Seven Sisters Read online

  And you will, I promised silently. “This girl you’re in love with, how does she feel about being pregnant? Has she told her parents yet?”

  “She told her mom. Her mom’s kind of a hippie-type and thinks it’s totally cool. Her dad’s living up north in a commune or something. He’s a carpenter and grows stuff in his garden to sell on the side.”

  I didn’t dare ask what kind of stuff. What kind of family was he marrying into? “Her mom lives here in San Celina?”

  “Yeah, on a ranch over in Amelia Valley. It’s a winery, too.”

  Amelia Valley was south of San Celina about fifteen miles, on the eastern side of Interstate 101 across from Eola and Pismo beaches and Port San Patricio. Famous for its temperate climate and excellent soil, it was some of the most beautiful and valuable land in San Celina County.

  If they were ranchers, then they were possibly people I knew, if only casually. Our county’s ranch community was a tight, small group. “So, who is her family? Who is she?”

  He stopped playing with Scout’s hair and looked directly into my eyes. “Promise you won’t get weird or anything.”

  “Sam, I’m not getting weird, I’m getting annoyed. Just tell me.”

  He dropped his head and mumbled a name.

  I ducked my head lower to hear him. “What did you say?”

  “Bliss Girard.”

  “What! Please tell me you’re pulling my leg.” If I had another pillow within reach, I would have held it down over his face.

  The absolute fear in his eyes was real. As well it should be. “I’m sorry,” he whispered. “But we love each other. Really, we do. We want to get married.”

  “Sam, how in the world am I going to tell your father that you got one of his best rookie cops pregnant? You want to answer me that?”

  “Not really,” he said.

  2

  SAM LEFT, WITH the promise that he’d be back about five p.m., so we could share the joyful task of telling his father that he was going to be a grandfather. I hoped Gabe would be in a congenial mood since this was the first time in weeks he’d managed to steal a day to work on his master’s thesis in philosophy. Sam was smart about one thing—Sun—day was definitely the best day to drop this bomb on his father. Hopefully some of the sermon Gabe and I heard at church this morning on forgiveness and tolerance was still resonating in his brain. But just to be safe, I started baking M & M cookies. Gabe adored M & M cookies, and I figured after his favorite dinner of chiles rellenos and smoky pinto beans topped off by a beloved dessert, he’d be in a mellow, cholesterol- and sugar-sated stupor before we broke Sam’s news. As I mixed the stiff cookie dough, I thought about Bliss Girard and her family.

  Though they were an important presence in San Celina’s agricultural society, I didn’t know them well since they had never been cattle ranchers. Their combination quarter horse breeding ranch and winery was called Seven Sisters because, I assumed, of its location. From their magnificent Julia Morgan-designed house, which I’d visited once years ago during a holiday homes tour, there was a breathtaking view of the ancient Seven Sisters volcanic peaks that stretched down to Morro Bay, the last peak being Morro Rock.

  It was only recently that I’d connected Gabe’s youngest and newest officer with the Seven Sisters clan. At a departmental picnic last June she and I had a short conversation about the best way to treat shin splints in horses. She had overheard me talking to Gabe’s assistant, Maggie, who owned a cattle ranch with her sister in North County, and offered an opinion about the overuse of anti-inflammatory drugs without regard to the serious consequences down the road. That worked into an interesting conversation about the burgeoning popularity and controversy of a more holistic approach to horse and cattle health. It was during our conversation she revealed her relation to the Seven Sisters dynasty, as it was known in San Celina County. In fact, her maternal grandmother was the renowned Capitola “Cappy” Brown, former rodeo star and respected quarter horse breeder.

  “You didn’t grow up around here, did you?” I’d asked. She was much younger than me, twenty-two to my thirty-six, but the agricultural community in San Celina isn’t that big, and I was sure I’d have heard her name or seen her somewhere through 4-H, the Cattlewomen’s Association, at a Farm Bureau function, or in connection with one of my gramma Dove’s eclectic groups of which Cappy Brown or one of her two sisters were often members.

