“Remind me not to leave you alone with him around any hay bales.”
The flight attendant stopped next to my seat and picked up the remains of our meals. I clicked the tray back in place, leaned over, and kissed Gabe, nipping his bottom lip gently. “You don’t have to worry about me, Friday. I tend to go more for the dark and brooding, pistol-packing ethnic types. So, I forgot—does gorgeous Rob have a wife and kids?”
“No kids. No wife either. At least, not anymore. He just divorced his third one. According to Becky, his latest love is a country-western singer. Or an aspiring one anyway. Sounds pretty odd. Grew up Amish.”
“You mean she left the Amish to become a singer? That
is
odd. I wonder if he seduced her from the fold.”
“If anyone could do it, Rob could.”
I looked back down at the picture. “And last but not least, Dewey Champagne.” He wore a white straw cowboy hat pulled low over his oval face, obscuring his eyes. Unsmiling, he leaned back against the gnarled barn wall. He was a good six inches shorter than Gabe’s six feet. “You were in Vietnam together, right? And he’s a cop, too.”
“Right. He worked for the Wichita Police Department for eight years, then came back home to become, as he likes to say, Derby’s chief of detectives. Actually he’s Derby’s
only
detective. He says the hardest part of his job is supervising himself.”
“Married?”
“Got divorced last year. And apparently he has a thing for singers, too. His latest love is named Cordie June Rodell, and she sings with Rob’s girlfriend. She’s also a good twenty years his junior.”
“Kids?”
“Had two. A boy and a girl. The boy should be about twenty-one now. He’s a bull rider.”
“What’s his name?”
“Chet Champagne.”
I shrugged. “Doesn’t sound familiar, but I haven’t really been keeping up lately. What about Dewey’s daughter?”
“There’s a real tragedy. Her name was DeeDee. She was only sixteen when she was thrown off a horse and killed, about a year and a half ago. Dewey and Belinda broke up shortly after that.”
“How awful for them.”
“Dewey hasn’t had it easy this last year or so. I hope this new lady friend of his doesn’t take him for a ride.” Gabe opened the book in his lap and frowned at the highlighted pages.
“Such relaxing summer reading,” I teased.
“I’m never going to get this done.” He was reading the diary of Søren Kierkegaard, determined to finish the masters thesis in philosophy he’d originally come to quiet, uneventful San Celina to complete. I, and an unexpected rash of murders in San Celina, had kept him from it.
“I’ll leave you alone, then,” I said and looked out the window. The air was clear for what seemed a hundred miles, and the fields we flew over looked like the clichéd image of a patchwork quilt. To be more accurate, they looked like an orderly Corn and Beans pattern or a strip quilt in shades of rich goldenrod and mustard yellow with an occasional sage-green square thrown in just to keep it interesting. Furrows like quilt stitching decorated the plowed fields in crooked abstract patterns that Gabe said helped keep the soil from being blown away by the strong summer winds. Silvery grain silos gleamed like new dimes in the bright sunlight.
Much sooner than I preferred, the seat belt sign flashed. The pilot welcomed us to the Wichita Mid-Continent Airport and went through his landing spiel, including a weather report I would hear repeated often during the next two weeks—“Mostly sunny with thunderstorms expected later tonight.” He ended his speech with a hardy hello and a joke about tornados and milk cows, the punchline of which was lost in static.
From my perspective, Wichita didn’t look at all like the Emerald City but just another skyscraper landscape against a sky that actually did appear bigger and bluer than California’s. Bright green fields as round as archery targets dotted the ground.
“Why are some fields round?” I asked.
“A more efficient way of irrigating,” Gabe explained. “It’s done automatically, by a pivot arc. On the ground you can’t really tell the fields are round.”
The pattern of circles within squares would make a spectacular quilt. “Above Kansas” would be a good name. I mentally pieced it together, attempting to keep my mind off my least favorite part of flying—landing.
The plane hit the runway with a sharp bounce. “Half an hour until inspection,” I said.
Gabe took my hand and kissed the soft skin on the underside of my wrist. “They’re going to adore you. Look at the effect you had on me.”
“Initially?” I said doubtfully. We met when I’d been involved in a murder at the folk art museum, and our relationship at first had been less than friendly to say the least.
He chuckled. “Well, they’ll learn to love you.”
