A Rose Is

A harp paraded its fluted plucked tones across the ridge.  Maybe it was a mandolin.  Whatever the source, romantic in notion, motioned merely through his mind.  Both felt any noise other than their chosen religious representative and whatever ambient sounds carried through this one-side closed chapel would be enough.

photo by Daniel Agee. All rights reserved.

Simple. No more drama than necessary, no less drama than willing.

A single dozen roses, white, sat solitary in their cracked crystal vase atop a bubbling deep butterscotch-hued rectangular fountain, fountain turned down so the water rolled around the vase, over limestone edges to recycle, returning again and again.

Padre.

You’re not really going to call me Padre.

Si.

You are very solemn.  However this occasion carries with it the desire of two of my dearest friends…

Si.

White satin, closer to a muted creme brulée, fell in feverish tonality with freshly chipped path.  The dress fell in line with the breeze, its beauty eclipsing surrounding lavender-flowered Mountain Laurel and dusty green Chinkapin Oak, native Hill Country trees nearly falling over the cliff to allow her a wide berth.  Berth clearly overdone by nature’s whim, could have contained six brides her size four.  Nature had always been very kind to Carmelita.

I thank you for your request, Carmelita.

I thank you for your attendance, Gregory, guest as admirer, gargoyle as witness.

So I really am it.

Si, Padre.

Gregory did not disappoint in dress.  A black suit, white shirt with white vertical stripes Aztecan in nature, straightened out with black bolero brought to his weathered neck by a silver and Peridot slide.  Never seen without boots, he selected his fine set of Angus leather, dyed further black than the hide came to the boot factory.

Carmelita tugged on his hair.

Nothing wild today, Gregory?

Other than Turkey? No. It would not behoove me for my wild hair to compete against your wild nature.  Not on this day.

Hair peppered as if tinted to match his dressage, his wiry mane was tamed today by a simple tight black rubber band.  The only band he had, the only one Carmelita and Nestor needed.

It was her day, but a day he envisioned.  Azure sky, nearly the color of their first car, a Ford Fairlane, tripped over miniature cumulus puffing east.  Midmorning sun was doing a fine job ducking and dodging the little cotton balls.  Bright enough to cast a dramatic chapel shadow which rapidly fell over itself to dive down the ravine, today’s sun on this first Texas Saturday in May held up its heat as a trotter held up his dripping horse upon finish line crossing.

Ceremonial walk?

Si.

I do not wish to eclipse your floral arrangement.  Ergo, I will stay behind the fountain.  You stop in front.

Fine idea, Gregory.

Shall I hum?

No.  The breeze will be my metronome.  Nestor?

Nestor took his place as secrets whispered through the Mountain Laurels up the ridge.  Brought up from the valley, the wind carried messages from hills west, passing them along to this ridge where new secrets moved out further east.  Nothing was known about their perpetual story, but the subplot this day consisted of this ceremony.

One. Two. Long pause. One. Two. Long pause.  Repeating her planned twelve times, she reached Nestor’s side. Gregory pretended to open a book.

No book?

The book Carmelita, is pure prop.  I never look at it, nor do I read from it.  Having done this ceremony for two scores, I know my words well.

Excellent, Gregory.

Well, I must confess, does not mean perfect.  Like all marriages, each one is its own improvisation.  I may skip a word or three, add a few more than necessary, whatever feels right for each occasion.  It is not purposeful.  It flows as the marriage will, or should.  Never have I been wronged on that account.

So if you stumble…

So will the marriage.  Yes.

Petals, each rose blessed with a different amount, added up to nearly 260.  They held fast, stubbornly refusing to release with the breeze whisking southwest to northeast through the chapel.

It took Carmelita’s hair.  But for that she had planned well.  Her tinted deep black strands had been taken from her crown and turned into a French braid running down the middle.  Hair so thick horses turned away in jealousy, Carmelita had a full head remaining on both sides of the braid.  It was as if the braid was a stout waterfall pouring down in the midst of Niagara.

Is it time?

Si.

Gregory’s ponytail whipped across his back as if swatting a fly.  Placing his left hand upon one of Nestor’s and right on one of Carmelita’s, he began.

Carmelita.  Nestor.  Both of you have expressed your desire for the exactness of this day.  Both have asked to make it solemn, yet short.  I promise to make it short, but solemn I cannot do.

Carmelita’s bronze eyes moved her eyebrows up a notch.

