My sister, Angela, and I have been impatiently waiting
in the baggage area of the Albuquerque airport for the late American flight out of Dallas to arrive.
Finally, we see the Cielo Azul Spa driver, lugging a bulky leather briefcase, followed by a tall, thin woman, her ash blonde hair pulled back in a chic chignon and a determined scowl etched into her face.
I do a double take. There’s something about her that sends a shivering shudder down my spine. It’s her eyes. I know those eyes. I can’t remember where I’ve seen them, but, deep down in my gut, I know this woman means trouble.
Several steps behind her lurches a short, pretty, but slightly overweight woman with enormous brown eyes. Her spiky, auburn-streaked hair reminds me of a tossed radicchio salad.
When the first woman reaches us, I stand and extend my hand. “Hi. I’m Allie Armington from Houston, and this is my sister, Angela Bruce.”
The woman ignores me and edges past to speak in lowered tones to the driver, now loading a cart with several pieces of luggage. Once he’s done, he looks our way, frowns, then waves us to follow.
The little round lady grabs my hand and gives it an extended shake, as her words gush. “Hey there, I’m Rebbie Dalton from Tulsa, Oklahoma. The Rebbie’s short for Rebecca. Boy, am I glad to see you two.”
She pitches a furtive nod in the skinny blonde woman’s direction and whispers, “I had to sit next to that bitch in first class all the way from Dallas. What a pain in the patooty. All she talked about was how she’s going to close the biggest deal of her life. I tried self-medicating with four Bloody Marys, but they didn’t help one bit.”
I give an involuntary shiver as I nod my agreement. “She looks like she could be quite a handful.”
“You got that right. How long are you staying?”
“A week, but even that seems like a life sentence.”
She lets out a long sigh. “I’ve signed up for two. Hope I didn’t make a mistake.”
Once we reach a forest green Lincoln Navigator with “Cielo Azul Spa” painted on the side, the driver steps toward me.
“Pardon, ma’am, but—,” he jerks a thumb toward the woman and mutters, “the lady requested that you and your sister take the rear seat. Seems she suffers from motion sickness.”
Not a wise move. After nine long months, seventeen hours of unproductive labor, and a C–section, honeymoon baby Duncan Bruce the Third, fondly referred to as “D3,” finally arrived.
As a result, Angela’s hormones are still majorly out of whack and when my sister’s chin juts as her mouth hardens into a thin, red line, I know she’s squaring off for a fight.
Before she can get the first word out of her mouth, I shove her toward the back of the SUV. “Not a hill to die on.”
Rebbie Dalton is forced to share the second row with the woman because the front passenger seat has been tilted forward to accommodate that enormous leather briefcase.
The minute we pull away from the curb, the woman punches a number on her cell, waits a few seconds, then screams that she doesn’t give a good goddamn if it’s nearly 2:00 a.m. in New York; she needs the information now. Too damn bad if he has to go to the office—she expects a lot of faxes when she arrives at the spa. “And they better be there, or it’s your ass.”
Her diatribe continues as we speed up I-25 to take 599 past Santa Fe, and then turn northeast toward Taos at Española.
Either the cell runs out of juice or the woman runs out of steam, because blessed silence finally fills the car. Not that it matters. Angela has been snoring into my shoulder for more than an hour, and Rebbie Dalton’s bobbing head has totally disappeared.
I let out a long sigh and stare out the window into the headlights of the oncoming cars. A vision of the woman sitting in front of me nags at the side of my brain. Where have I seen her? Why can’t I remember?
This trip has been a bad idea from the very get-go. How could I have let my sister muscle me into acceptance, especially after the unannounced arrival of Bill Cotton, my fiancé?
Bill and I were almost strangers again since we had communicated only by phone after our week together following Angela’s wedding on the North Shore.
Promised winter and spring weekends were set aside for good reasons, and then he had gone incommunicado for most of the summer, busting a major drug cartel based in the Lesser Antilles.
After spending several days devoted to the joys of rediscovery, Bill announced he needed his own space and rented a nearby studio apartment on a street between San Felipe and Westheimer.
Before I had time to lodge a protest, the baby arrived and my auntly attentions turned to him.
Problem was, Bill didn’t seem to mind at all that he was put on the back burner. And, now that I think about it, he actually seemed relieved that he wasn’t included in the family festivities.
Not that I blame him. My parents were not overly welcoming, and Angela and Duncan hardly acknowledged him.
Still, when it came time to depart, Bill treated me to a delicious dinner for two at Tony’s, during which he plied me with wine. After spending the evening in my bed, wrapping me in the comfort of his arms, he planted a lingering farewell kiss and then whispered, “Your sister needs you. Suck it up. It’s only a week.”
The outskirts of Taos are less than inviting—one strip mall after another—but the heart of the town is mostly classic Pueblo architecture featuring softly rounded adobe buildings with heavy timbers, known as vigas, extending through the outside walls as main roof support beams.
A few minutes later, we pass signs pointing to the Taos Pueblo and the Rio Grande Gorge Bridge, then turn right on the Taos Ski Valley Road. Just past Arroyo Seco, we head east on a poorly paved Taos County road and begin to climb.
As the Navigator careens dizzily up one narrow switchback after another, I check my seat belt and stare into the inky night.
It’s then I curse my sister for making such a dumb decision about her unborn child. It was in August when Angela, worn out from the pregnancy, had been so positive she would need this time to recuperate. But that was then—before D3 came into our lives and stole our hearts away.
