by Jill G. Hall
The instructor smiled. “It’s time to begin. Knees to your chests.”
Sergio did as instructed, and Anne followed suit.
“Inhale and let it out. Inhale and let it out. Inhale and let it out.” The teacher’s voice hummed low and mellow.
Anxiety kicked in as Anne tried to slow her breathing. Before she’d met Sergio, she’d tried yoga many times but had never been able to get the hang of it. She’d always been a klutz. Since he was crazy about it, for the last few months in San Francisco she’d been going to the Y for sessions, and she felt as if she had gotten pretty good at it.
Last night, when he told her he had a surprise and that they would finally get to go to a class together, she smiled and said, “Fantastico!” She hoped she could impress him.
“Lift your right leg, and hold on to your foot or the back of your calf.”
Anne raised her leg. See? Easy as pie.
“Your right leg,” the instructor repeated. “Right leg.”
Embarrassed, Anne quickly switched legs. Sergio grinned at her with a wink, his leg straight above his head, his hand hooked over his heel. He could pull it almost all the way to the ground. For a guy, he sure was limber.
She closed her eyes and pretended not to notice. Continuing to follow the teacher’s words, she gradually got the hang of it, and her mind began to wander. She hadn’t told Sergio she lived on a shoestring, but he’d probably figured it out. Luckily, he didn’t know that two years ago she’d almost moved back in with her mother in Michigan.
However, since her solo show at Gallery Noir in San Francisco, her pieces were selling. With that and her valet parking job, she got by pretty well. She didn’t need much to live on, but money management had never been one of her life skills. Flying back and forth to visit Sergio didn’t help her income, either. The worst of it was, she’d been so distracted, there hadn’t been time or energy to focus on creating new art.
She was past thirty—it was time to get serious about life. And Sergio was the one. They got along so well. Since they didn’t get to spend enough time together, they didn’t waste time arguing. Besides, Sergio, with his easygoing, fun-loving personality, wasn’t the type to fight. The only thing they ever squabbled about was who would visit whom next, and when. No fights like she’d had with her previous boyfriend, Karl.
She’d thought Karl had been the one, but after being together for months, he’d confessed he hadn’t filed for divorce after all—his wife and their baby still lived with him. How stupid Anne had been! But Sergio was different, and she sensed she could trust him. His cross-country texts were romantic and liquid with love. Their Skype dates were hysterical. And she was gaga over him. Her body reacted every time her mind drifted to him: the touch of his hand on her back, the curl of his hair on the nape of his neck, his smoldering bedroom eyes. This traveling back and forth wasn’t practical, though.
“Stand in mountain pose. Hands in prayer position. Flat back. Arms to the side, leg out behind you, and lean over.” The instructor raised her voice and the class stood.
Anne pulled off her socks, stretched her leg out behind her, and raised it high. This airplane one was easy. But then her leg began to wobble, and she lost her balance and fell to the mat. Sergio glanced down at her, but seeing she was fine, he continued to retain his perfect 747. Everyone else was in perfect form, too.
She stood with the group in prayer position as they started to do something called a Sun Salutation. The teacher’s voice droned on and on, and Anne tried to follow the woman in front of her as best she could. Being led through the poses, she felt more wimp than warrior.
The momentum picked up. The scrunchie popped out of her hair and flew to the other side of Sergio. She didn’t want to stop to get it, so her hair kept falling in her eyes.
She ran out of breath, her muscles shook, and it was all she could do not to collapse on her mat. She was in good shape from hiking the San Francisco hills, but this was a different type of exertion.
“Get ready for shavasana. Lie on your backs.” The instructor’s voice soothed.
Anne had never been so relieved. She pulled her socks on, lay back, and Sergio spread a light blanket over her.
“Arms out, palms up, and close your eyes.” The instructor paused. Her smooth voice murmured, “Feel your heels on the ground. Feel your ankles, feel your calves . . .”
Anne peeked, just like she always did as a girl, stealing a look in church during prayers. The calming sound of a singing bowl rang, and her thoughts flew away.