Carmelita, it is not your wishes I desire to counter, but a union such as yours deserves celebration, not solemnization.  To this end, I will follow as you two have followed one another.

Look out beyond me, both of you.  I am sure on this day you will see clouds seemingly in a race with each other to reach their destination.  What that is they do not know.  Why they race, there is no answer.  Yet, there they go, together.

Please now, close your eyes.  Listen.  What is it you hear, Carmelita?

Soft breeze.

The clouds, si.  Anything else?

The fountain.

Si.

Nestor?

Si.

Water.  Flowing water, eternally flowing water running as does your love for each other.  Recycling, refreshing, renewing.

Do you accept this union?

Carmelita opened her eyes.  Staring back at her was Nestor.  Her bronze flecks sparkled into his deeper brown pupils.

I do.

Nestor?

Si.

Go on, Nestor.

He reached for her, but as usual in their union, Carmelita’s move was quicker.  She grabbed his nape, pulling him toward her as his arms wrapped her waist.  A solid kiss, long, straight, loving.

Nestor pulled slightly off, whistling loud and clear.  Not crying as a wolf, nor a fan, but a Meadowlark searching for its mate.  Pebbles popped over the cliff as lemmings.  Chips tiddlywinked from under the weight of bone and sinew.  Dust rolled up, sticking onto slightly sweaty rust red muscle.

The quarter was painted, whitewashed along calf fronts and down its snout, where the roan’s nostrils flared as it whinnied.

Sweet Baby…

Nestor offered his hands in a cup.  Carmelita hiked up her dress, put her right velvet slipper into his hands, grabbed Sweet Baby’s neck and climbed atop.  Sans saddle, Sweet Baby casually started down the path.

Gregory changed hats.  A moving gargoyle, he had stealthily gone up the hill as Carmelita casually climbed aboard.  Armed with carefully pulled petals from white roses comprising two dozen purchased from the spring florist temporarily set up where the main road dead-ended into his town, Gregory towered over the couple ten feet off their trail.

Careful, Gregory…

Now I am your gargoyle witness and flower girl!

Balancing on a nearly rectangular rock, Gregory threw his rose discs into the wind, winding up much as he had playing Dogmatic Dodgeball (the prior evening, his Reformed Catholic Cardinals just pantsed their rival Zen Buddhist Zebras for which he was still basking in the glory).  Petals caught a thermal, rising up higher than anyone’s expectations regarding the length of this union.  Flying from his left hand, a smattering harmlessly hit ground, floating over smiles.  Others, magnetized, flitted to Carmelita, disappearing into her crème brulée satin before melding with the missing over wood-chipped limestone.  Nestor, his black suit speaking far louder than his voice, caught a few of the petals, standing out as if mistaken bleach from a dry cleaner’s apprentice.

Only Sweet Baby kept some.  It was hot enough beads of sweat fell about her cheeks, neck and flank. A lucky few happened to catch the correct wave, drifting around Carmelita as if she were a polarizing figure much as she had always been to Nestor’s family.  Fewer still stuck to sweat.  Attaching to Sweet Baby, the proud petals proceeded to latch on to her horsehair for a free ride to the reception.

Nestor, you have always known how to make me feel special.

Rubbing his peppered stubble, Nestor looked past bridle to bride.  Clouds, slightly graying from the weight of water pulled from the Colorado, complemented Carmelita as they contrasted Sweet Baby.

Si, he thought, es fácil amar a un angel eterno.

Received under a cabana less than a regulation futbol field south of the chapel, Carmelita and Nestor fell amongst a couple handfuls of college-age and those slightly older in their upper twenties.  As taught by the finest vaquero, Sweet Baby bent down until her front knobby knees touched earth.  Carmelita quickly slid into Nestor’s waiting arms so as to not make Sweet Baby strain too much.  A smiling Nestor muttered

Caballo, arriba.

15 guests.  Not one of them over the age of 30 or under 21.  Tightly compacted, they crowded into the gazebo sipping Brut, munching on raw carrots, flavored cream cheese filled celery, cantelope slices, pineapple chunks and whole ripe strawberries.  Nestor made sure there were corresponding dips pleasing all palates, including mango chutney and dark chocolate for the most important tongue.

Invited by phone only, each was told to bring someone.  Esmerelda, 27 trim, vivacious and very opinionated about all subjects – especially pie – grew impatient with her boyfriend’s ignorance regarding proper usages of graham cracker crust. As was her wont, she dropped him off at a local coffee establishment.

