Motor scooters zoomed by little pastel houses as Amanda walked along the cobbled streets of Laguna Madre. Washed-out patterns on clothesline sheets fluttered as they baked in the sun. Waving her along, even as her feet wearied.
Heavy with books, her straw bag cut into her shoulder. She’d found, under Consuela’s guidance, a fabulous used book store chock full of American paperbacks. Excited as a child at a candy shop, Amanda loaded her peso bargains high on the dusty counter.
Now she wanted to find the right spot to indulge. A cold Zapata soda, a good read and shade sounded like sweet heaven. The beach, her hotel, seemed too far to wait. Besides, she’d grown tired of her corner of paradise on the beach, sun dappling in between the fronds of a palm. The view never changed.
Amanda stopped in a small rose garden on a side street, just down the block from her hotel. She’d admired it on her walks, the bushes blooming full in the middle of November.
Everything would be dead back home in Potter. Dry and brittle. Brown and dull, skeleton branches whipping in the wind. Lifeless.
But here, hot and humid, it smelled like flowers.
A stone bench nestled under a tree, the shade inviting after the white-hot street. An ideal roosting location, she decided. To rest her shoulder and slip her flip-flops off, to wiggle her toes in the grass.
She loved the beach, but she did miss grass.
She flipped through her satchel and picked out a mystery. Setting the soda on the bench, she tucked her feet underneath her and enjoyed the sounds of birds flitting in the trees. They sang as she turned the pages, losing herself in another world of intrigue and suspense.
A rusty squeak broke through the story. An aged gardener, sweating in the midday sun, pushed a wheelbarrow filled with tools and mulch. His feet looked like leather, bronzed in thick sandals. He tugged a straw hat off his head and wiped his brow with a kerchief.
“Hola.” He nodded.
“Hi.” She smiled back.
He creaked down a pathway, stopping in front of a gathering of roses. Pinks and whites spilled together, red ones topped yellow, some loosened blooms withered on the ground. Abundant glory with a heady fragrance.
“It’s beautiful,” she observed, hoping he’d understand her compliment. The locals grasped her English better than she did their Spanish.
“Gracias” He tipped his hat. Polite, but intent on his task. He picked spent petals from the ground and put them in a bucket. Broken twigs, bits of windblown trash, all went into the can on the wheelbarrow.
She wondered how long he’d tended this garden. The healthy plants and vigorous growth spoke of dedication.
The gardener clipped the greenery, shaping each plant, cutting dead wood away. He whistled, a low happy sound, as he knelt in the dirt, heedless of Amanda and her book.
She watched, strangely enthralled as he continued pruning, gently parting the sharp limbs with his bare hands. A thorn caught him, cut deep through thickened skin and brought blood. The song stopped.
Bringing a rag to his finger, he rubbed the wound. Several spots stained the cloth and he tossed it without further examination into the catchall wheelbarrow.
Maybe now, hell get some gloves, she thought.
But he returned to his work and the song began again.
“Doesn’t that hurt your hands?”
He shifted on one knee to face her. “Senorita?”
“Your hands.” She lifted hers to show him. “The roses,” she pointed. “The thorns. Don’t they hurt?”
“S/.” He laughed and held his palms up, turning them to reveal whisper-thin white lines on both sides. Spiderwebs engraved in the flesh.
“Then why do you-”
“It is worth it,” he interrupted. A king in his kingdom, sweeping grandly with one arm, sweat stained underneath. “Is worth it-for the roses.” Not asking if she agreed. He began his whistle song, turning back to his clipping.
Amanda nodded to herself. For the roses.
Ignored again, she gathered her books and stuffed them in her tote. The small stone church stood in the back of the grounds, just around the gardener’s path. She followed the walkway, drawn by the fragrance of the flowers, compelled to the dark mahogany doors. She pushed one open and entered the sanctuary.
Dark and cool, with a slight odor of old velvet. Ancient reverence and quiet. Hymnals lined in rows along the pews, long red cushions flattened from ages of use.
Hushing the flap of her shoe against her heel, Amanda slid inside. The wood pew backs felt cool to her palm, her fingertips skimmed along the rounded curves. Halfway down the aisle, she sat under an intricate stained-glass window.
Sunlight shone through ruby and sapphire, royal and serene. Amanda bowed her head to its grace, watched the shadow play on her fingers as the sun dipped behind the clouds outside. A kaleidoscope. Her mind twirled, brilliant images past and present.
She needed to be still, to find her center.
What do you want?
Almost audible, the question echoed in the hollows of her heart. She shifted in the pew. She had focused for so long on what had gone wrong. But the time for bitterness and loss had passed.
What do I want? she asked herself.
