Finding Casey Read Free

disorders. The books said overexercising was one of the symptoms, and skipping meals, well, that was a no-brainer. Outside the restaurant, a line of hungry people snaked around the corner of Water Street and Don Gaspar. Glory excuse-me’d her way to the counter. “Is there any room at the community table? We just want a quick bite.”
    The waitperson pointed. “There are two spots you can have right now. Follow me.”
    When it came to sitting at the community table, your fellow diners might be strangers when you sat down, but not by the time you pushed your chair out to go. Glory had lived in Santa Fe long enough to resist making snap judgments about anyone. That crusty old cowpoke in the scuffed boots sitting next to you might own three hotels. The woman in the Chanel sunglassesand cowboy hat pulled low could be a movie star, because New Mexico catered to the industry for mutual benefit. The middle-aged balding guy scribbling notes on his napkin might be writing the next Pulitzer Prize—winning novel, because in this town you couldn’t help but run into a writer, artist, or both. UPS had once accidentally delivered them a package addressed to George R. R. Martin, the famous science-fiction fantasy writer. Juniper squealed when she got to take it to his house, even though it turned out he wasn’t home at the time. For a solid week the only words out of her mouth were:
How many people can say they live down the street from George R. R. Martin?
Until Joseph pointed out that their house was worth a quarter of what his was, Juniper got a lot of mileage out of being neighbors. “You think he’s the only writer that ever lived in Santa Fe?” Joseph said. “Google that topic, and come back and tell me what you find.”
    â€œP. L. Travers, Donald Hamilton, D. H. Lawrence, Cormac McCarthy, Tony Hillerman, Judi Hendricks, Rudy Anaya, Gary Paulsen, John Nichols, Sharman Apt Russell, William deBuys, Lynn Stegner, Roger Zelazny …”
    â€œNow you get the idea,” Joseph said. “I’d tell you to search artists but you’d die at the keyboard of old age.”
    That was life in the oldest state capital in the nation. New Mexico had history and infamy in every corner, from train robbers to Spanish conquistadors to aliens. Visitors traveled from around the world to mix with the Wild West, explore the site of religious wars and the fabled Cities of Gold, petroglyphs, adobe architecture, and Georgia O’Keeffe—there was drama aplenty to fuel great books, breathtaking landscapes for film backgrounds, and here, ethnicity had clout. A twelfth-generation Santa Fean trumped the wealthiest retiree. Tourism was key tothe economy, but also drove up housing prices. Longtime families who had occupied houses on Acequia Madre and Canyon Road now lived in Pojoaque, Española, Rio Rancho, or even farther out. Galleries were filled with art the majority of people could never afford, but relied on the few who could. Every Indian Market there would be a newspaper story about some art dealer waiting in line all night to buy the grand-prize-winning pot or straw crucifix or turquoise nugget nestled in sterling silver. Meanwhile, grimy musicians sang in the Plaza with their guitar cases gaping open for spare change. Indians sat in the shade of the Palace of the Governors with handcrafted jewelry spread out on black cloth as they had for hundreds of years. For some it was an easy place to live, but to Glory it was a little lonely, even though she quickly got to know her multitudes of cousins and in-laws that came along with her marriage. After four years in Santa Fe, she could almost remember their names. She called her sister in California twice a week, and exchanged e-mail with Lorna Candelaria, who kept her up to speed on the doings in Jolon, California.
    Glory studied the menu. What tasted good when it was ninety degrees in the shade? A side of flour tortillas dripping with