I thought the most sensible route was to buy some of each kind, so I did.

While meandering toward the cafe, I passed shops for imported kitchen goods, shoes, and wines. A store called Oaxaca caught my attention and I detoured into it. The tiny shop had swell crafts from Mexico: matte black pottery, silver jewelry, paintings of the Virgin de Guadalupe, and crepe paper flowers.

A skinny chick behind the counter in elaborate Frida Kahlo garb said, "Hola." Her dark brown hair was braided into a crown on her head, two caterpillar brows sat above huge dark eyes, and her lipstick was bright red. I was dying to run back to the ranch and pencil in my eyebrows.

"Hola," I replied. "Great stuff."

"Thanks. I take a few trips a year to buy it," she said pleasantly with no inflection. She was an assimilated Latina like me.

"Cool job," I said enviously. "Is your family from Oaxaca?"

"Yeah, and Taxco. That's where I buy most of my jewelry."

I found a miniature shelf filled with tiny replicas of kitchen items. I thought Edna might like it and took it to the counter. The shop owner wrapped it in a turquoise bag, and I happily sauntered out of the shop.

Just as I stepped onto the sidewalk an eerily familiar voice cried, "Milagro!"

I turned to see Kathleen Baker staring at me. She and a cohort were laden with packages. I stepped back into the store and said to the owner, "Is there a back exit? There's someone I don't want to see."

In a moment I was crouching behind the counter under a brightly colored oilcloth.

"What the hell!" Kathleen said as she entered the store.

"What is it?" her friend asked.

"The oddest thing," Kathleen said. "I could have sworn I just saw this girl who used to be my reading consultant."

I heard footsteps approaching the counter. "Miss, did a young woman come in here just a second ago?"

"Sorry, senora," said the store owner.

"You've got to stop mixing Vicodin with vodka," Kathleen's friend said. "That doctor upset you. There's no such thing as being 'addicted' to plastic surgery. It's simply good manners to look good."

Kathleen ignored her friend's comment and said, "This girl, Milagro, took off who knows where, and Sebastian Beckett- Witherspoon is dying to find her."

My heart stopped at his name.

The bread heiress prattled on. "I don't know why. She always looked a little slutty, if you want to know the truth. Am I the only one who thinks real breasts are gauche?"

"Oh, no, they're awful, so tacky and jiggly," said her friend. "But maybe Sebastian has a taste for that sort of thing." They chortled away at my expense.

"I doubt it. He's been seeing a remarkable young woman, Tessie Kensington. Very refined, excellent family."

So Sebastian was back with Tessie. How very predictable.

My knees and back ached by the time they selected and paid for several luminarias, one retablo, and three silver bracelets.

When they were finally gone, I shook out my legs and stretched. "Thanks for covering for me."

"De nada," the shop owner said, and looked me over. "Don't pay attention to those nasty viejas. You look wonderful.""Thanks, mujer," I said gratefully. "For everything."

I peered out the door and then made a dash for the cafe.

"Where have you been?" Edna said, but she didn't wait for an answer as she headed for the car.

If I told her that I'd been spotted by one of Sebastian's friends, the vampires would never let me leave the ranch again. Besides, what was the likelihood of being spotted again by someone who knew me? I told Edna that I'd been browsing in a bookstore, but I surreptitiously kept glancing back to see if Kathleen's blue Mercedes was following us.

I didn't relax until we returned to the ranch and I saw two sweaty, dirty men sitting on boulders in the garden. Ernie and Oswald had edged the planting beds with rocks carted from the creek.

"Hope you don't mind," said Ernie. "We went ahead and got these rocks. I thought you might like the gray ones."

Most of the stones were a foot in width and a dark slate color. "They're perfect," I said. "Thank you."

"Very nice, Ernie," said Edna. "Oswald, don't you have something better to do with your time than help Ernie?"

No matter what Oswald did, he riled his grandmother.

Oswald hung his head. "Guess I could get to some paperwork," he said, but I saw him wink at Ernie.

What on earth was he doing in that cottage? He couldn't actually be studying veterinary medicine, could he? I watched him as he strolled off. He wore a T-shirt that said "Use an accordion, go to Cotati. It's the law." The fabric hung loosely from his muscular shoulders to his nice, firm-and then I stopped myself. I was transferring my ridiculous dream of a dashing and capable Oswald to the reality of an aimless and nitwitty Oswald.

I realized that Edna and Ernie were watching me. I assumed a neutral expression. "Ernie, can you help me unload the truck?"

When we were sliding the trees out, I said casually, "Edna doesn't seem to approve of Oswald."

Ernie looked at me as if I was clueless. "He's her favorite."

"But she's always criticizing him."

"Oh, that's her way, like she is with you. You don't take it serious, do you?"

I wasn't going to admit that I'd begun to like her barbs and the opportunity to respond. "Nope."

"Oswald don't either. They disagree on some things but there's lots of love there." He leaned against the truck and brushed back his black hair. "They're complicated people, mi amor."

Chapter Eighteen

the wind beneath my (chicken) wings

I knew where I wanted the persimmon and the pears in the garden, but I had to decide about everything else. Creamy roses Previous would clamber over the fence and gates. I designed an herb knot with sage, oregano, lavender, and thyme. After placing the plants, I began to dig them in. My brow grew damp and I could feel the grittiness of the soil on my face.

When I was finished planting, I looked up to see Oswald standing nearby and watching me. He held a chicken that was making a charming "brrr-brrr" sound.

"You're angled," he said.

At first I thought he was making some crude observation about my body. But he was looking at the persimmon tree. He was right; I'd planted it crooked.