  Bliss shook her head no. She was a small, muscular woman with thick blond hair pulled back in a neat French braid. Delicate features and large gray eyes gave her a fragile, sheltered look, and I wondered if that was a difficult persona for her to overcome as a cop. “I grew up on a commune outside of Garberville. That’s north of San Francisco.” Looking at the ground, she relayed the information with a wry, slightly embarrassed tone, her pale skin flushing pink to the edge of her downy hairline.

  “I heard it’s real pretty up around there,” Maggie said.

  “It is. My dad still lives there,” Bliss continued, “but my mother moved back to Seven Sisters when Grandma Cappy fell off a horse and broke her arm six months ago. Mom’s a nurse-midwife. I left the commune when I turned eighteen and worked as a groom for my grandma while I went to Alan Hancock College in Santa Maria. I’ve wanted to be a cop ever since I can remember. One time when I was eight I was out with my dad, and he was pulled over and busted for possessing some marijuana. I was really scared, but this old cop, he was really nice to me. He told me that they wouldn’t hurt my dad and waited with me until my mom came to pick me up. He didn’t look at me as if I were a piece of trash, and, well, I decided I wanted to be just like him. His name was Lyle, that’s all I remember.” Then, as if realizing she’d revealed too much personal history to her boss’s wife, she tightened her lips. Her face remained rosy-colored, and a forced scowl only made her look more vulnerable.

  I kept my face serious, hoping to reassure her that her revelations wouldn’t affect my respect for her. “We all have people in our lives who we can say influenced us. Actually, your grandmother was a real inspiration to me as a girl.”

  “Why’s that?” Maggie asked.

  “Cappy Brown was a trick rider in the rodeo during the forties and fifties, and for a while taught a barrel-racing school out at her ranch. That’s how I really came to know her. She used to take her students around the state to compete in amateur rodeos. The best show I ever saw was one she put on for four of us girls in an empty arena one morning in Bishop. She did things on her horse I’d never try, and she was in her fifties. She used to tell us that anything we wanted to do was possible, that there were no ‘boy’ jobs or ‘girl’ jobs, only jobs.”

  Maggie’s head nodded in approval. “Sounds like my kind of woman.”

  Talking about her grandmother softened Bliss’s expression. “She’d tell us grandkids to always ride tall in the saddle. I bet I’ve heard that a million times.”

  “And, girl, you’ve sure as shootin’ had to heed that piece of advice a few times at work,” Maggie said.

  The frown reappeared on Bliss’s face. “They’ve learned not to mess with me.”

  “They?” I inquired.

  Maggie chuckled. “This poor little child has been hit on more times than those old mission bells. You can’t blame those besotted fools at the station. Just look at her.”

  Bliss’s frown deepened. “All I want is to be a good cop. I don’t have time for a boyfriend.”

  Well, I thought, as I mixed the M & M’s into the cookie dough, apparently she, found a little time.

  Gabe, bless his experienced little cop’s heart, was immediately suspicious when he sat down for dinner at our pine kitchen table.

  “So, what’s up?” he asked, digging into the steaming chiles rellenos. “Did you find a house you know I’ll hate?”

  "Nope.”

  “Seriously, you’re buttering me up. Why?”

  I wouldn’t tell him, changing the subject every time he brought the conversation back around to it. When he was almost th
rough eating, when I was in the middle of describing the latest house the realtor had shown me, Sam knocked on the front screen door.

  “In the kitchen,” I called out, smiling widely at my husband.

  Gabe’s wary, blue-gray eyes traveled from my face to his son’s, then back to mine. A small groan rumbled in his chest. “I should have known. Just what are you two plotting?”

  “I’m starved,” Sam said, opening the cupboard and taking out a blue-and-white stoneware plate.

  “Let’s finish eating,” I said, patting the top of Gabe’s hand.

  Gabe shook his head and took another bite, his expression stern. “You’d better not be quitting school again or tell me you’re on drugs or in trouble with the law.”

  “It’s not any of those things,” Sam said quickly, taking a seat across from Gabe. “I swear.”

  Gabe’s face relaxed as he pushed aside his empty plate. “Then anything else is a piece of cake.”

  I unwrapped the foil-covered plate and held it out to him. “Have a cookie.”

