The-Hummingbird-s-Cage(91)

She checked out the cabin, adjusting her sunglasses. Then she dismounted and set the kickstand.

There was something else new: a leather saddlebag strapped behind her seat. She opened it and lifted out a small drawstring bag that looked filled to the brim. She slung it over her shoulder like a biker-chick Santa and headed for the porch.

Laurel ran to open the front door. Her eagerness astonished me. She’d seen this woman just once, months ago, and so briefly. She couldn’t have known what Bernadette was doing at the house that day.

Or could she?

Bernadette stomped her boots on the porch mat as Laurel held the door wide-open for her. Then she stepped inside. She pulled off her sunglasses and looked me up and down.

“Good God, Jo! Look at you! You clean up fine!”

She was just as tall, just as striking, just as imposing as the first time I’d seen her in the Javelina Saloon, when the crowd had parted for her like the Red Sea for Moses. With the red scarf around her head and earrings of tinkling silver coins cascading to her shoulders, she was like some gypsy Amazon. I embraced her like a long-lost sister.

When I let go, I brushed the tears from my eyes.

“Hello again, ni?a,” Bernadette said to Laurel. She pulled the drawstring bag from her shoulder and handed it to her. “Here—why don’t you take this? Go ahead and take a peek—there’s something funny inside.”

Laurel set the bag down and pulled excitedly at the drawstring. She drew out a present wrapped in glossy yellow paper topped with a bow. She stared at the gift tag, then up at Bernadette.

“It’s got my name on it,” she said.

“See, that’s the funny thing—I got these from a guy in a red suit on the way up here. I thought they were for me, but then I peeked inside and saw your name, so I thought I’d bring it by.”

Laurel turned to me. “Can I open it?” she asked.

“Honey,” I said, “Christmas is still a couple weeks away.”

She screwed up her face, girding for battle. A spoiled evening was only a tantrum away.

“All right,” I relented. “But just this one.”

She tore at the wrapping as I made the introductions. Then Bernadette pulled off her jacket and boots and set them by the door. She unzipped her snow pants and stepped out of them to reveal slim black jeans.

“You’ll stay for dinner,” Jessie said.

I retrieved the extra plate and napkin Jessie had set out earlier; now I understood why she had. I filled the plate to overflowing and set it before Bernadette.

Laurel’s gift was a book: Charlotte’s Web.

“I liked it when I was a kid,” Bernadette told her. “Of course, all I could tell you about it now is it’s about a pig and a spider.”

“It’s perfect,” I said. “Laurel will love it.”

“Hey, ni?a,” said Bernadette. “Why don’t you go see what else Santa put in there?”

Laurel ran back to the bag, pulling out more gifts. “Mommy! There’s a present for Simon, too. And Oma and Opa. And one for you.”

I looked at Bernadette questioningly. She arched her eyebrows at me, then mimed locking her lips and throwing away the key.

I scanned her smiling face, searching for answers—how had she come here? did she know what Morro was?—but afraid of what I might find. Comprehension was trying to settle in, but I was beating it back.

Laurel ran to the table to pass out the rest of the presents, and Bernadette insisted they be opened at once. Simon’s was a Leatherman knife. Olin’s, a pipe of polished sandalwood. And Jessie’s, a pair of fine kid gloves, dyed a deep scarlet.

I wasn’t sure Jessie would approve of such a brassy color, but her eyes sparkled as she tugged one on, stroking the soft leather.

Bernadette shot me a look that seemed to say, Every lady needs a little red in her life.

Finally, I turned to mine—a box wrapped in silver with a silver bow. But as I began to unwrap it, Bernadette placed her hand over the box to stop me.

I looked at her in surprise. Her face was solemn. When she spoke, her voice was pitched low, for me alone.

“Not now. Open it before you go to sleep tonight.”

How odd. I couldn’t fathom why. But without a word I set the box on the floor by my chair.

Olin held up his pipe, admiring the slim black stem and the wooden bowl shaped like an old-fashioned corncob. “I’ll break this in after supper,” he said. “I thank you, Bernadette.”