The Silver Shoes

by Jill G. Hall

  “Really?”

  “Want to see her scrapbook?”

  “I’d love to.”

  He ambled into the back room, returned with a tattered album, and sat back in the chair beside Anne. “By the way, I’m Roland Rowlankowski. Everyone calls me Row.” He extended a hand.

  “I’m Anne McFarland. Pleased to meet you.” They shook.

  He opened the scrapbook on his lap and pointed to a photo of two doe-eyed girls, wry smiles on their lips. “That’s Clair’s Aunt June and her mother, April. Here’s a picture of the three of them together.” The women stood in front of a dilapidated farmhouse. “Quite a story there. April abandoned Clair when she was a child to be raised alone by her father. Later in life Clair and her mother became reacquainted, but it took ages for her to be forgiven.”

  Anne sighed. “How very sad.”

  He nodded and put his fingers under another photo. “Here’s Clair’s father. He had one blue eye and one brown one.”

  “Really? I’ve never heard of that.”

  “Yes, it’s very rare.”

  Row turned to a picture of chorus girls in a line, their arms linked together.

  Anne pointed to their feet. “Are they wearing the rhinestone shoes?”

  “Yep.” He nodded. “Can you tell which one is Clair?”

  “The tallest?” Anne put her finger on Clair’s image.

  “With the biggest eyes. Here’s another good one.” He turned the page to reveal a yellowed newspaper clipping with Clair in a pearl headdress and feathered wings. The caption said: Songbird of Broadway a Soaring Success!

  On the next page, Clair hung in the air above stage in a crescent moon. That caption said: It Must Have Been Moon Glow.

  Row put the album in Anne’s lap, and she turned another page. “Who is this?” She pointed to a tall man with light curly hair standing next to Clair in front of a Spanish-style home flanked by palm trees.

  Row smiled. “For some reason she’d never divulge, Clair called him Mr. X.”

  Anne laughed. “Really?”

  “He was a talent scout for a Hollywood film studio. Took Clair out there and put her in a few films, but she soon became homesick. She always said, ‘New York is my home. Where I can be my best.’”

  “How did she know?”

  “She told me she simply followed her heart.”

  Anne’s started beating fast. The words from the past really spoke to her.

  58

  Later that night, Anne led Sergio to his couch. “We need to talk.”

  “Sounds serious.”

  “It is.” She hugged him, then took his hands. “It’s not that I don’t love you, I do. But I can’t move here.”

  “Why not?” He frowned.

  “Staying here with you the first week or so was fun, but lately I’ve felt out of sorts.” She paused.

  “Go on.”

  She hoped he’d understand. “My muse isn’t here with me.” “What can we do to get her here? I told you we could clear out the guest room. Or I’ll rent a studio for you.”

  “That’s sweet, but it’s deeper than that. New York feels too lofty. San Francisco is my soul place. Where I can be my best.”

  “Oh, Big Foot. I don’t want to lose you.”

  “I don’t want to lose you, either.” Her eyes filled with tears. “Can’t we just continue our coast-to-coast romance after we’re married?”

  “I’m not sure.” He shook his head. “I doubt it.”

  She pulled off the ring and handed it to him.

  He slipped it back on her finger. “Keep it for now.”

  They held each other while they cried.

  Before Anne opened her eyes, a bleating horn warned her it was foggy outside. She reached for Sergio, but of course he wasn’t there. He had been in her dream, the scent of him, her fingers entwined in his dark curly hair, the smooth sheets below her. For the hundredth time she wondered if she’d made the right decision. She sighed and looked at the ring on her finger.

  Fortunately, when she’d returned from New York six months before, Mrs. Landenheim hadn’t yet rented out the apartment and gladly accepted Anne’s newly signed lease. Now she looked around: the knickknack shelves filled with found objects, canvases and boxes stacked against the wall, vintage magazines piled high. Several new pieces were in progress. This was where she was supposed to be. Living among her inspirations in the city she called home kept her juices flowing.

  She clambered out of bed, started the coffee, and rolled out her yoga mat. Since returning from New York, she practiced almost every day. Her body had become more flexible, the poses came more easily, and she felt more grounded. In classes she still felt like a klutz, but she’d learned to not care what others thought and only tried to do her best.

  The fog lifted as she climbed out onto the rooftop. Dew glittered on her green garden. She tried to pull up a carrot, but it wouldn’t release from the ground. It must not be ready yet. She tugged out some weeds and discovered a few vivid red strawberries hidden beneath scalloped leaves. The feel of damp soil on her hands soothed her. She picked the tiny dots of color, along with some mint sprigs. Smiling, she rinsed them in her kitchen sink, threw them in the blender along with a banana, and made a breakfast smoothie.

  It was delicious.

  Before she left for work she had to finish the shoe painting. She’d promised to get it to Fay in time for the Gallery Noir installation tomorrow, but Anne still couldn’t get the rhinestone shading just right.

  She imagined a young Clair wearing the shoes onstage and remembered Fay’s advice: follow your heart.

