Solomon's Oak by Jo-Ann Mapson

quietly, may alight upon you.’ From Nathaniel Hawthorne, circa 1860. Congratulations, Karen and Angus. Many happy years together. Thank you for the privilege of hosting your special day.”
    Angus stood up. “Here’s to Mrs. Glory Solomon for allowing us to hold our kick-ass wedding here. Solomon’s Oak rocks!”
    Pirates clapped and cheered, and whether it was the bright orange spots on the fluttering, dusky wings, or too much drink, or the single butterfly that for the longest time perched on the bride’s dress, Mrs. Brown began to cry. “I hope those are happy tears,” Glory said as she handed her tissues.
    Mrs. Brown said, “You were right. It was a beautiful Thanksgiving and a beautiful wedding.”
    Glory squeezed the woman’s hand. “I’m glad to hear it.”
    By nightfall the butterflies would be in the hills in search of pearly everlasting, a summer wildflower that often continued on past the season in California’s warm climate. They’d mate and lay pale celadon eggs. A week later, eggs turned to caterpillars. The caterpillar’s job was to eat, spin the web, form a chrysalis, then rest inside its papery walls and transform. When it was time, out came another butterfly. Each cycle moved the butterflies farther south. Lorna had once told Glory a story from her childhood, of standing with her great-aunt early in the morning, looking at the Nacimiento River literally covered with butterflies drinking. Sometimes, when Glory couldn’t sleep, she called up that image, a body of water covered with orange-and-black wings. She imagined them lifting in unison, as close as anything could get to a flying carpet.
    When the painted ladies had flown away, the guests began leaving. Glory looked for the ex-cop photographer to give him his money.
    “He already left,” Juniper said. “I gave him ten slices of turkey, a container of mashed potatoes and gravy, and six apples. He didn’t want the cake, so can I have his piece?”
    “Darn it. I didn’t get his phone number.”
    “Don’t stress. He left his e-mail address and said he’d send the pictures in a ZIP file. So all you have to do is e-mail him. And it’s not like he doesn’t know where you live.”
    “I just wish I’d had the chance to thank him before he left. I don’t know anything but his first name, Joseph, right?”
    Juniper picked a fondant plank from the edge of the parchment-covered cake plate. “Joseph Vigil. That’s a Mexican last name in case you’re wondering. He’s here visiting from Albuquerque and staying in a cabin on the Oak Shore of Nacimiento Lake. He was married once but he isn’t married now. No kids. He has a permit to carry a gun because he was a cop once but isn’t anymore.”
    “Wow, Juniper. You could be a private investigator.”
    The girl stopped the finger that was about to go into her mouth and flicked the icing away. Her mouth went from relaxed to thin-lipped. The hoop in her upper lip seemed to vibrate. “He said he would send you the pictures.”
    “Good,” Glory said. “If I don’t deliver the candids, I’m in breach of contract.”
    “Yeah, well, tough luck. Cops lie all the time.”
    Juniper had sharp edges for a fourteen-year-old. Glory wondered if Juniper’s father had been a policeman, or if it was her arrest for shoplifting that had left her so bitter. “I have the mother of all headaches, Juniper. Excuse me while I get a pill. Soon as I get back, we’ll get started on cleanup, together.”
    Three hours and several dishwasher cycles later, the servers had been paid and had left, the patio was hosed down, and Juniper and Glory sat alone in the kitchen. When Glory couldn’t find her Percocet, she’d taken two Advil but it wasn’t working. She held an icepack to the back of her neck, but that wasn’t helping either.
    “The cake was a big hit,” she said.
    Juniper didn’t respond.
    “Do you think I should make two cakes for the next wedding? They do that in the South,” she said. “It’s