We claimed our rented give-me-a-ticket red Camaro and started down the freeway toward Wichita. We passed the huge home store and warehouse of Shepler’s Western Wear, a mail-order house I’d ordered from at least a few hundred times in the last twenty-five years. Eventually we pulled on to a two-lane highway heading south. Train tracks paralleled the road, shaded occasionally by huge, dusky-green cottonwood trees. There was no question we were in wheat country when we sped past old concrete grain silos, billboards advertising Farm Bureau Insurance, and a couple of yellow and black highway signs warning “Mowers ahead.”
“There are trees,” I said with surprise.
Gabe laughed. “Of course there are. Mostly cotton-woods, but some pines and box elders, and I don’t know what else. What did you expect?”
“Things to be flatter, I guess. You know, wheat fields like oceans as far as the eye can see. Amber waves of grain. Corn as high as an elephant’s eye.”
“You’re more likely to find the corn in Iowa and Nebraska, though we have our share. The flat Kansas you’re thinking of does exist over in the western part of the state, but we do have our oceans of wheat around Wichita.” He tapered his eyes, scanning the passing landscape with a farmer’s measuring gaze. “Things are usually drier this time of year. They had good rains last year, so everything’s stayed green.”
“Except for no hills, it doesn’t look a lot different from home.”
He reached over and squeezed my knee affectionately. “We Kansans have stumbled into the twentieth century, Benni, no matter what the media would have you believe. Why, I’ve heard a vicious rumor that they’ve even got cable television in Wichita these days.”
“Not to mention flush toilets,” I said.
“No wisecracks. You know we got those in the sixties.” He fiddled with the rearview mirror, then let out a delighted laugh when a police siren screamed behind us.
“I told you it was only a matter of time,” I said, glancing at the speedometer.
As usual, Gabe had been driving twenty miles over the speed limit. He always bragged about never getting a speeding ticket. Because he’d carried a police officer’s badge since he was twenty-two, and knowing the brotherhood among cops, I didn’t find that particularly remarkable and told him so. Often.
We pulled to the side of the highway, and a young officer with tanned Popeye forearms and mirrored aviator sunglasses walked up to Gabe’s open window. “It’s a joke,” Gabe said in a low voice. “Dewey’s behind it.”
“Driver’s license and registration, please.” The young man’s voice was deep and polite.
Gabe handed him the information and waited, an amused half-smile on his face. The officer took the papers and walked back to his white and blue patrol car. After a few minutes, he came back and returned them to Gabe. He tore a ticket from his pad and passed it through the open window. “I clocked you at twenty-one miles over the speed limit, sir. This is a real pretty little Camaro, and I know these sporty cars can sometimes get away from you, but try and take it a little slower. We’d like you to enjoy your stay in Kansas without hurting yourself or someone else. Have a nice day.” He flipped his ticket book shut and strode back to his car.
“This is a real citation,” Gabe sputtered. “That low-down son of a gun.” I leaned over, looked at it, and laughed.
“It is,” I said gleefully. “I can’t believe it. Your first hour in Kansas, and you already have a criminal record.”
“It has to be a joke,” Gabe said. He looked in the rearview mirror and grinned. “He’s coming back. Okay, Dewey, you really had me going there.”
“Excuse me, Chief Ortiz,” the young officer said. “I have a message from Detective Champagne.”
“Yes?” Gabe prompted, holding out the ticket.
“He said to tell you that no one keeps their ch—” He glanced over at me and blushed. “Pardon me, ma’am. Uh . . . no one stays a virgin forever.”
I giggled. Gabe growled at the officer’s retreating back, then pointed a finger at me. “One more sound out of you, and you walk the rest of the way.”
I held up my hands in protest. “Hey, this is between you and your buddy. I’m just an innocent passenger.”
“He’s going to pay for this,” Gabe grumbled. I judiciously turned my head and smiled out the window.
In the next few minutes, we entered Derby. Gabe pointed to a busy Taco Bell on our left. “That’s where my dad’s garage was. Back then, it was the edge of town. There was nothing but wheat fields and a few houses until Wichita.” He sighed deeply and nodded at the McDonald’s, Kentucky Fried Chicken, Hardee’s, Blockbuster Video, and Braum’s Ice Cream that had mushroomed insidiously near the city limits sign. “I hate seeing this. It’s not the town I grew up in. It could be anyplace now.”
