When Angels Die

Chapter 2

Chapter 2

We left the hotel room a couple of hours later to get a bite to eat; we quickly spotted a little restaurant a few minutes from where we were staying. The restaurant was crowded, which is typical for this popular tourist area of San Antonio. The waiter brought us each a frozen margarita that was so large it must have been served in a fish bowl. We had no complaints. We wolfed down our enchiladas and made plans to venture out to the River Walk the following morning. The first day was to relax and take a dip in the pool.

          We left early the following morning to visit the Alamo, a proud piece of Texas and American history. After a quick tour, we decided to move on to the River Walk. It could take forever to walk along the banks, stopping at every little boutique and restaurant. It snakes around for several miles and the experience never grows old. We ate ourselves silly, had frozen margaritas, and enjoyed every minute.

          The following day was spent much in the same way. Again, we lazed around and enjoyed the Texas sunshine; we simply enjoyed each other’s company. It was a fabulous and very relaxing weekend, which was needed at the time. Each of us had been working hard and needed the break.  Gareth was upper management in an international oil and gas company and I was an accountant working in the private sector.  With our schedules, it was difficult to grab a weekend alone.

          We were on the road back to Houston by mid-afternoon. The drive was peaceful and swift, and we stopped only for a late lunch at a nice German restaurant. We pulled into the driveway about an hour and a half after lunch and carried the bags into the house. Gareth had to go to the office for a few hours that night, so he was only able to stay for a brief moment before leaving.  It had been a perfect weekend.                            

           After Gareth left, I walked over to my neighbor’s house since they had been kind enough to keep an eye on my dog. I noticed immediately that Copain was not in the backyard, so I presumed my neighbors Ethel and her daughter, Miriam, had taken him to their house for the evening.          

           “Hi, Ethel,” I called out. She had just walked outside with freshly potted flowers in hand. I guessed her to be in her late-fifties, but was never quite sure.                                                                 

          She shared a house with her daughter, who was a slim woman in her mid-thirties. The women were expert gardeners and they had applied their skills to create a beautifully-landscaped yard. It was a time-consuming hobby, but they enjoyed it tremendously. It paid off with every Yard-of-the-Month sign that was a permanent fixture displayed in their front yard.                                                                

          When the women were not tending to the bushes and flowers, they practiced six miles away at the nearest shooting range where they were said to have a pretty good shot. They were as proud of their gun collection as they were of their roses.                                         

  “Hi, yourself,” she responded with a friendly smile. “Did you have fun?”                                                                                 

        “It was wonderful, thanks. I sure hope Capouche is here because he’s not at my home. . . .”  My dog’s name is actually Copain, which is French and means friend or companion.  “Capouche” was his nickname. Justin and Capouche chose each other one day when we were visiting the Society for the Prevention of Cruelty to Animals (SPCA).