  Anne closed her eyes, inhaled, and suddenly it hit her. Why not use the real thing? She rummaged through a basket for jewel-encrusted remnant she’d bought ages ago at an antique mall. She found it, held it up to the light, and admired the rhinestones.

  She pulled them off the sheer fabric, and, using tweezers, picked up each rhinestone one by one, dunked its base in glue, and adhered it to the canvas. With an energy rush, consumed by the act of creation, she worked until each shoe was completely covered. Sighing happily, she took a photo of the canvas and messaged it to Fay and Sergio.

  Last night she had set out the magazines and empty shoeboxes on her classroom tables at SFMOMA. Now she gathered up the box of found objects: buttons, seashells, beads, and faux pearls she’d selected from her stash.

  She couldn’t wait to share them with her students.

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  First, I want to thank provocateur Judy Reeves for leading me onto this story’s bridge, enticing me to jump in and keep swimming until I had a finished draft but standing by to rescue me with a lifeboat.

  My gratitude goes to my cohorts at San Diego Writers, Ink for their support and for writing beside me, especially Kristen Fogle and Kim Keeline and Room to Writers John Van Roekel, Danielle Baldwin, and Linda Salem. I’m grateful to Tammy Greenwood and group members Robin Kardon and Dina Koutas for responding to my first typed draft. I’m appreciative to editor Marni Freedman for coaching suggestions on Clair early on and to Jennifer Silva Redmond for expert content and line editing. Jennifer Coburn, thank you for pushing me to go beyond my social-media comfort level and to Indy Quillen for my beautiful website.

  Brooke Warner, Crystal Patriarche, Cait Levin, Julie Metz, and others at She Writes Press (SWP), I’m indebted to you for providing hybrid publishing opportunities, guiding me through the journey, and educating me to be a savvy authorpreneur. A big shout-out goes to my SWP sisters, in particular Leslie Johansen Nack.

  I’m eternally grateful to my fellow Point Loma Book Club members Pat Fitzmorris, Marti Hess, Lisa Laube, Carol Leimbach, and Patti Wassem for cheering me up and on. To Tanya Peters for being here when I need you most, thank you. To my siblings Todd Greentree, Sandy Greenbaum, and Leslie Zwail, it’s a blessing to have you always in my heart. Thank you to mis amigos Andy Hein for coffee chats and giggles when Clair began to show her true colors. Many hugs go to Phil Johnson and Seth Krosn
er for your friendship and confidence in me. To Dottie Laub, thank you for showing me how to buckle the straps on my own silver shoes and for urging me to keep Anne a modern woman. Leslie Meads, thank you for your fantastic party planning and for hysterically laughing with me during that burlesque show. To yoga teachers Lisa Hampton and Banoo, I appreciate your calm voices that remind me to breathe, stay flexible, and be in the moment. To all the dance instructors I’ve had over the years, thanks for your patience and inspiration. My gratitude goes to Jerry, who encouraged me to follow my creative path. Thanks to Lucy, my beagle-basset, for demonstrating how to relax.

  Lastly, I am thankful to the readers who have written reviews, followed me on Facebook, and hosted me at their book club events. Because of you I kept writing.

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  photo credit: Chris Loomis

  JILL G. HALL is the author of The Black Velvet Coat, an International Book Award Finalist for Best New Fiction. Her poems have appeared in a variety of publications, including A Year in Ink, The Avocet, and Wild Women, Wild Voices. On her blog, CreaLivity, she shares personal musings about the art of practicing a creative lifestyle. She is a seasoned presenter at seminars, readings, and community events. In addition to writing, Hall practices yoga, tap dances, and enjoys spending time in nature. 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.

  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.

  The Sweetness by Sande Boritz Berger. $16.95, 978-1-63152-907-8. A compelling and powerful story of two girls—cousins living on separate continents—whose strikingly different lives are forever changed when the Nazis invade Vilna, Lithuania.

  Sneak a peek at Jill G. Hall’s first novel The Black Velvet Coat.

  1

  A fall wind blew off the bay and licked Anne’s tall body as she hiked up California Street, full auburn hair flying behind her. She shivered and wished she had worn more than jeans and a T-shirt. In the window of Rescued Relics Thrift Shop, she spotted a swing coat that forced her to stop. Her heart chakra felt as if it actually glowed with white light. She just had to try on the coat.

  As she wandered inside, a musty smell overwhelmed her, and she waited a moment for her eyes to adjust to the blink of the fluorescent lights. The shop was stuffed with racks of clothes, old toys, and household goods.

  A clerk behind the counter snapped her gum. “Hi, doll.”

  “May I try on that coat in the window?” Anne asked.

  “Help yourself. Just came in this morning.” The woman continued to unpack multicolored beads from a shoebox.

  Anne returned to the window and reached for the black velvet coat. “Oooh, ’60s. My fave.” A rhinestone snowflake pin with a hazy film on it, as if splashed by the sea, rested on the rounded collar.

  Slipping on the coat, a whiff of White Shoulders perfume enveloped her, and a peaceful calm spread through her whole body. In search of a mirror, she stepped around chipped blue-and-white plates, silver trays, and a plaid couch.