Out.  You’ve pissed me off now.  Out.  Get a coffee.  And don’t forget to try their crap-ass graham cracker key lime pie.  I’m sure it will be to your liking.

And this will last…?

The reception?  Two hours.

He glowered as well as he could toward Esmerelda.  Beaten.  Belittled.  Yet fair.  Her sympathy bone ran a tad short.  Tolerance toward ignorance was nose cartilage, only not as bendable.

Oh, you mean this?  Forever.

She spit out a few pebbles from under her Jeep Rubicon’s tires in his general direction as she sped off.  Speeding wasn’t exactly her forte as she felt any meeting she was required or desired to go to could always wait until she got there.  Punctuality was more a goal than an absolute.  She arrived, sans guest, four minutes before Sweet Baby kneeled.

Her brother Emilio was the natural leader.  Not one to waste time talking, he lead by doing.  And what he did, special event coordination, he did very well.  One day, after he crossed the threshold into his 30’s, he planned to run his own special events company.  Dessert catering was already in the bag.

Emilio?

Carmelita locked onto his eyes.  A strawberry found its way into the dark chocolate dipping sauce, thick so as not to dribble.  Juice shot onto the roof of her mouth as dark chocolate fell off her tongue.

Where is Sandra?

Walking the path.

Bridal?

No.  Not yet.  To be determined.

Steffan!

Steffan, his undeveloped beard burying his sweet boy looks, threw his dark black ponytail off his left shoulder to his back.  Carmelita approached for a big hug.  He reciprocated, holding her a bit less than she desired.

Problems?

Nestor grabbed Steffan by both shoulders.  Identical in build, they could have been twins if not for the tone of their ponytails.

Steffan siempe tiene problemas, reales o imaginarios.

Nestor, dejarlo en paz. Your amigo, sweetheart?

All good.

Steffan gestured towards Brandon, currently pulling a covert operation concealing carrots in the front pockets of his off-white Dockers.  Lips reaching his ears, he saluted Carmelita with a carrot stick.

Poor.

You don’t know the meaning of poor… or rejection, Steffan sweetheart.  You’re 23.  Tiempo para ser un hombre.

Nestor pulled up Steffan’s slumping shoulders.  Clavicles threatened to snap, begging to be released from Nestor’s firm hold.  Steffan pulled out from under his weight, turned to him and gave him a huge hug.

Carmelita’s tears, small and solitary, dripped twice on her satin.

The reception, intentionally light, was far warmer than Carmelita’s reception with Nestor’s family. She, with beauty no one could possibly debate, radiated warmth in every aspect but social.   Her manners were impeccable, moneys were not. That day multiple fruit harvests ago fell to the cooler side of Coconut Cream pie.

She served.  He ate.  Month after month that spring and summer, Nestor would stroll in to Manuella’s Pie Palace about three times a week.  Late in the afternoon when the sun turned nearly as orange as Carmelita’s first attempt at pumpkin pie when someone fooled her into thinking it needed dye to make it pumpkin color, the screen door creaked. Dusty from training or breaking horses, Nestor would slide in, taking care to leave most of his dust outside.

Sometime around the middle of July, according to Carmelita, or July 13th in Nestor’s memory, Carmelita took an afternoon break.  Normally it would be at 2:15.  That day, whatever day it was, there was a run on custard pie.  This reason for an unusual run on custard was never known, but she had to delay her break to crack and whip more eggs.  Later, she referred to it as non-coincidental fate, Nestor God’s grace.

Nestor worked a stubborn colt.  Defiant, she circled the corral over and over and over again, head up, snorting throwing her neck around as if it were rubber.  Nestor, in Spanish, English and Spanglish, could not get through her massive ears into her mini-memory.  Exasperated, Nestor called it a day earlier than expected.

Springs snapped the door shut around 3:45.  Late for Carmelita, early for Nestor.  She was already sitting, nursing a small cup of daily-fresh whole milk as she stuck her fork into a good slice of Coconut Cream pie.  Manuella, from the business side of the counter, looked at Nestor, uttering

Buenos tardes.  Chocolate cream, correct?

Si.  Eh, no.  Crema de coco?

First forkful folded itself over her taste buds.  Enveloping her tongue, she was speechless as Manuella’s eyes rolled over to her.