He put down the chicken, a stylish black-and-white deco model with a red thingy on its head. The chicken immediately set about pecking the ground.

"I'll fix it," I said, and picked up the shovel just as he reached for it.

"I'll help you," he said.

The backs of our hands brushed. Even through my gloves, I felt a surge that made me give up the shovel and step back.

"Some things are better done with a partner," he said calmly.

I'm sure it was an innocent comment about shared labor. "Many hands make light work," I babbled. "Be careful of the roots."

He wielded the shovel dexterously. "You know, some people think I have good motor skills. Especially small motor skills."

Was he trying to impress me or trying to flirt? I centered the tree trunk in the ground and he stood so close that his breath was warm on my cheek. I couldn't help glancing into his eyes, silver as trout flashing through water in this light. Something about Oswald made me feel crazy and I looked away. "You have never apologized. Now that I know how nice Winnie is, it's even worse."

He shoveled the dirt back around the roots. Once, his shoulder touched mine and another time his leg slipped against my thigh.

I made sure not to flinch from his touch even though the sensation was as disturbing as sticking my hand into a fire while jumping into an icy pool.

"You can let go," he said. The tree was straight now. "Don't be so sure you know everything about my relationship with Winnie."

"Let me guess. It's one of those continental, urbane vampire liaisons where you are permitted to have lovers so long as you spend Sunday dinner with the family." I watched a glistening drop of perspiration slide down his throat and into his shirt.

"We're not vampires," he said, "and when I get married, I want a wife who will be as faithful to me as I am to her."

"Oh, don't even presume to talk to me about faithfulness."

"Milagro, I wish the circumstances were different and I've been trying to change them," he said earnestly. "But I need cooperation. I can't do it on my own." He turned and left me standing there.

Agh, why did I suddenly feel as if I'd been the one behaving badly? "You forgot your chicken," I yelled.

Oswald didn't stop walking, but shouted back, "It's for you. It's your garden chicken. Her name is Petunia."

When is a chicken just a chicken and when is a chicken an apology? Like many great thinkers before me, I was unable to answer this important metaphysical question.I wrote like a maniac until I realized that the afternoon was almost over. I had to get ready for Nancy's party and Oswald was nowhere to be seen. I dressed in the dark plum knit dress and the black strappy shoes. The dress fit even more snugly than I remembered, so I put on a sweater to cover myself until I got to the Croft. I made a few skinny braids and pulled them back with the rest of my hair into a ponytail.

I examined the demurely made-up face in the mirror and remembered how I'd tried to fit in at Kathleen's party. Oh, hell, some people were just not meant to be demure. After letting my hair down, I added more eyeshadow and mascara and lipstick. I felt better immediately. I so wanted to see Nancy again, and I felt that marvelous anticipation of going out on the town again, of the City at night.

There was a rap at my bedroom door. I opened it to see Oswald looking remarkably stylish in a charcoal-gray suit and lavender shirt. His chestnut hair was still damp from a shower and brushed straight off his forehead. "You ready to go?" he asked.

"About time," I whispered. "What are we telling them?"

He walked out to the kitchen and I followed close behind. Edna was reading a cookbook at the table. She looked at us suspiciously.

"Grandmama, I'm taking Milagro to a lecture."

"A lecture," she repeated, deadpan.

"On cactus. One of the wineries is having a talk by an Australian horticulturalist."

"Hmm, is that right?" Edna did not look entirely convinced that Oswald was telling the truth.

"Yes, Edna," I said sincerely. "Not cacti especially, but hardy succulents that can survive freezes. I'm also interested in the yucca and epiphytes. You can come with us if you like, or I can take notes for you."

Edna's smile was cruel. "Oh, take notes, please," she said. "I'll look them over tomorrow."

"There's a wine and cheese thing afterward," said Oswald. "So don't hold dinner for us."

"Fine," said Edna, and just stared at us.

I stared right back before turning to Oswald with a smile. "Almost forgot a notepad," I said. "I'll meet you outside."

I went to the study and grabbed a notepad and pen from the desk. I also snuck a gardening book on xeriscapes in my purse.

Oswald looked pleased with himself when I got into the car.

"Cactus?" I asked.

"You're kind of a prickly personality," he offered. "Besides, I didn't want to make the lecture too tempting for my grandmother.

She might have joined us."

Once on the highway, I took the garden book out of my purse and flipped through to a section on succulents.

Oswald kept his eyes on the road and said, "You're going to get a headache if you try to read and write."

"If I want medical advice, I'll ask Winnie."I did get a headache, but I'd also written several pages of flagrantly tedious notes. After placing the notepad and book at my feet, I said, "That should bore the heck out of Edna."

Oswald smiled. "You should be grateful that she didn't tell Sam. He wouldn't have let you go."

"He couldn't stop me."

"He would have argued persuasively and you would have buckled." Oswald shifted from his normal voice to Sam's more modulated tone and characteristic hesitation. "Mil-a-gro, it is in-cum-bent upon our famil-y to ensure your well-be-ing."

I couldn't help laughing. "Don't be unkind to Sam."

"I'm not being unkind. I admire Sam. He'd be right anyway. Sam is always right." Oswald then pulled over to the side of the road and parked. He turned toward me and I panicked, thinking that he was going to make a pass at me. I looked everywhere but at his face, waiting for the inevitable and thinking that I'd been a fool to give him another opportunity to treat me like a disposable amusement.

"Milagro, are you absolutely sure that you need to go to this party? Your friends may well tell Beckett-Witherspoon."

"I promised," I said.