  With head to one side, she tried to view her image in the cracked mirror, but it was hard to see through the dust. She caressed the coat’s sleeves. Luscious and soft. Anne tugged off the coat and gaped at the Dior label. “Lah-de-dah,” she whispered. There must have been some mistake. The price tag pinned to the sleeve read $65, but it was worth more like $650. She looked over at the woman at the counter, who returned her gaze with a wink. Anne dug in a pocket for her money. If she bought the coat, she wouldn’t have enough to cover the rent, let alone all those outstanding bills. But she had to follow her instincts. She grinned, tossed the coat over her arm, and moved to the cash register.

  The man in line ahead of her set down a mountain of neckties. Waiting her turn, she flipped through a stack of magazines, but none of them were old enough for collage fodder. Only vintage photos inspired her work. One series featured movie moguls—Hitchcock, Kazan, and Mayer. The most recent pieces were about political divas.

  The clerk removed the tag from the coat and snapped her gum again. “Good bargain, sweetie. And with a pin too.” She nodded, causing her dangle-ball earrings to wobble back and forth under a beehive hairdo.

  Anne paid and tossed the jacket over her shoulders. As she exited, the cashier yelled, “Honey, you look like a million bucks in that coat!”

  Anne smiled and waved goodbye. Back out into the cold, she jumped a cable car and sat on the wooden seat. Snuggling into her plush purchase, she felt confident with her buy, but what about the rent and all those other bills? Four years ago after college, she’d moved here with such high hopes. She had become enamored by the big-city energy and never wanted to move back to the stifling Midwest. But she felt as if life was passing her by and the real world now seemed a lot harder than she had ever imagined. Even though she had gotten good grades it had still taken her six years to finish college. The first year she had frittered away at the community college, and then at the university it had taken her awhile to get the hang of how to sign up for the right classes in order to graduate. She hadn’t expected to get into San Francisco’s Museum of Modern Art, but at least thought she would have found gallery representation by now.

  The cable car scraped underneath her as it ascended the hill. They passed Chinatown, and she looked down Grant at the red and gold lanterns, then dialed her cell. “Hi, Mom. I hate to ask you, but I’m in a bind. Could you lend me some money?”

  “Again?”

  “Just a little to tide me over?”

  Her mother paused. “Your room is still here for you.”

  Anne thought about the two-story yellow craftsman on Maple Lane in Oscoda. “I’ll sell some more pieces soon.” She tried to keep her voice upbeat.

  “I know, dear. But you’re going to move back sooner or later. Stop torturing yourself.”

  Anne’s phone beeped. “Hurry! I’m losing power. Please?”

  “Okay. My Avon sales have been slow this month. I can only send $50.”

  “Anything will help.” It wouldn’t be enough, though. Anne tried to call the hotel to ask for an extra shift, but her cell had run totally out of juice.

  The cable car reached the peak and passed Grace Cathedral. The spires appeared to be reaching toward God and the heavens, a sign that she had chosen the right metropolis. She hopped off at the corner of California and Polk, her stop, then walked uphill toward her apartment. The flower shop located below her apartment teemed with pink roses, magenta gladiolas, and white stargazers.

  “Hi, Tony!” She waved to the vendor, pulled more bills fr
om her mailbox, and tiptoed up the steep stairs. She didn’t want to see Mrs. Ladenheim, the landlady, who lived on the first floor. Even so, the woman’s door opened a tad, and her Siamese cat skittered out.

  Anne passed Val’s door as he started his vocal warm-ups, probably to prepare for tonight’s Beach Blanket Babylon. “Ke, kae, ke, kae, koo.”

  On the third floor, she unlocked her door and stepped inside, almost tripping on a pile of newspapers and a pair of shoes. What a mess! Squished paint tubes, adhesive jars, wrinkled tarps, and magazines were strewn about. Not an inch of floor or table or counter space had been left uncovered. Even the walls had works-in-progress plastered on them. Anne knew this clutter instilled bad feng shui and made a promise to clean up later. When tidy, it could be quite sweet: a room with a kitchenette, daybed, and art studio all in one.

  The place felt as cold as Antarctica. She turned on the heat for once and picked up the phone to call work, but it was dead. The phone company must have finally caught up with her. She planned to cancel it anyway. Slamming down the receiver, she plugged in her cell and called the St. Francis.

  “Valet Service. How may I help you?”

  “Howard, any extra shifts available this week?”

  “Sorry. See you tonight, though. Afterward I’m going to Rhinestone Ruby’s. Hope you’ll come too.”

  “We’ll see.” Last week she had joined him at the disco-western bar. She had followed behind his rust-colored chaps but kept bumping into the guy on her right and then the guy on her left. Dancing had never been her forte. She couldn’t even keep step with the Oscoda High drill team and had been asked to quit.

  Anne took off the coat, grabbed a rag from the sink, and polished the snowflake pin until it shone in the light. Then she slipped the coat on again, closed the bathroom door, and inspected herself in the full-length mirror hanging on the back. She batted hazel eyes, twisted sorrel hair above her head, and considered an updo.