Would Sergio invite her to move in with him? She didn’t expect him to take care of her. She’d get a job, so long as she had time for her art. With all the techies moving into San Francisco, Mrs. Landenheim, her landlady, would love for Anne to leave.
Those techies were ruining the San Francisco art scene, pushing creative types out into Oakland and other suburbs. Her work had taken off in San Francisco, but New York was naturally the next step for her art career. Yes, New York would be stimulating and what she needed. She’d also be closer to her family in Michigan and could visit them more often. Plus she could be with Sergio all the time.
He gently nudged her. “You’re snoring.”
“I am not!” she whispered back.
“Thank you for your excellent effort and attention. Namaste.” The instructor bowed to the class.
Anne bowed, too. “Namaste.” At least she knew how to do that.
They stood and she rolled up her mat.
“Want to stay for Zumba?” Sergio teased.
“No, grazie.”
4
In Sergio’s co-op twenty stories high, Anne felt part of the clouds. It was not quite sunset. Using the telescope, she spied children playing on boulders in Central Park and the horse-drawn carriages lining up for evening rides.
Sergio set down a glass of wine for her, then lifted the hair off the nape of her neck and nuzzled there. She turned and kissed him, hoping he’d forgotten about her disastrous yoga performance.
“Mia bella, why were you so late to yoga?”
“Shopping.”
“I worried you weren’t going to show. Did you enjoy the class?”
She took a sip of her wine, crossed to the leather couch, and sat with a sigh. “I promise I’ve been practicing. I hope I didn’t embarrass you in front of your teacher.”
He laughed and sat beside her. “It’s taken me years to be able to do some of those poses. It’s not a competition. Go at your own pace.”
“Are you sure?”
He nodded and kissed her again. “Now show me what you bought today.”
She unzipped her backpack sitting on the granite countertop and took the shoes out of the box. “Look.” She carried them over to him. “I believe they were dance shoes!”
He flipped them upside down and examined the soles. “You’re right. See these tiny holes?” He pointed to a shoe’s ball and heel. “There used to be taps screwed in.”
Taking the shoes, she studied the barely visible holes. “Cool.”
“Looks like they’re from the 1920s or ’30s.”
“Double cool.”
“Model them for me.”
She slipped them on, clasped the buckles, and stood up, feeling a warm glow rise through her feet all the way to the top of her head. Imitating a sophisticated model, she walked back and forth on the hardwood floor. Shuffling her feet back and forth, waving her arms wildly, she tried to imitate Bruno Mars’ moves.
“Cause uptown funk’s goin’ to give it to ya!” She sang off-key and fauxtapped across the floor. “Say my name, you know who I am. I’m too hot!”
Sergio grabbed her hands and joined in dancing until they both fell onto the couch in hysterics.
Trying to catch her breath she said, “I bought them at Timely Treasures in the village.”
“Never heard of it.” He shook his head and took a drink of his wine.
“The strange man running the shop insisted I keep the box.”
“
He’s right. It can be important to keep a box to authenticate the item as it increases in value.”
“I saw that on The Big Bang Theory. Did you see the one where Sherman played with that Dr. Spock doll and broke it?” Anne asked. “He’d taken it out of the box.”
Sergio laughed. “Mr. Spock, not Dr.”
“Yes, Mr. Spock.”
“It’s like a Rolex, too.”
Happy with the Timex her mother had given her for her sixteenth birthday, Anne had never paid much attention to watches. She glanced at Sergio’s wrist, surprised she had never noticed he wore a classic Rolex like the one in magazine ads. After all this time, she wondered what else she didn’t know about him.
Sergio went over to her backpack and took out the shoebox, a rattling sound emanating from inside it. “I hear something.” Pushing yellowed tissue paper aside, he pulled out a strand of pearls.
“Oh my gosh!” Anne’s hands flew to her cheeks. “Those were displayed on the table beside the shoes. How did they get in there?”
“The shopkeeper must have been sweet on you and slipped them in there as a gift.”
