Free A Time to Surrender by Sally John Page A

guests at the hacienda, they managed to slip away for the service. Even with the imminent arrival of the much-talked-about Beth Russell, they went. Apparently they didn’t let anything interfere with what Indio called their corporate worship time.
    Skylar rounded a bend and came into a clearing. Max’s father, Ben, stood a dozen feet from her, in the center of it, hands on his hips.
    He looked her way and raised a hand in greeting. As usual, he wore denim overalls and a plaid shirt with rolled-up sleeves. His shock of white hair was uncombed, his weathered face haggard.
    She waved back and walked up to him. “Morning, Mr. B. You’re missing church.”
    “So are you, young lady.” His blue eyes reflected the sunlight, and she caught sight of his rare sparkle.
    “Are we in trouble?”
    “Only with Indio. The good Lord can handle our need to be elsewhere besides a pew this morning. Have you been to this spot yet?”
    She shook her head and studied the wall of gargantuan boulders before them. Down low, a jagged cross had been dug out of the stone. Alongside that, evenly carved letters spelled, “Benjamin Charles Beaumont Jr. – September 9, 1950.” Some sort of smudge marred the “eau” of “Beaumont.”
    Skylar said, “Claire told me about it. It’s a memorial to your son.”
    “Yes,” Ben said. “We never knew the date of death.” He sighed, a sound so deep it could have been dredged up from the bottom of his soul. “We still don’t. They didn’t mark the grave in Vietnam. Tuyen says 1982. If her story is to be believed.”
    “You’re not sure?” Claire had told her about that as well. Tuyen, an Amerasian and a complete unknown to them before last spring, arrived with a wild story about BJ being her father. He’d been a Navy pilot, shot down, MIA, alive for years but unable to escape. When Tuyen was little, he and her mother had been killed by Communists.
    “Well, I’ll tell you what I think, Skylar.” Ben looked at her, his twinkle snuffed out by a dark gaze. “I can’t believe my son survived for years in that country and had a child out of wedlock. I can’t believe it because of one reason. And she’s coming here today.”
    Obviously he referred to Beth Russell. She, too, must be a humdinger to still have the old man’s devotion after so many years.
    In a way, Skylar was glad that, like the odd mar across the stone’s carved letters, the Beaumonts had a few smudges in their history. Such imperfections could mean a longer stay for her own scruffy self.

Sixteen
    C laire stood near the parking lot, on the railroad-tie steps. Heated by the afternoon sun, they gave off the tarry scent of creosote. Its pungency played tag with the softer odors of sage and cedar mulch.
    A car approached, dust swirls trailing it. Aside from the pavement in front of the house, the lot was still mostly dirt and gravel, as was the incline leading up to the yard, bordered by more ties. Asphalt and bedding plants would come, in time.
    Max stood a step below Claire, and Tuyen one above. Indio and Ben were in the parking area. Claire felt part of an odd receiving line. They all waited to greet Beth Russell.
    The car stopped now, and the long-ago fiancée of Max’s brother emerged. Claire had met her on a few occasions, years before. She remembered a petite honey-blonde, down-to-earth, a quick smile, a little-girl voice. That described the woman in blue jeans and oversized white shirt whose ponytail swayed as she cried, “Indio! Ben!” and embraced each one tightly, for long moments.
    They hadn’t seen each other in at least twenty years. Tears flowed freely from all three. Claire looked away.
    She heard Tuyen’s sharp intake of breath.
    Claire turned and smiled up at her. “It’s okay.”
    Her blue eyes—so incongruous in the tall girl with her Asian features—were wide. “It okay? Me here?” Her accent had thickened steadily throughout the week, her words often indecipherable. She dreaded meeting her