by SL Hulen
“They don’t bother me at all.”
By now, Victoria was truly miserable. As she wiped her face with her sleeve, the front door opened and a jolly voice called out, “Where is everyone?”
The woman who entered with an armful of clothing was Lila, the caretaker’s wife. Right away, Victoria admired the playful way she dropped her pile onto General Lee, who’d again laid claim to the large chair in front of the fireplace. She strolled into the kitchen to kiss Celeste on the cheek while the General growled, jumped down from his bed trailing a white t-shirt, and strutted away.
“It’s my turn for a good look at Bea’s friend from college.” Lila came closer and took Victoria by the shoulders. “Why are you crying?”
“Onions,” Victoria blubbered.
“Leave them for a minute and let’s see if anything here fits you.” From the center of the pile, Lila pulled out a cotton dress with giant pink and purple flowers—the sort of dress June Cleaver might have worn to a picnic. The bateau neckline and bright colors made Victoria wince. As if that wasn’t bad enough, a matching bright-violet sweater followed.
“Now stop that,” Celeste commanded, despite the fact that Victoria had made no visible reaction. “Give it a try.”
In the dining room, Victoria slipped the dress over her head and found unexpected pleasure in the softness of the washed cotton. As light as air and clean smelling, it slipped weightlessly over her body, except where it hugged her waist. She twirled around several times in her bare feet, which loosened her bun, so she pulled out the tortoise-shell clip and shook out her hair. Before those two had a chance to laugh at her she needed a look for herself, so she stepped silently into the washroom.
“Mamá?” Victoria whispered at the mirror; it was Estima Barrón smiling back, just as her daughter remembered her— winding her hair around her fingers in a dress Victoria could practically recall her wearing. Often and usually in tender tones, people commented on the resemblance between them, how she had her mother’s shining eyes and thick wavy hair. Victoria had never really seen it before, but she did now. Lingering in front of the mirror, she wiped away tears that were not from chopping onions and wrapped her arms tightly around herself, studying herself from every possible angle, hypnotized by the vision of her mother in the mirror. Only then did she walk shyly into the front room.
Sighs broke the silence. The urge to run back to the safety of her tan suit gripped her, but Celeste rose, teetered toward her, and took her arm.
“Who knew you had it in you? You look beautiful, cookie,” she remarked, and then looked at Lila. “That dress never fit you like that. Doesn’t she remind you of those old Mexican calendars?” She searched the room as if she would conveniently find one hanging on the wall. “You could always find one in the bar at the Plaza Del Toros. What a bullring that was! Those calendars always featured a beautiful senorita being serenaded by some fine-looking mariachi riding a horse. Why, you could be March. Or maybe July.”
“I’ll put these away,” Victoria mumbled, her cheeks suddenly warm. She gathered up the pile of clothes, mouthed “thank you” to Lila, pushed open the screen door, and went outside.
The twilight was infused with the sounds of birds settling themselves for the night. Victoria walked between the lofty box elders that lined the path to the cabin, two on each side. Their shadows made long, defiant stripes across the patio. This time of day exaggerated the shades of green in what Celeste called her “shade garden.” Not far away, at the place where hostas and flowers threatened to overtake the forest, a young deer poked its head through the brush. Its eyes and ears twitched nervously as Victoria’s soft footfalls alternated between the grass and stepping stones. Halfway, she stopped to put on the purple sweater, and the deer vanished. Something moving in the other direction caught her attention; it was a lone male turkey, ambling toward the pond with his tail feathers trailing in the high grass. He stopped to look at Victoria, deemed her of no importance, and turned away as if disgusted by the sight of her.
Where was Khara, anyway? She remembered Celeste telling her that no one had been able to coax her from the stable. The knotted muscles in her stomach slowly began to release until she looked at her watch and noted that Mieley’s twenty-four hour deadline had expired by a single minute.
