The Garden of Happy Endings (6 page)

But she couldn’t talk to him right now. He with his mighty faith. How could she tell him what she was thinking? It was humiliating, in a way, to suddenly be one of the lost, instead of one of the leaders. She kept telling herself to pull it together, to find a way to get over all of this, to stop being a big baby, but it wasn’t working.

Even thinking about it, she had to go outside to smoke. Which was insane, too. She knew it. She just couldn’t stop.

She had grieved before—grieved her father most sincerely, and a friend who had died in a car accident when she was in college, as well as many others since becoming a minister. She understood, both emotionally and intellectually, the process of grief.

But no amount of understanding was doing any good this time. Yesterday, the board had called her in to a meeting and gently,
firmly told her that she had to take a sabbatical. They were contacting an associate pastor at a Unity church in Portland, who would be more than happy to take the position until Elsa “felt better.” A semi-retired minister who had sometimes subbed for her in the past, Reverend Harris. He was a fatherly man, and kindly, a good choice to lead the bruised congregation during her absence.

She had resisted, insisting she was fine, that she’d be okay in another week or two, but the board had been immovable. They’d dismissed her, for six months. At the end of May, they would reassess.

Objectively, she could see that she was in crisis. She hadn’t slept more than two hours at a stretch in the ten weeks since Kiki’s murder. She had to set reminders on her phone to make sure she ate at regular intervals. Her dog followed her around with a worried expression, never leaving her side for longer than he absolutely had to.

For that, at least, she was grateful. Even now, he slumped on the kitchen floor, looking up at her dolefully. “I’ll be all right,” she said, sinking down beside him to kiss his head and nose. “I promise. Sooner or later, this funk will break and I’ll get answers.”

His feathery black tail thumped the ground.

When the doorbell rang, Charlie barked sharply, and Elsa jumped a foot. She glanced at the clock—it was only six a.m. Who could possibly be here?

Warily, she went to the door and called through it, “Who is it?”

“Joaquin, Elsa. Let me in.”

She swung the door open. He wore his clerical collar beneath a heavy winter coat. His hair was too long, as always. “How did you know?”

“Your friend called me. Julia?”

Elsa bent her head, ashamed and stung. “Don’t try to rescue me,” she said.

“Wouldn’t dream of it.”

But as if she had been waiting for him, Elsa suddenly felt herself give way. She sank to the floor and began to weep. “I just can’t keep pretending,” she said. “I can’t.”

“I’m sorry I didn’t come sooner, my friend.” Joaquin sank down beside her, and put a steadying hand on her shoulder. Charlie nudged his face into the space beneath her arm. They held her so that she would not fly away into that dark, cold, unfeeling universe and be lost for all time.

“I am going to take you back to Pueblo,” he said.

Elsa nodded. It was the only answer.

O
n the day of the spring equinox, Elsa sliced big yellow onions on the counter of the kitchen at San Roque Catholic Church in Pueblo. She was volunteering in the church soup kitchen, serving humanity without serving God. When Joaquin breezed into the room, a sheaf of papers in his hand, she was blinking away onion tears.

Outside, a blizzard was whirling. She was tired of snow and wet and dark days and she ached for spring. Her sister’s garden was beginning to sprout little shoots of daffodils and tulips, but now they would be buried by the snow.

“Hey, Walking,” she said, calling him by the nickname she’d given him long ago. “Want to chop onions?”

“No, thanks.” He leaned on the battered faux wood counter. Then without preamble, he said, “I want you—and maybe Tamsin, if she’ll do it—to run the community garden this summer.”

“What are you talking about? There’s a community garden?”

“It was your sister’s idea, last fall. We’re starting it in the vacant lot.” He passed her a sheaf of papers.

Elsa wiped her hands on the thin cotton apron she wore and took them. On top was a map, with a check paper-clipped to it.

“The finance committee released some seed money,” he said, and snorted. “Ha-ha.”

“Ha-ha.” She frowned at the drawing, which showed blocks of gardens, illustrated with curlicues that were meant to be plants. Broccoli, she supposed. Tomatoes and corn. “The lot behind the church? The one between the back door and the apartment block?”

His dark eyes glittered. “Yep.”

“
This
year?”

“Yep.”

She handed back the sheaf of papers. “You’re crazy.”

“O ye of little faith.”

Slicing an onion in half with a big knife, she gave him a look. “It will take a year just to clean it up.” The lot had long been abandoned, and it was littered with everything from old mattresses to tires. Drug deals transpired there in the dark of night. Not long ago, a stabbing had sent a youth to the hospital.

Which was, of course, the moment Joaquin the Crusader had had enough. “It’s a good project,” he said now. “Creation. Community.” He gestured with a clean, open palm toward the soup pot. “Food. Fresh and sustainable, just the way you like it.”

In that moment, Elsa caught the vision. She saw the garden in full green summer, corn tasseling beneath the apartment windows, children plucking tomatoes they’d grown themselves. A breeze blew through her hard, dark soul, just for a second.

Joaquin smiled. “It will be good for you.”

“Don’t try to save me,” she said.

He shook his head. “Never.”

She took the sheaf of papers back. “I’ll do it for the kids.”

“I know.” He pointed one long brown finger at a name at the top of the sheet. “That’s Deacon McCoy. He’s got the heavy equipment we’ll need, and he’ll be a good second in command. Nice guy. Big Brother, runs the AA meeting.”

“On Thursdays.” Elsa blinked. “I’ve seen him around. He comes to get the coffeepot.”