  His eyes lit up at the sight of his favorite dessert.

  “Better make it two,” Sam encouraged.

  3

  “I’M WHAT?” GABE bellowed.

  Sam yelled back, the timbre of his voice an eerie, younger version of his father’s. “I said you’re going to be a grandfather. Get over it.”

  I pushed my way between the two glowering Ortiz men, resting my hands firmly on Gabe’s chest. “Gabe, we can work this out. It’s a little inconvenient maybe, but . . .”

  “I should have expected as much from you,” Gabe said over my head. “And just who is this girl you got in trouble?”

  “She’s not in trouble,” Sam snapped. “She’s pregnant, and we’re going to get married. No big deal.”

  “Married! And what do you plan to do then? Where are you going to live? What are you going to eat? How are you going to support this girl and her baby?”

  “Dad,” Sam said, his voice lower. “I love her, and it’s my baby, too.”

  I moved from between them and watched as the realization of what Sam said hit Gabe. His Adam’s apple moved once in a convulsive swallow. He cleared his throat and asked in a less harsh voice, “Who is she?”

  Sam looked at me in desperation. I nodded in encouragement but kept a hand on Gabe’s forearm.

  Sam straightened his spine and said in a composed voice, “Bliss Girard.”

  Gabe’s left eye gave a single twitch, then not a muscle moved on his face. I knew he was shocked, but I also knew he was drawing on every ounce of his cop’s experience not to react.

  Sam shifted from one sandaled foot to the other, his face flushed under his deep surfer tan. “I’m not going to ask you for money. Bliss and I will work this out.”

  Gabe gazed back at his son for a long minute, then turned and walked out of the room.

  Sam wiped a bead of sweat from his upper lip, his brow wrinkled in confusion. “I thought he’d go ballistic when he found out who she was.”

  I shrugged one shoulder, unable to explain his father. “He’s tired, Sam. Things have been busy at the station these last few weeks with school just starting and that homicide over near the train station. He’s under a lot of pressure.”

  “He’s really mad, isn’t he?” Sam’s face became sad. Then, as rapidly as a summer rainstorm, it turned angry. “I don’t care if he is. It’s not his life. Bliss works for him, but he doesn’t own her.”

  I gave his waist a quick hug. “The worst is over, stepson. It’ll take some time, but Gabe will get used to it. Then mark my words, he’ll be the most doting grandpa you’ve ever seen.”

  “Thanks, madrastra,” he said, using the affectionate Spanish term for stepmother. He ran his fingers through his black, cropped hair. “One parent down, one to go.”

  “You haven’t told your mother yet?”

  Gabe’s ex-wife, Lydia, was a prominent defense attorney who, after a recent divorce, had moved from Newport Beach and taken a position at a Santa Barbara law firm specifically to be closer to Sam. Because of her busy schedule, we still hadn’t met. Sam went down to Santa Barbara to visit her a couple of times a month. The only picture I’d ever seen of her was one of Sam and her when he graduated high school two years ago. If I’d been given twenty-five words or less to describe her I would have said: black hair, black eyes, thin, tall, gorgeous, and Saks-Fifth-Ave—classy. It was easy to see how her and Gabe’s combined genetics produced a parade-stopper like Sam.

  “How do you think she’ll react?” I asked.

  “She’ll be irritated, but not as much as Dad. She was always more into damage control than Dad. Prevention is more his thing.”

  I raised my eyebrows, but didn’t reply. Prevention, in this case, would certainly have been the more prudent action, but I wasn’t about to get into a discussion about birth control or abstinence with my nineteen-year-old stepson. That was definitely in the realm of biological parental privilege. “When are you going to tell her?”

  “Tomorrow. Me and Bliss are having lunch with her in Santa Barbara. Then I guess Dad and her will have a powwow.”

  The first of many, no doubt. My stomach churned slightly at the thought. “Well, good luck. And, Sam ...”

  He sighed extravagantly, resigned to hearing one more piece of advice.

  “Everything will work out. You and Bliss will make great parents. That’s gonna be one lucky baby.”