Carmelita, that is not the last slice if Coconut Cream, is it?

Si, Manuella.

To Manuella, as much a humanitarian as she felt she was, it was not much of a decision.  Nestor’s family meant business – church business, relative business, side business, tons of business.

I offer it to you for half-price.  No, free.  Yes, free.  She has only taken a bite, Senor.

No, senora.

She is a good worker, but if I must… I will let her go.

No, senora.

Diamondback Rattlesnake boots backed him up as he grabbed a fork.  He turned, crossing like a bishop over the Hershey brown and white chocolate checkerboard tile floor to the side table beyond the leafy palm filling most of the front window.  Carmelita’s bronze eyes fixated on minute imperfections in the ebony table as Nestor gently slid out a matching-stained wooden chair and sat.

Senorita Carmelita?

Her head rose enough so the wide red band disappeared behind her black bangs.  Brown eyes met brown eyes.  Nestor turned the slice of Coconut Cream perpendicular to both.  Taking a small cut with his fork, being careful not to have any hanging crust, Nestor reached across the table.  Tines touched her mouth’s right corner before she opened up, accepting the bite.

Que compartimos.

Her break went fast, too fast for Nestor.  He stayed, watching her.  Dismayed, Manuella offered for her to take the rest of the afternoon off, however much time she needed. Nestor insisted she work.  It was not fair for Manuella to suffer when no one had to suffer at all.  Besides, that damn Sweet Baby had took a lot of his energy.  He could use the rest… and a second slice. Chocolate Cream.

Nestor told anyone who had the patience to draw out his story he did not fall for Carmelita the day they shared Coconut Cream.  It was months before that.  First time her saw her carefully putting the finishing touches of whipped cream onto a Chocolate Cream, whirling little star-kiss shapes along the crust’s edge.

He did not see her three times a week after that day.  Every weekday he showed up, generally from 3pm to 5pm

Te amo, Carmelita.

unless he had another colt as stubborn as Sweet Baby.  She was a stubborn mare, but stubborn meant smart and smart meant loyal.

Loyalty in a horse was an entirely different matter than loyalty in a human.  For over two years, Nestor was intensely loyal to two factions: on one side was his family, proud ranchers with 130 head of cattle and quarter horse paints, perfect working horses; the other side stood Carmelita.  It was a 7-10 split and Nestor, as mild-mannered as he was a hard worker, was not aggressive enough to be a good bowler.  He could never pick it up.

His father gave him two parting gifts and a single paragraph:

I give you a brand new Ford Fairlane.  This way I know wherever you go, you’ll get there.  Once you do get there, you send for the horse whose beauty far eclipses its utility.  Nestor, my loyalty has no boundaries.  It does, however, have fences, high and barbed.  You have stepped out of the family for a lesser.  Now, you are on your own.

We will be fine, Nestor.

Si.

I will bake pies.  You will tend horses.

Si.

We will…

Nestor, a man of few words, never could figure out how to quiet Carmelita.  So he kissed her… often.  She never wanted for his kiss.

The Fairlane, on a single tank of gas, took them from Loco Hills, New Mexico to Paint Rock, Texas. Nestor, due to his family name, got a job breaking horses.  Sweet Baby had made sure there was never another horse more difficult to break.  His name got him in the corral, his work ethic allowed him to stay for nearly two decades until he saved enough to build a kitchen large enough for Carmelita’s expanding pie business, Carmelita’s Empier.

Pot pies, quiches, custards, fruit, creams – Carmelita prepared all to perfection.  Eventually, horsing around became Nestor’s hobby.  He joined in with Carmelita, becoming her deliveryman, or “roamin’ empieror” as she called his occupation.

The sun, despite its penchant on this spring afternoon to attempt melting everything and everyone, was blocked from its goal. First by the canopy, second Sweet Baby.  Sweet Baby shaded while sating as she bent over, lifted her lips to delicately snag a mini-carrot, then eleven more, each orange stick slightly thicker than the length of her big front teeth.  Still, Carmelita rewarded Sweet Baby with a sample from Carmelita’s new line of animal treats, non-sugared apple tarts.

Sweet Baby snorted.  Her official pedigreed certificate read Sweet Sweet Sweet Sweet Sweet Baby.  Can’t speak on a personal level to a 5th generation horse with a name that long.  A consistent Nestor stayed with Sweet Baby.

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