What she’d always wanted. Home. Family. Love. To know and be known by the ones she cherished.
Daddy at the workbench, holding her hurt finger. Daddy, squeezing her arm as they walked down the aisle. Daddy, pale and wasted, a ghost in hospital greens.
Then Mother, waiting alone in mismatched clothing. Minutes on the hour. Cigarettes and phone calls. Signing the hotel charges, no questions asked.
Don’t call me, I’ll call you, Amanda had said. Cutting the tether. A change in light and color. Surprisingly, the women of Potter. Missy. Shelinda. Peggy. Peggy called her honeygirl and held her as she cried. Shelinda’s laugh, Pam’s string of plastic pictures, Missy’s little hands holding Amanda’s.
Her friends. Waiting in Potter. Accepting her and loving her. That’s how I started up with God again. Missy had said. He sent those women, girlfriends, to walk me through it.
And Amanda had walked away.
The wheel turned again, floating. Her blood thumped in rhythm, and she recognized it. That sound, the only voice she’d heard from baby Grace. Precious one, loved and lost, never to be known, never to laugh. Her chest tightened.
I want a family. I want babies.
Close to impossible, the doctor had said.
And the grief had swallowed her whole.
Then, Mark. Clearest of all. His soft eyes above her, his strength around her. Tender and human. Saying and doing the wrong things, but adoring her all the while.
Welcome home, the card had read. Dark roses and a minivan. Unlit candles and sorrow in his spine.
Did he hurt the way she hurt? Had she expected too much of him? To fill spaces in her that no mere man could ever breach? Had she made him her God, her savior, following blindly and demanding perfection?
She blinked tears away and turned the kaleidoscope, looking for the next picture.
Amanda Thompson, afraid of a marriage like her parents’. Amanda Reynolds, nauseous and happy in a wedding dress. Amanda, the new wife, balled up in a hospital. Mrs. Mark Reynolds, starched in a luncheon. Mandy, angry over a car.
Amanda. Standing with old eyes in front of the mirror. Alone.
What do you want?
Shining and bright, the answer cut clean through her soul the way the gardener had cut the dead wood away. Sharp as the prism in the sanctuary around her. Whispering, guiding her.
I want the roses.
Like the gardener, she counted the cost. Weighed the vines of heartache, the thorns of change and the high price of forgiveness. Though the suffering had angered her, she had never been promised it would be easy.
It would hurt, she knew, to tend what she’d neglected. It would take the surrender of pride and the dedication of time. And faith. Trusting when she could not see the way.
She would face her fears, and walk her path. Not out of circumstance, a mere twist in the wind. No, she would choose to embrace the life she’d been given with all the strength and love she had. And then some.
It was time. Time to return and work in her garden.
Time to go home.
Outside the church, the weight of her decision hit her with the blinding sun. For the first time in her life, when she’d thought of home, she meant Potter Springs.
Weeping may last for the night, but joy comes in the morning. The promise followed her like a Sunday benediction. Now she would be ready to face the thorns. Any more hardships coming her way would be worth it.
For the roses.
AT THE HOTEL, she stepped into the cool marble interior. A young employee vacuumed the thick lobby carpet with an industrial machine. She hardly heard its roar for the swell of plans in her mind, the excitement singing through her.
Amanda waved to Consuela, busy on the phone. An irate customer, judging from the hostess’s drawn brows and animated speech. Consuela covered the receiver and motioned Amanda to come over.
“Later,” mouthed Amanda. What she wanted was a shower, and to begin packing. She would leave in the morning.
Her friend waved again, more frantic, still on the phone. She tried to speak over the vacuum, moving her magenta lips in an exaggerated fashion.
“Mother” Consuela seemed to say.
What? Amanda shook her head. Her mother was in Houston, or probably the lake house in Conroe by now. She splayed her fingers at her friend. Ten minutes. I’ll be back in ten minutes.
Amanda turned in her flip-flops, only to be caught by the snake cord of the vacuum cleaner. She lost her footing, tripped over and dropped her bag. Paperbacks tumbled out like movie popcorn, littering the hotel’s immaculate floor.
Blushing, she gathered them quickly and shoved them into her bag. Scooted on her knees to retrieve the last one.
A pair of navy pumps stopped her midshuffle. Amanda’s gaze met crisp cuffs, traveled up the length of pleated khakis and rested on a peach sweater set and the inevitable strand of pearls.
“Well, hello, Amanda.” Round brown eyes blinked under cropped, perky curls. “Need some help?” A small hand held out a worn copy of Pride and Prejudice.
“Thank you,” Amanda murmured.
“You’re welcome,” answered Marianne Reynolds. Her mother-in-law, the Queen of the Baptists.
Thorn number one.