“Good, then. He should be here today.” He headed for the door. “We on for breakfast in the morning?”

He liked to make waffles, or sometimes blueberry pancakes, to fortify himself for the weekend. Since she’d limped home just before Christmas, she’d never missed a Friday. She nodded. “I’ll bring the eggs this time.”

He gave her a thumbs-up. “Gotta go. See ya later.”

I
f you were going to do a thing, Elsa believed, there was no point wasting time. When she had the soup simmering on the stove, she washed her hands and headed down to the basement. It was Thursday, so Deacon McCoy was already there, unfolding chairs and setting them down in neat lines. The meeting started at ten-thirty, and many of the attendees wandered into the soup kitchen afterward. It worked out well.

“Hi,” she said. “I’m Elsa. Do you have a minute?”

“I do.” He flattened the seat of a chair and straightened, a tall man with sun-darkened skin and an accent as southern as his name. “How can I help you?”

She stepped off the last step and waved the papers she was holding. “Father Jack wants to turn the vacant lot into a community garden. I seem to have …” She pursed her lips. “Er … volunteered to help get it going.”

He chuckled. “He has that effect on people.”

“Tell me about it.”

“Don’t you already run the soup kitchen?”

She nodded.

“Can’t pay much.”

She brushed hair out of her eyes. “He gave it to me as a kindness and it’s been helpful.”

He nodded, waiting.

Elsa took his measure. He bore the faint weariness of so many recovered alcoholics—a weight of unresolved regrets still dragging at his ankles—but he was also a good-looking man by any standard, fortyish, with long limbs and wavy dark hair. A lusty sort of man, she thought unexpectedly.

The combination would ensure any number of women would be happy to volunteer in the garden if he was part of it. “Joaquin said you might be willing to help with the heavy equipment. Is that right?”

“I might be persuaded.” He glanced at the clock. “Do you mind helping me set up chairs as we talk? Meeting starts in a half hour. Still need to make the coffee.”

She laid the papers on a nearby table and grabbed a chair, set it in the next row. “What do you think we’ll need?” Elsa asked.

“I run a landscaping business, so I’ve got earthmovers and—well, pretty much all the necessary equipment.”

“That helps.”

“Before, though, we’re gonna need a Dumpster. A big one. Volunteers will throw all the trash into it.”

“Right.” She placed a chair at her end.

“A cold frame to get the seeds going.” He grabbed two more chairs. “And then we’ll till it, get ready to plant. Probably want some topsoil.”

Elsa halted with a chair flat against her body. “I have no idea what I’m doing. I grew a garden as a kid, but nothing this big.”

“Ain’t nothin’, sweetheart,” he said, and it was impossible to be annoyed with an endearment that was so plainly automatic. “Big or little, it’s dirt and water, sun and paying attention.”

“So you’ll help?” she asked, putting the chair in place. There was one more space, and he carried a chair forward, meeting her in the middle of the row.

“Is that bean soup I’m smelling in the air?” he asked.

“Beans and ham hocks.”

“Magic words. Save me a bowl, will you? And I’ll come help you clean up later. We’ll map out a plan.”

“You’ve got it.” She stuck out her hand. “Thanks, Mr. McCoy.”

“Deacon.” His palms were leathery with hard work, his grip strong and sure. “You’re welcome … what’s your name again?”

“Elsa Montgomery.”

“Elsa. That was the lion in
Born Free
.”

She grinned. “Gold star. My mother loves cats.”

His eyes crinkled. “Are you really named for that lion?”

“Yes. At least I’m not Thomasina, which is my sister’s name.”

“Is that a lion, too?”

“No—a cat. You mean you’ve never seen the movie?” Elsa covered her heart mockingly. “It’s a Disney film from the sixties, about a cat that gets lost and finally found.”

“Missed that one.”

A man wandered into the basement wearing a ragged coat. She recognized him from the soup kitchen, an old man with a greasy baseball hat pulled over his hair. He only had his bottom teeth, which made him look like a pug. Seeing Elsa, he waved. “Good morning, Reverend.”

“How are you, Hank? How’s your foot?”

“Better, thank you.” He lifted it as if to show her.

“Glad to hear it.”

Hank yanked off his hat and worried it in a circle. “Coffee made yet?”

“I’m just about to get on it,” Deacon said. “We’ll talk later,” he said to Elsa. “Don’t forget to save me some soup.”

“Done,” she said. “I’ll see you after lunch.”

T
he church served soup and bread every Thursday, taking up the slack from the main soup kitchen downtown. They served between seventy-five and a hundred lunches, depending on the time of the month, to a mixed group. There were the homeless,
of course, wearing too many layers of clothes, none too clean, and the young drifters and runaways, pierced and tattooed, their eyes hungry.

But there were also women and children from the rent-assisted apartments on the other side of the vacant lot. The church had set aside a special area at the back of the fellowship hall for the family groups, to keep them apart from the more unstable population, and the children loved the corner that was filled with books and toys. They drank milk instead of the tea and coffee served to adults, and Joaquin made sure they had cookies, too.

It took a small crew to make it work. Elsa created the menus, organized the volunteers, and did much of the cooking. A rotating pair of men in their forties and fifties from the men’s fellowship group provided security. A team of mostly retired seniors assisted with cleanup, service, and preparation.

Although other places offered more variety of food, the menu at San Roque was simple and plentiful. They served soup, vats of it, with bread they made from scratch, and then whatever dessert or bakery goods might have been donated by the local groceries or parishioners. It was day-old or more, all of it, but it was gobbled up eagerly.