  A slow smile spread across his face. “Thanks, Benni. I really needed to hear that.”

  In the bedroom, Gabe was sitting on our bed staring at the floor. I sat down next to him and rubbed small circles on his solid back. “Friday, it’s a baby. It’s not the end of the world.”

  “He’s so young and irresponsible. And one of my own officers! It’s just too much of a coincidence. What was he thinking? What was she thinking? What . . .”

  I laughed out loud, grabbed the back of his neck, and squeezed it. “Thinking? Friday, they weren’t thinking, anymore than we were when we were so in lust a year and a half ago. Remember how many people whispered about us when we got married so quickly? Did we care? Not one bit because all we could see was each other. We were in blind love, just like Sam and Bliss. It’s just a fluke that she works for you. I haven’t heard how they met, but I’m guessing the first time was last year when he and I tried to stop those jerks from wrecking your dad’s truck. I also bet they’ve really worried about how to tell you about their relationship. I’ve talked to Bliss a few times, and she doesn’t strike me as being a frivolous woman.”

  “She isn’t,” Gabe said, his face thoughtful. “I imagine this has been difficult for her. She must care a great deal for Sam to risk it.”

  “Not hard to do. You Ortiz men do tend to be irresistible.”

  He turned and pushed me down on the bed, covering me with his heavy, warm body. “By the way, what do you mean were in lust? What’s with the past tense?” He bent down and kissed me deeply, his tongue hard and sweet and tantalizing.

  “Okay, okay, are in lust,” I murmured, as his lips moved down my throat, setting a line of electric sparks on my skin.

  “And don’t you forget it,” he said, unbuttoning my shirt.

  “Hmm, this will be something new. I’ve never made love with a grandfather before.”

  He undid the last button and pulled my shirt back, his blue eyes bright against his mahogany skin. “That, niña,” he said, “is something you won’t be able to say an hour from now.”

  4

  AT THE MUSEUM the next morning, before tackling my accumulating paperwork, I called the ranch.

  “Did Sam finally tell you?” I asked Dove. I’d called her last night and after swearing her to secrecy, told her about the baby.

  “Yes, he told me and your daddy at breakfast,” she said. “I pretended to be surprised, but I suspected something was going on. He’d been off his feed for about a week. When he turned down a second helping of my banana-cinnamon rolls morning last, I knew somet
hing fishy was up. I’m already looking through my patterns for a crib quilt. What do you think of Tumbling Blocks?”

  “Can’t think of a more appropriate pattern, but maybe you should think about a marriage quilt first.” I doodled interlocking circles on the scratch pad in front of me. “Maybe the Wedding Ring pattern.”

  “That’s too predictable. The Broken Dishes pattern is nice, and I could make one a lot quicker.”

  I laughed and started coloring in one of the circles. “Not to mention it could be a prediction of what’s in their future. Are you coming into town today? Want to have lunch?”

  “Wish I could, honeybun, but I’m brainstorming down at the senior citizen center all day trying to figure out a way we can earn the seven thousand dollars we need to replace our kitchen.”

  “Didn’t the insurance company cover the fire?” One of the members (a man, Dove and the ladies immediately pointed out to anyone who asked) had attempted to fry some tacos and started a grease fire that gutted the kitchen.

  “They covered it, but they’re wanting to do it the cheapest way possible. We need the money to upgrade and enlarge our capacity.”

  “So, any great money-making ideas yet?”

  “This is the most pathetic, unimaginative group of busybodies I’ve ever laid eyes on. Can’t think beyond bake sales and quilt raffles. We need big money fast. Like I said, we’re brainstorming today. I told them that this dang committee has six hundred years of experience between them. Land’s sake, we should be able to come up with something more clever than selling cupcakes.”

  “Well, good luck.”

  “Luck is for the birds. We need cold, hard cash.”

  “Put me down for twenty bucks.”

  “Huh, big spender,” she said, hanging up on my laughter.

  Next I called Elvia at the bookstore and told her about Sam and Bliss.

  “Did you take Gabe’s gun away before telling him?” she asked, not entirely kidding.

  “Tell him what?” I heard my cousin Emory’s voice in the background.