The Green Lace Corset

by Jill G. Hall

  Socks mewed from inside the basket. Isaiah opened it. The kitty poked her head up.

  “We need to let her out for a moment.” Sally Sue lifted Socks out and kept a close eye on her. She ran in circles, scratched at the sand, and soon returned to the basket.

  Sally Sue rolled up Isaiah’s overall legs, and the two of them walked toward the sea. Clasping his hands in front of her, she waded with him into the icy water.

  “Brrr,” she hollered.

  “Bwrrr,” Isaiah hollered.

  She pulled him up and over ripples that grazed her knees. She picked him up in her arms and waded out farther and dunked them both in. He started to cry, so she splashed back to the beach and shook her body like a dog to make him laugh. It worked; he giggled again.

  They sat on the shawl to dry in the sun. She kissed him, smelling the salty sea on his cheek, and ran her fingers through his blond locks. The sun reflected off them, and his blue eyes sparkled. He leaped up, shot down toward the water again, and inspected its edge. Leaning down, he reached for something and scurried back to her. He opened his hand and held up his prize. “Look!”

  “Shell.” She accepted it from him and ran her fingers over the white ridges. She’d never seen a real one before, only in picture books. She handed it back to him.

  “Pitty.”

  “Yes. It is very pretty.”

  He stuck it in his pocket and curled up beside her. She looked out at the ocean. It had come to her at the train station that she couldn’t take him back to a life with her ma. Impulsively, she had bought tickets to the Pacific and a new life.

  She removed her blouse, down to her undergarments, and let the velvety sunshine caress her bare shoulders, reminding her of Cliff’s warm touch. The touch she’d never feel again. She remembered his arm around her shoulder, warming her on their first ride to the homestead on that cold winter’s night. His deep voice, booming out songs to keep the boredom at bay. His kindness and concern for her in his ever-changing blue eyes.

  She’d done everything she could to get away from him and hadn’t let his actions melt her resolve to hate him. She’d stayed alert and interpreted his actions as devious, ready to trick her like a shape-shifting coyote throwing his voice to trap her in his snare.

  But his kindness toward her had been sincere after all, and she regretted all those months she’d fought the urge to let go, lean into him, and accept the love he offered. Now it was too late. The memories of their short time together would be with her eternally. She’d move forward in her life, keep hold of that one afternoon of bliss in her heart forever.

  She gazed out at the vast blue ocean. Clouds billowed over it. She’d come to the end of this part of her journey and would stay for a while and a day. She wasn’t going to have the normal life she had thought she wanted. God had given her Isaiah, which was worth so much more. She didn’t know what her future held. As with the Pacific, she couldn’t see to the other side.

  57

  Outside the window, early March breezes had pushed the morning fog away to reveal blue skies. A month after Anne’s meltdown, her heart and mind were now clear as that sky. She sat in the rocker with her tiny, two-month-old miracle, Sylvie, in her arms. No, she was a big miracle. Anne couldn’t believe she’d ever considered not having her. This was what God had planned for them.

  She looked up at the mosaic hanging on the nursery wall and said, “You glow, girl!”

  The path wouldn’t be easy, but she’d move forward in a life filled with love. She sighed and smoothed down Sylvie’s curls, which had begun to grow out in all directions. Turned out Sylvie had inherited not only Anne’s big feet, but her wild hair as well. Her big brown eyes and long lashes were totally Sergio’s.

  It felt so good to be settled in a real home. They’d visit her childhood home at least once a year. She hoped Sylvie would like to fish there, too, someday, beside the purple hyacinth, pussy willows, and water lilies. The quiet watch for a great blue heron to fly overhead, a tug on the line, or a thunderstorm to erupt with passion in a world full of wonder.

  Anne put Sylvie in the bassinet and cranked the forest-animal musical mobile over her head, and she soon fell asleep. It had taken some hard convincing to get Anne to move to Bay Breeze, but when Paul had told her Sylvia would want it that way, that clinched it. Moving into the mansion had felt like a fairy tale come true. At first, Anne continued to see Sylvia around every corner, but soon even those feelings were comforting.

  Fay came into the nursery with Diana in her arms. “You’ll never believe—”

  “Shh. I just put Sylvie down,” Anne whispered, with a finger to her lips.

  “Sorry.” Fay set Diana in her own crib, tossed a blanket over her, and kissed her forehead. “Beddy-bye, baby.”

  They would raise the girls together as sisters—an untraditional family, but a family, nonetheless.

  The women snuck next door to the guest room, which had become Anne’s room. Boxes were still piled in a corner, and the bed was unmade.

  Fay gasped. “Blimey, girl. You’ve been here all this time, and you haven’t even finished unpacking.”

  “I’ve been overwhelmed getting Sylvie settled and going back and forth to the museum and all, but I’m ready to start tackling my room today.” Anne gathered up a pile of clothes on top of a box.

  Her phone rang.

  “Sorry. It’s the museum. I should take it.”

  “Hope they aren’t letting you go.”

  “That’s not even funny.”

  “Hi, Anne. This is William Willingsby.”

  “Yes?”

  “We just had a board meeting, and we’d like to offer you the art director job.”