Chapter Twenty-nine Mieley
Sweat dripped from Arlan Mieley’s brow as he observed the rear entrance of the Center for Help. Minutes ticked by. Earlier in the day, he’d shown a fifth of vodka to a gaunt man with grey skin and insatiable eyes, promising him liquid treasure if he saw a woman matching Victoria Barrón’s description enter the front of building. He’d provided his willing spy with the description of her mysterious companion as well, although he knew there was far less chance that she would appear.
So far, his lookout hadn’t spotted either of them. Mieley had only half-expected her to show. In her position, he might well have done the same thing.
After he was sure that the last woman had left the building—the same redhead he’d seen at the courthouse—he drove around the corner. Opening the door, he tossed the bottle into the drunk’s filthy hands and sped away.
The look in Victoria’s eyes had told him she would do anything to keep the bracelet from him, and at the courthouse she had been clear-headed enough to know she had the advantage. But he had advantages of his own; call it “six degrees of separation.” Without giving so much as an inkling of his presence, he had existed on the periphery of Victoria Barrón’s life for some time. He recalled every time Elias had mentioned her—her work, her home, her causes—and knew he had the means to find her. His life had taught him nothing if not patience. His intellect would triumph over her stubbornness.
Obtaining the last bracelet was going to take longer than he thought. Nevertheless, the thought of his quarry inflamed him. Recalling the graceful neck, the swell of her breasts, and angry eyes, Mieley’s blood ran hot and his imagination wild.
He ran a finger along the shadow beneath her collarbone and explored the indentation at the base of her throat, stroking gently until she closed her eyes. Her back arched and she shuddered ever so slightly. Then he kissed her slowly but relentlessly. Later, she awoke from her bliss and smiled at him with soft eyes. They shared a pot of tea, and then spent the afternoon at the Metropolitan Museum of Art. He showed her only the choicest pieces, and instantly they became her favorites as well. In time, he came to know the deeper meaning of her small smile. Victoria marveled at all New York had to offer, and never regretted leaving her miserable cow-town. When they had come to know one another, she admitted that no one had ever tantalized her mind the way he had, had ever made her fingers and toes curl during sex.
Too often, photos of the two of them appeared in the society column. Heiresses and stockbrokers commented on what an amazing couple they were, how well she had pulled off the plunging neckline of the orchid chiffon evening gown…
The tantalizing mirage faded into the taillights of a tractor trailer. Mieley braked hard. He exited the interstate, cursing, his nerves frazzled.
The uncertainty of women made Mieley avoid them, and what little he knew of them he found perplexing. And yet something about Victoria, a woman he had every reason to despise, warmed him. Of course there would be obstacles, but some of the best relationships began that way. Elias would not like the idea of his partner becoming part of the family, but he would eventually accept the situation. In time, he might even come to be grateful for the strange coincidence that had united them.
“She hates you,” Mieley said aloud, stopping at the light on the access road. “At least she thinks she does.”
He remembered trying to kiss Marina Humbolt behind the gymnasium on a March day when the cold had finally broken. The emerging blades of grass and newly born calves had made him optimistic. He pushed his tongue inside her mouth, feeling the inside of her lips while his hands moved inside her underwear—but not in the place she had expected. She pulled away with an expression that still wounded
him and ran across the field shrieking, “You pervert!”
The next morning, he heard the whispers and giggles, understood the averted eyes. But hadn’t he done what any boy his age would?
It fell to the local priest to answer his questions. As they put away the implements of the Mass, they discussed his duties to the church. When the moment arrived, Mieley gathered his courage and asked the father if he could explain a thing or two. They talked openly about his inclinations until, mid-sentence, he noticed the priest looking at him strangely.
“Pain is not supposed to be part of physical love,” he intoned, looking away. “But it intensifies everything! It makes you alive!”
“It’s a perversion, Arlan. You must put it out of your mind. If you don’t, you’ll grow up to be some kind of—”
“What?” Mieley had been too innocent to know better than to ask.