“Ha. Ha.” She took the pearls and rubbed them along her teeth.
“Cosa stai facendo?” Sergio’s eyebrows shot up, and he grabbed the pearls.
Anne laughed. “It’s a trick Sylvia taught me. I didn’t mark them, so they’re real. See?” She pointed to the pearls.
He rolled his eyes and draped the pearls over her head. She turned to the plate-glass window, a mirror in the darkened sky. The strand’s knot hit her chest at the heart chakra and looped down to over her belly button. “This is mysterious. Maybe that’s why he told me to keep the box.”
“Perhaps.”
Anne took off the pearls. “How strange. I wonder how they got in there. I should take them back. Would the shop still be open?”
Sergio checked his watch. “Probably not, and it’s rush hour.”
“I have to go home tomorrow. Please take them back for me. They’re probably worth a fortune.”
“Stay another night and return them yourself. Visit your boyfriend again.”
She grinned. “Can’t expect Howard to cover my valet shifts by himself much longer. I gotta get back to the St. Francis.”
Sergio shook his head. “When are you going to quit that job?”
She shrugged. “Tips are good.” She hadn’t told him how much she needed the money to make ends meet.
Standing, she grabbed his hand and pulled. “Let’s not waste any more time. Come to bed.”
“Hold on.” He let go and patted the seat next to him. “We need to talk.”
“What is it?” She brushed her hand over her hair. Maybe he was going to ask.
He paused, then looked into her eyes with his brown ones. “We’ve been together for quite a while. Next summer in Italy, you’ll be meeting my nonna.”
Anne nodded and hoped nothing would get in the way of this trip. She’d had to cancel once before because her solo show had been scheduled for the same time.
“It’s time I met your family, too.”
Her breath caught in her throat. Her family was quirky, to say the least. He was sophisticated and well, they were not. Her beloved hometown, Oscoda, was the opposite of New York.
She frowned.
“What’s wrong?” He put his hand on her knee.
She swallowed. “I hoped you were going to invite me to move here with you.”
“Of course. That should come next. I miss you so much when you aren’t here. But first I need to meet your family.”
Oh boy! What if he didn’t like them or the town she loved so much?
5
In the mansion’s courtyard, clouds shifted in the marbled sky. A slight breeze rustled the edge of Clair’s chiffon dress, tickling her ankle, and she kicked that leg out.
“Miss Devereaux!” Mr. LeRue fingered the thinning strands that tried to cover his shiny dome.
“I’m sorry.”
He stuck the paintbrush between his teeth, stepped forward, and pushed a red curl behind her ear. “Relaxed smile and upright posture, please.”
“Yes, sir.” It wasn’t the first time she’d been told to sit up straight.
He returned to the canvas, pointed the brush, and swirled it in a circle. “Eyes that way. Gently down. Not on me.”
Clair repositioned her head and admired the way the morning clouds reflected among the floating water lilies in the rectangular pond. Like a butterfly alighted, her hands rested motionless on her lap. She had no interest in sitting for a portrait, but her father had insisted, and she desired to please him.
Most New York girls in 1929 had their photographs taken for their coming-out balls, but her father commissioned John Singer Sargent, the best portrait painter in the world. With his special talent, each and every one of his subjects looked beautiful. Unfortunately, Mr. Sargent had passed away and Mr. Andre LeRue, recently returned from Paris, came with high recommendations. This would be his New York debut.
The new gloves felt smooth on her hands and she resisted the urge to run them over her cheek. Her gown she adored—blush pink, like the baby roses blooming on the courtyard arbor. Most girls wore white for their coming out, but she had been able to convince her father otherwise. The pearls, a gift from him, had been too long, almost to her thighs. The jeweler had suggested resetting some of the beads into a tiara.
“Please, Father!” Clair had begged.
He nixed the idea. “Too ostentatious.”
Instead, he had a single band made for her to weave through her hair. The jeweler had knotted between each pearl on the headband but had been too busy to do so with the necklace. She’d take it back after the party to have it restrung correctly.
