Jonis Agee - The Bones of Paradise

While the men went outside to smoke and drink brandy, the women retired to the parlor. It was Dulcinea’s first opportunity to speak with Rivers’s wife, who appeared flustered by the economies of ranch life, or perhaps life in general. Rachel Rivers was a small woman with a big bosom who seemed to keep her shoulders back to avoid toppling over. Even as she sat on the sofa, she held her head high so her small brown eyes looked down at the world. She had the little round face, tiny upturned nose, and pointed chin of a pixie in a child’s storybook, complete with plump little Cupid’s bow lips that seemed on the verge of either kissing or spitting. When she spoke, her voice was higher than one might expect, and slightly singsong, as if she followed along with a melody in her head.

Tookie watched her with an astonished expression, almost slack jawed. Markie Eastman paid little court, wearing a smile that could also be called a grimace if one looked closely. Markie herself was unremarkable, except for the extreme pallor and the features so regular and purposeful they lacked feeling. Mahogany-brown hair in soft waves caught with a bow at the back of her neck, unblinking brown eyes, perfectly straight nose, and well-formed mouth, the only defect being the slightly large ears she hid under her hair. Her lips and brows appeared painted. Dulcinea wondered that her son was so easily caught by this girl. As she examined her more closely, she realized the woman was older than she appeared, closer to thirty than the twenty she conveyed at first glance. She caught Dulcinea’s stare and raised a glass of brandy to her lips, sipping while she returned the look, unblinking, as expressionless as a lizard.

“Tell me what you proposed to my son, Miss Eastman,” Dulcinea said. In the background, Vera clattered pans for all she was worth, angry to be relegated to hired help in the presence of company. Dulcinea didn’t blame her.

“Why, Miz Dulcinea—is it all right if I call you Dulcinea?” the other woman drawled in a Deep Southern accent.

“Mrs. Bennett will be fine,” Dulcinea said. Markie glanced at Rachel Rivers, who fluttered nervously.

“My son?”

“‘God handles the large actions, but the small he leaves to Fortune,’ as the ancient Greeks used to say. Don’t you agree? I’ve always found it so.” Markie Eastman sipped the brandy she insisted on, though excluded from the men and their talk. Tookie and Dulcinea joined her.

“Ah.” Dulcinea smiled and decided to play her game. “They also said, ‘Fortune took the dearest thing I have as fee, and made me wise.’” She noted Tookie shaking her head while Rachel Rivers gazed about the room.

“I see.” Markie stared into her brandy for a moment, then held up the snifter and sighted through it. Aside from sharing a classical education, Markie Eastman and Dulcinea were at opposite ends of the world. “There’s money to be made out here, Mrs. Bennett. You, your neighbors”—she nodded toward Tookie—“or someone else, it doesn’t matter. Your son was the first to come forward when he heard I was in town. Apparently he has an eye for the future.” She raised her brow slightly as if she paid her a compliment, then lifted the glass and drank like a man, deep and long.

“He can’t sell rights he doesn’t own.”

“I’ve always found that men have a better sense of business than women.” She smiled at Rachel Rivers, who gave a tiny, obligatory nod. The harlequin dog plopped next to Markie’s chair; she reached down and fingered its ears.

Dulcinea slapped the glass from her hand before she could stop herself. “You are no longer welcome,” she hissed between her teeth. The dog cowered and whined.

Markie Eastman smiled at her folded hands and shook her head, her shoulders trembling until she could no longer control herself and she laughed out loud. “My Lord, woman,” she gasped, “who do you think you are?” Then she rolled her shoulders forward and stood, brushed a lock of hair off her cheek. “It’s been very entertaining, but I must be going. I’ll have to contact my father in Denver and tell him to move forward on filing for a federal claim for oil and mineral rights.” She glanced at Tookie. “I wonder how many of you will still be here when we’re through.”

She opened the door and glanced outside into the darkness, where the only sound was the jingle of the harness when the carriage horses stamped their feet against the mosquitoes. “I’ll take that dog when you go broke, too,” she said with the same infuriating smile and carefully closed the door. They heard the murmurs of the men on the porch quiet and rise again into farewells, then the jingling of the harness as the carriage began the long journey to town.

“A most unpleasant creature.” Rachel Rivers yawned and patted her mouth with elfin fingers. Dulcinea smiled gratefully and offered her more coffee, but she pointed to the decanter instead.

Dulcinea poured three generous portions and, ignoring social graces, the women took long draughts of brandy to flush away the unpleasantness.

After they spent a moment with their thoughts, Dulcinea asked Tookie, “Does the government own the mineral and subsurface rights to our land?”

Tookie shrugged. “Evan says he thinks so.”

Rachel Rivers nodded. “My husband says you’re all in danger if you don’t agree to let them drill. The government has been ignoring you for a long time, except of course for the open range and Homestead Act violations, but that could change if the right pockets are lined. And if there is any evidence of oil or gas out here. So far, nobody’s been able to make that claim. It’s all speculation.”

Once again, she realized her hasty judgments had led her astray. Rachel Rivers was a good listener, apparently, with an accurate eye and ear. Dulcinea recalled the other day when she and Rose had spotted Chance digging in the hills.

“What does he think we should do?” Tookie asked, a worried expression on her face for the first time.

“Hire him to negotiate,” she said, her eyes sharp and practical, very unlike those of the child’s toy Dulcinea had imagined earlier. She wondered if her husband was working with the gas and oil company, too, but didn’t ask.

“And you”—Rachel turned her gaze to her hostess—“might ask yourself who outside the family has had free access to your land of late.” She gave her doll smile and returned her face to the pretty porcelain painted expression as the other two simply stared at her. Chance had said what he was doing, but not who he was working for. Was he trying to take her land? But how would murdering her husband and that girl help him do that? She’d have to speak to Rose.

“Well, missus, we is about done here.” Vera had tied one of the plaid dish towels from Marshall Field’s over her head like a Southern field hand and clasped her hands in front, head bowed in mock deference. Rose, behind her, looked uncomfortably toward the door while Lily tugged her arm, eager to escape.

“Wouldn’t you-all like to sit with us and share this here brandy?” Dulcinea kept her face neutral as she lifted the decanter, even though there was a glint of hard amusement in Vera’s eyes.

“Why thank ya, missus. You is too kind.” Vera yanked the towel off her head and flung it over her shoulder, narrowly missing Rose and Lily as they sidled toward the door.

“Rose?” Dulcinea said. Rose glanced at Lily. The child was long past bedtime, and with lower lip outthrust, she scrubbed her eye with the heel of her hand as her mother pulled her out the door.

Vera lifted an empty glass, held it to the lamplight, frowned and rubbed a forefinger over a spot, then thrust it toward Dulcinea. When the glass was half-full, Vera raised her brows and drank. Watching her throat work as she swallowed, Dulcinea wondered if Frank knew more about this business with the gas and oil people than he let on.