recognized a land deed and bank records with her name on it. Orquídea Divina Montoya. Part of him was bewildered that it was all here in plain sight. Had she been putting everything away? Had she known he would come? How could she? It didn’t make a lick of sense. But there was the proof in front of him. Documents that could not easily be forged. He was relieved. He could tell the very concerned citizens of Four Rivers that there was nothing out of the ordinary about the house and its inhabitants except—well, other than that they had appeared out of nowhere. Had they? The valley had been abandoned for so long. Maybe no one in Four Rivers had been paying attention, like the time a highway sprung up where there hadn’t been one before. Surely there was no harm done here.

“How do you take your coffee?” Orquídea asked as she walked into the dining room clutching a wooden tray offering two cups of coffee, milk in a small glass jar, and a bowl of brown sugar.

He drummed his long, thin fingers on the table. “Plenty of milk and plenty of sugar.”

They smiled at each other. Something like understanding passed between them. Neither of them wanted any trouble, he was sure of it. So, they talked about the weather. About Orquídea’s distant family, who had passed the house down to her. He didn’t remember any Montoyas from Ecuador around these parts. He wasn’t sure where Ecuador was, if he was being truly honest with himself. But then again, it was possible that he didn’t know everyone. Perhaps the world was bigger than he thought. It had to be. It certainly felt that way while he sat there drinking her strong coffee. Coffee so rich that it made him stop and sigh. It was not possible but somehow, he could taste the earth where it had been cultivated. When he smacked his tongue against the roof of his mouth, he tasted the minerals in the water that helped the plant grow. He could feel the shade of the banana and orange trees that gave the beans their aroma. It shouldn’t have been possible, but he was only learning the beginning of it all.

“How did you do all of this?” he asked, setting the cup down. There was a chip on the side of the roses painted against the white porcelain.

“Do what?”

“Make coffee taste like this.”

She blinked long lashes and sighed. Afternoon light gilded her soft brown skin. “I’m biased, but the best coffee in the world is from my country.”

“I say you’ll be sorely disappointed if you stop by the diner. Don’t tell Claudia that. But the pie is to die for. Have you had pie? Is your husband home?” He knew he was rambling, so he drank his sweet coffee to quiet himself.

“He’s out back, gardening.” She sat at the head of the table, resting her chin on her wrist. “I know why you’re really here. I know what they say about me.”

“Don’t listen to them. You don’t look like a witch to me.”

“What if I told you I was?” Orquídea asked, stirring a clump of sugar into her cup. Her smile was sincere, sweet.