“A freak, a monstrosity.” Watching contempt unfold across the face of the man he’d confessed so much more than his sins to, Arlan tried to recall if the grace of God had ever been with him. Looking around the room for the last time, Mieley scoffed, “There are far worse perversions. Chastity, for example.”
At sixteen, he was pleased with his clever insult and felt he had held his own until the priest pushed his shoulders down, forcing him to his knees.
“Look at you, your mind teeming with filth. What do you know about sacrifice? Pray for forgiveness, Mieley, otherwise there’s a special place in hell for arrogant little bastards like you.”
Arlan left his last confession with unanswered questions. Since then, the only women he’d ever been with had waited expectantly for him to pull his wallet out after they had finished.
What was it about Victoria? He was not certain, except he thought that she, unlike that cow Marina, would not have pushed him away.
Chapter Thirty Victoria
She dropped Lila’s clothing in a pile on a faded red wing chair, one of a pair which sat in front of the fireplace. The cabin smelled faintly of tobacco and the earthy scent of decaying wood. The upstairs, which Celeste had said was the cats’ domain, was silent.
Victoria treated herself to a leisurely exploration of the log cabin. The most modern piece of furniture in the main room was an old stereo console on the far wall. She ran her hands over the smooth pecan wood and lifted the hinged top, turning the knob, until the panel lit up. An honest-to-goodness vinyl record waited on the turntable. It was dusty, but not badly scratched. She blew hard on it, and then gently replaced it.
Curiosity attracted her to the photos hung in groups along the short hallway leading from the main room to the bedroom. More than a few were of Celeste and her handsome Carl. With him, she stood straight, always smiling and radiant, and usually holding a bouquet of flowers. Her gaze went to the next cluster of photos. Each was captioned with an expedition date and a detailed description of the exotic locations that Herman McCollis, the farm’s original owner, had visited. A great bear of a man, Victoria sensed a certain loneliness about him, though the black-and-white Polaroids showed him surrounded by Chinese railroad workers, African hunting guides, or other hired labor. She searched for a photo of him with a woman or children, but found none. What story will the pictures of my life tell? she wondered.
Victoria sighed gloomily and moved on to study the framed cross-stitch samplers scattered on the opposite hallway wall. Some were very elaborate, the fabric browned and colors softened with age. One, more intricately embroidered and obviously newer than the others, turned out to be a wedding sampler. A heart bedecked with flowers and birds celebrated October 27, 1966, as the day of Celeste’s marriage.
She went to the foot of the dark wooden staircase, so narrow that she couldn’t imagine McCollis could have used it. After eight steps, the staircase turned tightly and abruptly, and then continued.
Light greeted her at the top, spilling through small windows on all sides. She faced the bathroom, which had modern fixtures carefully chosen so as not to clash with the wooden floors and old-fashioned oil lamps. To her left was a small loft with a roll— top desk and chair. To take full advantage of the light, a rocker had been placed near the desk, and it was flanked by a small table littered with books. The railing at the far end overlooked the sitting room. In addition to the one downstairs another bedroom lay to the right inside which, between the pillows at the top of the bed, lounged a cat with green eyes.
“You must be Heather of Scotland,” Victoria said, brushing her hand across fur as soft as cotton candy. “Celeste told me I’d find you here.” The cat got up from where she was nestled and thrust her pink nose into Victoria’s hand. Heather was soft and round, her meow, charming and utterly feminine. As Victoria sat on the bed stroking her, she scanned the room. Who else lives up here? she wondered. There were supposed to be four or five cats living in or near the cabin. Peering under the bed, Victoria found a sleek Siamese, which bolted down the stairs in terror. “The charms of Victoria Barrón strike again,” she remarked as Heather climbed into her lap.
A wedding gown, folded to highlight the extravagant duppioni portrait-collar embroidered with pearls, occupied the glass curio table next to the bed. A dried lily boutonniere wrapped in gray silk lay beside it. On the dresser to the right of the bedroom door, a clock, its face yellowed with age, stood silent.