  “You would?” She couldn’t believe what she was hearing and sat on the bed.

  “Because of our financial situation, it’s only part-time for now, but we hope you’ll continue to teach too.”

  “I’m not qualified.” After all, Priscilla had a doctorate and Anne had only a BA. She put the phone on speaker so Fay could also hear.

  “You’re an accomplished artist, and we like your hands-on and inclusive approach. I know you have a new responsibility at home, but we’d love for you to take over. We feel you have a good sense of what it would take to build a vibrant educational outreach program.”

  Anne’s heart zigzagged with joy.

  “That sounds wonderful. I’ll need to check about childcare. I think I can work it out.”

  Fay nodded and did a happy dance.

  “Come on in tomorrow, and let’s talk about it. You don’t need to decide right away. I’m hoping you can start soon, because I have to get back to my own life.”

  Anne hung up.

  Fay hugged her. “I’m so proud of you! Of course we’ll work out childcare.”

  She checked her phone. “I need to get to work soon, but I’ll help you get started first.” Fay began to fold a sweater rumpled on the dresser.

  Anne shooed her out. “No, no. I’ll do it. I promise. You go to work.”

  “Thanks for watching Paul and the girls this evening so we can have a date night.”

  Anne walked her to the top of the stairs. “It’s the least I can do.”

  “Maybe you’ll putter in your studio a bit today too. Cheerio,” Fay said, as she traipsed down the stairs.

  “Maybe.” Anne dragged a box filled with shoes into the walk-in closet. She’d never dreamed of having a closet this big. She pulled out the silver shoes, held them to the overhead light, and admired the sparkles. She remembered the first time she’d seen them, in the New York antique shop. They truly turned out to be magic. She slid them onto the built-in shoe rack and slipped the Ferragamos beside them. Too big to fit on the rack, she put her cowgirl boots on the floor underneath.

  After she finished unpacking all her shoes, she returned to the bed and looped the green boa over the corset outfit hanger, in hopes she’d be able to fit into it again to entice another man someday. Maybe it would be Sergio; then again, maybe not.
She hung it in the closet with a smile. She and Sergio would be seeing each other often enough, whenever he came to see the baby and stayed in his condo here. So who knew?

  She unpacked the green lace cocktail dress she’d worn the first night she met him and hung it in the closet. Collecting the black coat from the bed, she touched the snowflake pin and ran her hand along the smooth velvet. She held it up to her nose and imagined for a moment she caught a whiff of gardenia, then hung it in the closet too.

  Opening another box, she saw the finance jars Sergio had sent. A good mother would actually use these to teach a daughter how to be financially responsible. Perhaps Anne could even use them to keep her own finances on track and set a good example for Sylvie. She lined them up on the dresser: SAVE, SPEND, GIVE AWAY.

  She peeked at the girls in the nursery, both still sleeping peacefully, and made her way upstairs to the spacious attic that was now her studio. She twirled around like Julie Andrews on that mountaintop in The Sound of Music as bright sun streamed through the casement windows. Anne opened one and let the salty, cool breeze float inside. The bay below sparkled in the beauty of the day.

  Anne pulled the lucky key from her jeans pocket, put it on her altar, fingered her father’s dog tags, and rubbed the Buddha’s belly.

  “Thank you for all my blessings.” She stared up at the ceiling and promised to write them down in her journal before the day was done.

  Fay had surprised Anne by having shelving installed in the studio, and together the women had placed knickknacks on them, sorted the found objects into plastic bins, and loaded them neatly onto the shelves. Chipped and broken dishes were stacked there as well. Four six-foot tables had just been delivered. She placed them in the room’s center and positioned oilcloth covers on top. A dream-come-true studio all Anne’s own.

  Fay had lined up all the finished and someday-to-be-finished pieces around the space. Anne curled up on the daybed, resting on a far wall, and listed them in her journal:

  Southwest Sky Collage

  Hugs and Kisses Washboard

  Things People Pray For (with Lady of Guadalupe)

  Cast-Away Stones

  Our Lady of the Garden

  She paused and added, You Glow, Girl! (Would put “NFS” on it.)

  Without realizing it, she had intuitively made many pieces with female figures as focal points. She could combine the whole series to express the theme: female empowerment. Her fingers itched to add more to the collection.

  These past months had been the longest period since she’d worked on her own. Uncertain where to start, she moved to her altar, rang the Tibetan chimes, lit a gardenia candle, and closed her eyes. She saw herself in the green lace corset and scrolled through her photos from the Southwest print until she found the one Lola had taken of her at the resale boutique. Anne printed it out, cut around it, and adhered it to the sky collage with a smile.

  Inspired to keep going, she intuitively selected a ceramic statue of a girl wearing a headscarf. Anne glued it in the center of an antique oval tray, carried over her container of shells and one with pearls, and began to glue them around the girl. She added two fish chopstick holders she’d bought on sale in Chinatown, and blue-and-white dishes. She added Sally Sells Seashells by the Seashore to the list of pieces in her journal, sat on the daybed, and kept writing:

  Gratitude for All My Blessings

  Sylvie

  Mom

  Pootie

  Tootie

  Michigan nature

  Sergio

  Paul

  Fay

  George

  San Francisco

  Bay Breeze

  Art

  Sylvia

  And the list could go on and on and on.