Once past fast food row, the original Derby, with the muddy Arkansas River bordering the town to the west, had wide, clean streets that showcased many small independent businesses that had withstood the assault of the encroaching corporate food and retail giants. Gabe’s face softened when we drove past the old Derby Cinema tucked into a strip mall called El Paso Village.
He let out a small grunt of annoyance as we passed the red brick building that housed the Derby Emergency Medical Service and the police department. Atop the square, neat building, an American flag and a blue and gold Kansas state flag whiffled in the brisk breeze.
As we drove through the center of town, Gabe pointed out landmarks. Next to the police station stood an abandoned brick building with the inscription “El Paso Water Company” over the door. “El Paso was the town’s original name,” he told me.
“El Paso? As in Texas?”
“From 1871 to 1888, until the Santa Fe Railroad changed it to Derby to end confusion with the one in Texas, but it wasn’t changed officially until 1956.”
We passed a small tan building on our right. A tilted green derby over the
D
in
The Daily Reporter
gave the newspaper’s name a jaunty air. A large banner with a turkey-red Bear’s Paw quilt pattern in each corner stretched across the building advertising the Bear’s Paw Quilt Guild’s First Annual Quilt Show: “From Our Hearts To Yours—Quilting From The Kansas Heartland.” When I’d spoken to Gabe’s sister Becky on the phone last week, she was excited about us being here during the show. She was current president of the three-year-old guild, and with the list of activities she reeled off, it sounded as if I’d have plenty to keep me busy while Gabe was off with his friends. That relieved my performance anxiety somewhat. I couldn’t picture spending two weeks trying to make conversation with a new mother-in-law who, I suspected, was not thrilled with her son’s impulsive decision to remarry.
We made a U-turn and came back to the middle of town where we turned left on a small street, crossed the railroad tracks and the Arkansas River, and drove down a narrow dirt road with houses on the left and open fields on the right. Most of the homes had deep front yards, dense with trees and vines. Boats and campers crowded many of the narrow gravel driveways.
“You can’t tell from here,” Gabe said, “but these houses sit right on the river.”
“The Arkansas River, right?” I said, showing off my topographic knowledge of his home state.
“No,” he said solemnly. “The Ar
kansas
River. Remember where you are.” He turned into a narrow driveway, pulling up in front of a white, two-story wood-frame house with a steep gray roof and a red brick apron. The shady front porch held a natural wood porch swing, a yellow bird feeder, two white wicker chairs, and a padded redwood chaise longue. As Gabe turned off the engine, the screen door opened, and his mother stepped out. She stood as tall and sturdy as an elm tree, resting large hands on her narrow hips. She wore an iris-blue skirt, a white tailored blouse, and sensible navy loafers. Her pale skin had the translucence of nonfat milk.
“Mom,” Gabe said, walking up the steps and throwing an arm around her shoulders. “You look younger every time I see you.”
“Oh, get on with you,” she said, slapping him lightly on the chest. Her stern expression softened to one of indulgence. Next to her creamy complexion, my dark-skinned husband looked like a foundling until mother and son turned and regarded me with the same mercurial eyes.
“This must be your new wife,” Mrs. Ortiz said, her face holding the same I’ll-make-up-my-mind-when-you’ve-proved-out look I’d seen so often on her son.
He smiled widely. “Must be. This is Benni.”
I held out my hand. “Nice to meet you, Mrs. Ortiz.”
She shook it firmly, her expression appraising now with the experienced evaluation of a public school teacher. “I’m glad you could come.” Her voice was as cool and dry as the palm of her hand. I had no trouble picturing her clapping her capable hands briskly and bringing a rambunctious group of fifth-graders to attention. “Please call me Kathryn.”
I nodded, thinking how different it was when Gabe was heartily welcomed into my extended Southern-born family. Half the time Dove, whom Gabe affectionately calls
Abuelita
, takes his side over mine in disputes. I had a feeling that wasn’t going to be the case with Kathryn and me.
She looked up at Gabe, her granite face again turning gentle and liquid. “Are you hungry? Supper’s waiting. I made your favorite chicken and rice casserole. When was the last time you had a good, home-cooked meal?” She linked arms with her son and led him toward the front door.