Remembering that she was due in the kitchen, Victoria scrambled downstairs and hurried toward the main house, glad to leave the overpowering sense of longing that resided in the small bedroom upstairs.
The temperature had dropped, making her glad for the sweater, which she pulled tightly around her. She regretted having left her pumps in Celeste’s bathroom. Leaves flew across the stone patio as, from underneath the porch, a tabby darted into nearby plants to hide.
Warm lights and activity beckoned from the main house. The scent of roasting garlic and baking bread told her dinner preparations had begun without her. People she didn’t recognize moved between the kitchen and the dining table, setting platters down. She went inside, the wind following her, setting the crystals hanging from the ceiling to tinkle and dance.
“Look who’s just in time for dinner,” Celeste said, nudging Lila and looking up through red-framed glasses. “I want you girls to meet some of my friends. It’s not every day we have a visitor from—from the other side of the world.”
Victoria cast a mortified glance at her bare feet.
Lila walked to her and dropped a pair of worn, tan canvas slip-ons onto the floor. “I forgot to bring these in earlier. They should do until you get to town. You’ll break your ankle if you wear those heels of yours around here.” She hesitated, and then added, “Don’t worry, they’re clean.”
Gratefully, Victoria slid her feet into them without a second thought.
Celeste began the introductions. “This is Chris Palmer,” she announced. The man removed his cap, smiled, and stuck out his hand. “He’s the caretaker and real owner of this place,” Celeste added, “just ask him.”
“Now don’t go listening to her,” he cautioned with a smile missing too many teeth for a man who looked to be in his early forties. “She just says that ’cause I’ve tended this place since long before she came. Once in a while we have our differences about the way things ought to be done, but she never lets me forget who’s in charge. As far as bosses go, even pig-headed as she is, she’s a keeper,” he told Victoria affectionately. “Lila and I look after her as best we can, but it’s good for her to have some real company.”
“We’re only staying a few days,” Victoria replied. “By the way, have you seen Khara?”
“Last I did, she was in the barn.” Victoria realized that she found the number of pieces of camouflage clothing he sported slightly disturbing.
“A peculiar girl, in a nice sort of way,” Lila added. “Why don’t you go and fetch her? Dinner’s almost on.”
She left the house to find Heather resting in the grass nearby. Without a word, the cat followed Victoria along the gravel road that le
d down the hill to the stable and eventually to the highway. Like the other buildings on the Square-4 Ranch, the wooden panels of the stable, faded to a soft grey, evoked a long-lost era. Behind the stables, a pair of roan horses romped in a pasture and the air smelled of hay.
A loud grating sound broke the scene’s tranquility. At the opposite end of the pasture, Khara slid the barn door closed. Wearing a black turtleneck, sleek black riding breeches, and knee-high equestrian boots, she strode toward Victoria. Her straight hair, pulled away from her face, swayed gently at her waist with each step. The coronation bracelet seemed to have grown bolder, its gold gleaming even brighter against the sleeve of her dark sweater. The setting sun surrounded her with a halo of soft light.
“You look so—so modern,” Victoria commented. Seeing that the boots were scuffed, she asked, “Where’d you get those?”
“They belong to Bea,” she answered. “They’re wonderful, aren’t they? I may never take them off. The rest came from our day of shopping.”
“What have you been doing all day?” Khara nodded at the barn. “The grounds, the horses, Celeste. I can’t get enough.”
“Well, she has a houseful of guests waiting dinner. We should hurry back.”
Victoria took a few steps before turning to find her friend rooted where she stood. “Aren’t you coming?” she asked.
“I wish Robert Chilton could see you like this. Surely he would lose his heart forever.” She came close and took the fabric of the dress between her thumb and finger to explore the weave. She paid special attention to the bright floral print, the placement of the seams, the fit at the waist. “This garment suits you far better than what you usually wear.”
“If you’re just going to stand there, I’m going to dinner without you.”
“I doubt that. But it would do you good to think of yourself once in a while. Truthfully, you worry more than Nandor ever did. No doubt he would respect you for it.”
