Dove in the Window Read Free

currently San Celina’s chief of police would behave a little less like the Wizard of Oz’s cowardly lion. That conveys a bit of the power of Elvia’s personality.
    He said something to Elvia in Spanish that made her red lips part into a tiny reluctant smile.
    “No fair,” I said. “Speak English.”
    “Don’t worry,” Elvia told him. “I’ll wait until you leave before murdering her. Then you can send one of your underlings to investigate.”
    He entered the kitchen, tying his conservative gray-and-blue silk tie. “Good. I’ve got enough to worry about with all the San Celina Heritage Days security. Try and make it neat. I don’t have time to mop the floor this week.” He leaned over and kissed me, then rubbed his five-day growth of black-and-silver beard across my cheek. Combined with his gray Brooks Brothers suit and white dress shirt, the beard looked incongruous and a bit sexy. Just a slight deviation from what I call his Sergeant Friday look.
    “Ouch,” I said, pushing him away. “You’re packing a lethal weapon there.”
    “You’re the one who talked me into entering this ridiculous beard-growing contest, so you’ll have to suffer, too.” He scratched his face vigorously with his knuckles. “So, when does the big date ensue?”
    Elvia and I spoke at the same time.
    “Never,” she said.
    “This week,” I said.
    Gabe laughed out loud.
    “Please,” I begged her. “I’ll hand wash and wax your precious Austin-Healy. I’ll work at the bookstore during the next five Christmas seasons. I’ll pick every flea out of Sweet William’s coat with tweezers.” Sweet William was her newly inherited championship Persian cat.
    She stood up and picked up her leather briefcase. “Sweet William has never had a flea in his life. You owe me mucho grande, gringa loca . Grand Canyon big. Pavarotti big. A bigness of global proportions.”
    I scooted around the table and hugged her. “Thank you, thank you, thank you. You are the queen of best friends. He’ll behave himself, I promise.” I hope was what I was actually thinking. “Are you coming to the barbecue on Friday afternoon?”
    Every year since I can remember, my dad, the oldest of the six Ramsey kids, and his mother, my gramma Dove, have hosted a barbecue at the Ramsey Ranch the day after Thanksgiving for all our friends and family. It coincided with our four-day, no-holds-barred-kick-em-in-the-nuts-when-they‘ re-down poker tournament and semiannual calf roundup. California’s Central Coast, having the mildest weather around, didn’t have to adhere to the traditional spring roundup common in colder states, and besides, Daddy always liked to get a head start on castrating our calves before they grew too big. To keep his young ranch hands happy, though, he always saved some for the spring so we could have an old-fashioned roundup complete with roping and riding and Rocky Mountain Oysters. But every November, my uncles and aunts left their ranches and came from all over the West to participate in this Thanksgiving ritual of food, cards, and cattle. For four days the ranch looked like a cross between a scout camp, small-town rodeo, and a two-star RV park. I didn’t attend last year because I couldn’t endure the family crowd after losing my husband, Jack, the February before in an auto accident. But it had been almost two years since Jack was killed, and this year I was attending with Gabriel Ortiz, my new husband, a complex and wonderful gift that God, with more than a little amusement, I imagine, dropped into my life when I least expected it.
    Elvia pushed me away, straightening her cinnamon-colored Armani knit suit. “Don’t try to make up to me. And, yes, the whole Aragon clan will be there. We haven’t missed one in twenty-eight years, have we?” She patted her black hair, arranged this morning in an elegant French twist. “Just keep Emory away from me. I’ll agree to a short dinner on the day of my choosing. That’s it. I don’t want