help you find a short-term job.” Short-term. At last. I was exhibiting some sanity.
“A job? Really? Really, truly, China?” The tears shone in her eyes, but she was smiling. “I can’t believe you would do all that for me, after all the pain and trouble I’ve caused you.”
I couldn’t believe it, either, but I wasn’t going to admit it. I glanced at the clock on the wall and stood up. “It’s getting late, and I need to take some herbs up to the loft to dry. We’re closing at five. If you’ll stick around, you can go home with me.”
“I’ll help you hang them,” she offered eagerly. “It’ll go faster with two of us.”
“Sure,” I said. “I’m always glad for a little help.” Well, almost always. But I was stuck with her, so I might as well make the best of it.
Impulsively, Sally threw her arms around me. “Thank you!” she whispered. “Thank you, China, thank you! You’re a true friend. I promise you won’t be sorry for taking me in. I promise!”
As it turned out, it wasn’t a promise that Sally could keep. I was sorry. Very sorry.
But that wasn’t her fault. At least, not entirely.
Chapter Four
Christmas decorations are said to be derived from a custom observed by the Romans, of sending [holly] boughs, accompanied by other gifts, to their friends during the festival of the Saturnalia . . . The origin has also been traced to the Druids, who decorated their huts with evergreens during winter as an abode for the sylvan spirits . . .
An old legend declares that the Holly first sprang up under the footsteps of Christ, when He trod the earth, and its thorny leaves and scarlet berries, like drops of blood, have been thought symbolical of the Saviour’s sufferings, for which reason the tree is called “Christ’s Thorn” in the languages of the northern countries of Europe. It is, perhaps, in connexion with these legends that the tree was called the Holy Tree, as it is generally named by our older writers . . . Pliny tells us that Holly if planted near a house or farm, repelled poison, and defended it from lightning and witchcraft, that the flowers cause water to freeze, and that the wood, if thrown at any animal, even without touching it, had the property of compelling the animal to return and lie down by it.
Maud Grieve, A Modern Herbal, 1931
McQuaid, Brian, and I—and now Caitlin—live in a big white Victorian house just off Limekiln Road, about twelve miles outside of town. If you’re looking for us, turn left when you see a wooden sign painted with bluebonnets and the words Meadow Brook —the whimsical but descriptive name given to the house by its previous owners, who were planning to turn it into a bed-and-breakfast. You’ll be following a gravel lane between rocky pastures grazed by our neighbors’ longhorns and spiked with prickly pear cactus, agarita (a holly look-alike), and twisted-leaf yucca— Yucca rupicola , meaning “a yucca that loves rock.” Stay on the lane past Tom Banner’s maroon mailbox, which is shaped like a Texas A&M football helmet and bears the words BANNERS FOR AGGIES! A quarter of a mile later, the lane ends in a circular gravel drive in front of our house, a big white two-story Victorian with a porch on three sides and a turret in the front corner. There’s a wide lawn in the front and a garden in the back, the whole thing separated from a patch of thick woods by a low stone fence.
In summer, the lawn is green (at least until August, when the rains stop and the heat cranks up); the garden is rich with herbs and vegetables; and the stone wall is nearly obscured by blossoming wildflowers. But it’s December now. The lawn is biscuit-brown and frostbitten, the garden debris needs to be cleared away, and the wildflowers are taking their usual midwinter snooze. But we love the place in all seasons, and for our own private reasons.
McQuaid covets the workshop in the back, heated in winter and air-conditioned in summer, where he can use his
“A job? Really? Really, truly, China?” The tears shone in her eyes, but she was smiling. “I can’t believe you would do all that for me, after all the pain and trouble I’ve caused you.”
I couldn’t believe it, either, but I wasn’t going to admit it. I glanced at the clock on the wall and stood up. “It’s getting late, and I need to take some herbs up to the loft to dry. We’re closing at five. If you’ll stick around, you can go home with me.”
“I’ll help you hang them,” she offered eagerly. “It’ll go faster with two of us.”
“Sure,” I said. “I’m always glad for a little help.” Well, almost always. But I was stuck with her, so I might as well make the best of it.
Impulsively, Sally threw her arms around me. “Thank you!” she whispered. “Thank you, China, thank you! You’re a true friend. I promise you won’t be sorry for taking me in. I promise!”
As it turned out, it wasn’t a promise that Sally could keep. I was sorry. Very sorry.
But that wasn’t her fault. At least, not entirely.
Chapter Four
Christmas decorations are said to be derived from a custom observed by the Romans, of sending [holly] boughs, accompanied by other gifts, to their friends during the festival of the Saturnalia . . . The origin has also been traced to the Druids, who decorated their huts with evergreens during winter as an abode for the sylvan spirits . . .
An old legend declares that the Holly first sprang up under the footsteps of Christ, when He trod the earth, and its thorny leaves and scarlet berries, like drops of blood, have been thought symbolical of the Saviour’s sufferings, for which reason the tree is called “Christ’s Thorn” in the languages of the northern countries of Europe. It is, perhaps, in connexion with these legends that the tree was called the Holy Tree, as it is generally named by our older writers . . . Pliny tells us that Holly if planted near a house or farm, repelled poison, and defended it from lightning and witchcraft, that the flowers cause water to freeze, and that the wood, if thrown at any animal, even without touching it, had the property of compelling the animal to return and lie down by it.
Maud Grieve, A Modern Herbal, 1931
McQuaid, Brian, and I—and now Caitlin—live in a big white Victorian house just off Limekiln Road, about twelve miles outside of town. If you’re looking for us, turn left when you see a wooden sign painted with bluebonnets and the words Meadow Brook —the whimsical but descriptive name given to the house by its previous owners, who were planning to turn it into a bed-and-breakfast. You’ll be following a gravel lane between rocky pastures grazed by our neighbors’ longhorns and spiked with prickly pear cactus, agarita (a holly look-alike), and twisted-leaf yucca— Yucca rupicola , meaning “a yucca that loves rock.” Stay on the lane past Tom Banner’s maroon mailbox, which is shaped like a Texas A&M football helmet and bears the words BANNERS FOR AGGIES! A quarter of a mile later, the lane ends in a circular gravel drive in front of our house, a big white two-story Victorian with a porch on three sides and a turret in the front corner. There’s a wide lawn in the front and a garden in the back, the whole thing separated from a patch of thick woods by a low stone fence.
In summer, the lawn is green (at least until August, when the rains stop and the heat cranks up); the garden is rich with herbs and vegetables; and the stone wall is nearly obscured by blossoming wildflowers. But it’s December now. The lawn is biscuit-brown and frostbitten, the garden debris needs to be cleared away, and the wildflowers are taking their usual midwinter snooze. But we love the place in all seasons, and for our own private reasons.
McQuaid covets the workshop in the back, heated in winter and air-conditioned in summer, where he can use his
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