Her fingers began to practice scales, her knees serving as piano keys. She played her favorite song, “The Man on the Flying Trapeze,” and sang the words in her head. She loved to play the piano, but not how the maestro her father had hired required. The instructor insisted she slow down the tempo and play boring pieces. Those Brahms lullabies would put anyone to sleep, not just babies. When alone, she even played boogie-woogie music. Her father would be furious if he knew. This fall at Juilliard, she’d be able to meet other musicians and learn to play all types of new music.
A dove landed on the stone tiles and began to coo. Clair turned her head.
“Miss Devereaux!” Mr. LeRue stomped his foot and tugged on his Dalí-esque mustache, its ends as pointy as his paintbrush. “I must insist.”
She clasped her hands tightly and reset the relaxed smile. “Sorry!”
Father would be disappointed if she ruined the portrait. He’d said that her future children would want to see how lovely she’d been at eighteen. Too bad her mama hadn’t sat for at least one photograph. There were no pictures of her in their suite, not even a wedding portrait. He claimed they had all disappeared in a fire. Clair had been six when her mama died, and couldn’t recall much except that she rarely smiled, but when she did, the whole room shone as if a bright light had been turned on in the middle of the night.
Mr. LeRue began to hum, breaking Clair’s reverie. She recognized the tune, a Viennese waltz, but resisted the urge to join in. Would anyone besides her father dance with her at the ball? Maybe some nice boy would attend who was even taller than she. The chance of that was about the same as a circus elephant bouncing into the ballroom.
She doubted she was the beauty her father claimed, but she had tried her best to look pretty for the sitting today. Most girls had their mother to guide them. She had considered asking Aunt June, her mama’s sister, but decided against it.
They spent time together on afternoon outings. If her father happened to be home when she came by the suite, he never seemed to welcome her. Somewhat outspoken Aunt June had once suggested Clair stay with her occasionally for female companionship. Clair’s father wouldn’t hear of it.
He had said, “I’m her father and mother. Besides, there’s Mrs. Schmidt.” The old l
ady with the chin hair in the suite next door tutored Clair for a few hours in the morning and chaperoned her as needed.
Clair had overheard Aunt June raise her voice. “Leland, for goodness sake, at least move into a real home and send her to school.”
On Monday and Wednesday afternoons, the maestro came over for piano lessons. Tuesdays and Fridays, after teaching all day, Aunt June visited, and if the weather cooperated they would walk to the park or visit the library. Clair loved to pet Patience and Fortitude, the lion statues that guarded the entrance to the massive building, and to explore all the shelves of books contained inside.
Her family was different than others she’d read about in books, with rambling houses and dining room tables filled with relatives celebrating together. Instead she ate with her father in the suite or downstairs in the restaurant where the conversation remained stilted but polite.
“The Waldorf is just fine, and Mrs. Schmidt is, too,” her father’s deep voice had boomed at Aunt June’s suggestion.
“I mean a home with a garden and friends to play with.”
“Balderdash! I’m fun!”
“What did you say?” Mr. LeRue asked.
Clair hadn’t realized she’d spoken out loud. “Nothing. Sorry.”
Her father and Aunt June had always had friction between them. Clair sensed it had to do with her mother. She had heard them mention her once not long after she died.
“What about Mama?” Clair had asked.
“Nothing, dear.” Her aunt pulled Clair onto her lap.
“Am I like her?”
Aunt June and her father had glanced at each other.
“Was she tall, too? With lots of energy?”
“Yes, dear.” Her aunt stroked Clair’s hair.
“Your sister, right?”
“That’s right.”
“Where is she, Father?” Clair had asked him this a hundred times.
He sighed and raised his bushy eyebrows. “In heaven.”
“Is it far away?”
“Farther away than you can imagine.”
Her mother hadn’t seemed ill and had died suddenly. When her father told Clair, he seemed distant and didn’t even shed a tear. That seemed strange, thinking back on it.
