Godiva had said several times that Wendy was a writer, but Alejo hadn’t seen any sign of it. Of course, writers probably didn’t write every day. And since his arrival her time had been pretty busy.
But the same night he’d sensed that far-off presence searching on the mystic plane, Wendy had begun working at her laptop. She was at it as soon as she got back from her job at the bakery, and once dinner and the dishes were done, and the kids had picked a new anime series to watch, she set up her laptop again.
Alejo did not say anything. There were plenty of other things to talk about, from the progress on Wendy’s house (both kids insisted that they wanted to help over the weekend) to shifter training for Oriane.
The weekend went as planned. All four of them trooped down to Wendy’s house to tackle the new closets and cupboards in the expanded kitchen, both kids insisting they wanted to help.
Oriane turned out to be very meticulous with painting. Sam wanted to work with wood, so Alejo gave him a sanding job. Sam seemed to like that, running his little fingers over the smooth wood after he’d applied the sandpaper vigorously. He obviously missed his animal friends, who did not show up, but he seemed content otherwise, and brightened considerably when Wendy brought out the picnic basket, packed with enough delicious food for an army.
At night, when the others gathered around the TV, Wendy drifted toward her laptop. “For a few minutes,” she said, but the hours slipped by.
By Monday, she was really gripped by creative fervor. Alejo knew what that was like—he sometimes got that way when he was rebuilding or refinishing an especially fine piece. He loved seeing her typing away, her expression changing rapidly from a grin to puzzlement to a sudden fierce scowl. Reflecting what was going on in her story? He didn’t know, and he wouldn’t interrupt her for the world. He was pretty sure she’d talk about it when she was ready.
What he could do, he did; he took over kitchen cleanup, tended to the towel and bedding laundry, and midway through the week, he announced that there would be an Alejo Dinner that night.
Wendy looked at him with her lips parted, then Sam was there, tugging her sleeve. “Mom, I can’t find my other shoe.”
She leaned up and kissed him, then vanished to help Sam get ready for school.
Sam seemed content, except Alejo noticed him running out more frequently into the garden. Checking for his animal friends? He’d run back in, each day a bit more disappointed, but he’d busy himself with his drawing, or reading, or watching anime. Oriane was in good spirits, enough so that Alejo took a chance one morning. He turned to her while she was still finishing her breakfast. “Shall we take a drive by the local school so you can see what it looks like?”
Oriane’s eyes widened, then she scowled. “I am not ready,” she declared in Spanish. “Not yet.”
By now he’d learned that she texted with her mother every evening. He said as non-confrontationally as possible, “Is your mom okay with this waiting?”
“Yes.” Up came the chin. “Can we fly today, before painting?” Her tone wheedled.
He hadn’t let her shift since the day of that odd scan. He shut his eyes, reaching on the mythic plane: nothing. “Sure. Tell you what, let’s see if we can make it to Catalina and back.” And as she leaped up, grinning, and carried her dishes to the sink, he decided that he’d slip in some talk about the importance of school.
The sky was clear when they reached the shoreline. Oriane proudly took off in a running launch, and shot skyward, out over the water toward Catalina Island. Alejo shifted and joined her, leading the way as she flitted about, swooping, diving, and testing her wings. Both being mythic shifters, they could reach tremendous speeds, though it would be tiring, and leave them ravenous once they shifted back.
They soared above the little island, Oriana’s crest streaming behind her as her gaze darted about, taking in some buffalo plodding along in a line in a gully, and on the other side, a few wild boars rooting about a cliff. Then they began the flight back, carried by the off-shore breeze. Alejo could tell that Oriane was tiring, after all her acrobatics, and flew where he could see her. But she made it fine, gliding the last distance, then landing and shifting with a plop to the sand.
They’d driven down in his truck, he having foreseen this outcome—he remembered what it had been like when he first shifted. He’d always overestimated his strength. He pulled out a jug of cold water, some leftovers that he’d warmed and closed up in a ceramic container, and watched with satisfaction as Oriane fell on both with a typical teen appetite.
Then it was time to get to work on the house. Her task for the day was to do the second coat on the window frames and sills. As they labored, he chatted about his first projects, and slipped in some mentions of how much fun the local kids seemed to be having at a skate park next to the school, which was near the store where he bought his supplies.
In his mind, this had led the way to questions, then easing into talking about school.
In reality? Stone cold silence.
Okay, that was a total dud idea. He went back to talking about rescuing horses. She had liked those stories very much. He got halfway into an exciting one, when he and his dad rescued some race horses from horse thieves, and halfway through, he switched to English. Oriane kept painting, but he could tell she was listening.
At the end, he said in English, “If you like, we can visit the Kentucky ranch one day. You’ll get to meet your grandfather, as well as some of the rescues who stayed on. Would you like that?”
“Sí,” she said—in Spanish.
“Do you have any questions?” he asked, again in English.
She launched into questions—in Spanish. He gave up. Maybe Wendy would have a better idea.
They got back just before Wendy and Sam arrived home. Alejo said, “Any kid who wants to learn how to make Texas chili the way my dad learned, report to the kitchen. Everyone else can go do something fun. You’ll know when it’s ready when you smell the cornbread coming out of the oven.”
Wendy lingered. Alejo considered bringing up his failure, but when he saw Wendy’s eyes stray toward the table where she usually set up her laptop, he said, “Go ahead and work.” He kissed her on the forehead.
There was that flash of guilt that never failed to hurt him, purely for the causes in her past life that had put it there. “I’m being selfish,” she murmured. “I hadn’t realized I’d let my scribbling eat up so much time.”
He set his hands on her shoulders. “This is not an underhanded way of telling you not to do what obviously gives you joy. Also, I want to cook. I actually like cooking. But you’re such a fantastic cook that it’s been easier to come in and see what masterpiece you come up with next.”