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  First, I want to thank the San Diego Writers, Ink community for nurturing me through all these years while I created this trilogy, especially Executive Director Kristen Fogle for her dedicated leadership, and Nicole Vollrath for the prompt that started this novel’s train on its tracks.

  Brooke Warner, Crystal Patriarche, Samantha Strom, and my She Writes Press sisters, I so appreciate your wholehearted support and guidance. Enchantress Julie Metz, your book covers are more beautiful than anything I could ever have dreamed. Jordyn Smiley, thank you for the gorgeous green lace corset design and construction. I can’t wait to wear it! A shout-out to my editors Tracy Jones, Judy Reeves, and Annie Tucker for your enthusiasm and much-needed keen eyes. Jen Coburn, publicist extraordinaire, your humor, perseverance, and positive attitude are never-ending. Thank you to all independent bookstores for supporting readers and writers, particularly La Playa Books, The Book Catapult, and Warwick’s. And to Zorro the tuxedo cat, thank you for your wondrous surprise visits to my garden.

  My sincere gratitude goes to these dear inspirational women who have been a gift to me: Jill Crusey, Minna Lopez, Susan Rapp, Tania Pryputniewicz, Paula Herring, Tinsley Correa, Dottie Laub, Leigh Akin, Tanya Peters, Rebecca Chaama, Debra Bandera, Leslie Meads, Lynn Cooper, Lisa Hampton, Banoo, Karen Begin, Meline Cox, Marti Hess, Lisa Laube, Carol Leimbach, Patti Wassem, Pat Fitzmorris, Holly Foster, Sandy Baine, and Stephanie Tsuruda.

  I’m eternally grateful to my siblings Todd Greentree, Sandy Greenbaum, and Leslie Zwail for your love and encouragement. Gratitude to Phil Johnson and Seth Krosner for always believing and being there for me. To my Westminster family, especially Tom Haine, Megan Cochran, and of course my soul brother Corey Pahanish, I thank our blessed stars for bringing us together.

  A special thank-you goes to my readers—because of you I keep writing.

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  photo credit: Chris Loomis

  JILL G. HALL is the author of a dual-timeline trilogy about women searching for their place in the world, connected by vintage finds. The first of the series, The Black Velvet Coat, was an International Book Award Finalist, and the second, The Silver Shoes, was a Distinguished Favorite in the NYC Big Book Awards. Her poems have appeared in a variety of publications, including A Year in Ink, The Avocet, and Wild Women, Wild Voices. Hall is an instructor at San Diego Writers, Ink, as well as a seasoned presenter at readings and community events. Her career as a public-school educator spanned over twenty years. She holds a doctorate from Northern Arizona University in Flagstaff. In addition to writing, she practices yoga, gardens, and fashions whimsical mosaics using found objects. On her blog, Crealivity, she shares her poetry and musings about the art of practicing a creative lifestyle. Learn more at www.jillghall.com.

  SELECTED TITLES FROM SHE WRITES PRESS

  She Writes Press is an independent publishing company

  founded to serve women writers everywhere.

  Visit us at www.shewritespress.com.

  The Black Velvet Coat by Jill G. Hall. $16.95, 978-1-63152-009-9. When the current owner of a black velvet coat—a San Francisco artist in search of inspiration—and the original owner, a 1960s heiress who fled her affluent life fifty years earlier, cross paths, their lives are forever changed . . . for the better.

  The Silver Shoes by Jill G. Hall. $16.95, 978-1-63152-353-3. Distracted by a cross-country romance, San Francisco artist Anne McFarland worries that she has veered from her creative path. Almost ninety years earlier, Clair Deveraux, a sheltered 1929 New York debutante, becomes entangled in the burlesque world in an effort to save her family and herself after the stock market crash. Ultimately, these two very different women living in very different eras attain true fulfillment—with some help from the same pair of silver shoes.

  Portrait of a Woman in White by Susan Winkler. $16.95, 978-1-938314-83-4. When the Nazis steal a Matisse portrait from the eccentric, art-loving Rosenswigs, the Parisian family is thrust into the tumult of war and separation, their fates intertwined with that of their beloved portrait.

  The Great Bravura by Jill Dearman. $16.95, 978-1-63152-989-4. Who killed Susie—or did she actually disappear? The Great Bravura, a dashing lesbian magician living in a fantastical and noirish 1947
New York City, must solve this mystery—before she goes to the electric chair.

  Beautiful Garbage by Jill DiDonato. $16.95, 978-1-938314-01-8. Talented but troubled young artist Jodi Plum leaves suburbia for the excitement of the city—and is soon swept up in the sexual politics and downtown art scene of 1980s New York.

  Start With the Backbeat by Garinè B. Isassi. $16.95, 978-1-63152-041-9. When post-punk rocker Jill Dodge finally gets the promotion she’s been waiting for in the spring of 1989, she finds herself in the middle of a race to find a gritty urban rapper for her New York record label.