Bittersweet by Susan Wittig Albert Page A

domestic talents. When I was growing up, she never cooked a single meal. She didn’t have to. She had plenty of household help in our large home in the affluent Houston suburb of River Oaks—and anyway, from the cocktail hour on, she was always so soused she wouldn’t have been able to scramble eggs. I was left to eat my suppers alone, since my father invariably worked late—or, as I now knew, spent the evening with Miles’ mother. He hated Leatha’s drinking as much as I did, which was probably why she did it.
    â€œOh, let’s make a peach pie,” Caitie said excitedly. “But I have to get Mr. P out of the car first. He wants to have some supper, too. You don’t need to worry about what to feed him, though, Gramma. I brought his food. Oh, and I brought you some eggs from the girls. Two whole dozen!”
    â€œFresh eggs? Oh, that’s wonderful, Caitie!” my mother said, beaming. “What a treat! You can put Mr. P’s dishes and litter pan in the laundry room. I’m sure he’ll want to sleep with you, though. You’re in the room at the end of the hall, where you slept last time you were here.”
    As Caitie raced off to the car, she shook her head. “What a lovely, lovely child,” she said softly. “I hate what your father did, but I just have to love that child
.
” She smiled. “Enough of that. We’ve got a lot of catching up to do, China. I don’t want to waste a single minute. Come on!”
    She opened the screen door and led the way into the house. Nestled beside a clump of sheltering live oaks, it’s a comfortable old place, low and sprawling, with oak floors throughout, a native stone fireplace in theliving room, and a kitchen roomy enough to feed not just the family but all the ranch hands.
    â€œI want to hear about Sam,” I said. “How did you find out about his heart problem? And how long has it be going on?”
    He’d been experiencing chest pains for several months, she told me as we went down the hall to the kitchen. The doctor had warned him to slow down and take things easy. But Sam was used to setting his own pace. With all the work and planning for the sanctuary, he had plenty on his plate and wasn’t inclined to follow orders. The first attack had come in early September.
    â€œSeptember!” I exclaimed. “But this is the first I’ve heard of it.”
    â€œWe didn’t tell you,” Leatha said, “because we didn’t want you to worry.”
    The second attack had come on Sunday night. He was rushed to the hospital, where the surgeon put in a stent. But the abdominal artery was compromised, they said, and there was more repair work to be done—soon, they thought. When he recovered, he would have to take better care of himself and “substantially moderate” his activity.
    â€œWhich won’t be even a little bit easy,” Leatha admitted, standing in front of the wide, ceiling-high window at one end of the kitchen. Her hands were clasped, her knuckles white. “That man is as stubborn as a Mississippi mule.” She smiled, but I guessed that she was trying to hide her fear behind that sweet Southern smile. When she grew up, women were taught to control themselves, whatever they felt or feared: “A real lady always stays calm and cool, even when that mean ol’ General Sherman is burnin’ her house to the ground right in front of her.” Then she turned, pointing. “Look at the deer! They’re lovely, aren’t they?” She sighed. “Oh, I do love this place, China. I thought I would never loveanother place after Jordan’s Crossing, but I was wrong. I’m at home here at Bittersweet, at last, and loving it.”
    Joining her at the window, I could see why. The view opened out onto an expanse of meadow, bordered on one side by Bittersweet Creek and on the other by junipers, mesquite, and several large live