The Ties That Bind

by Andi Marquette

  I stood looking at the photo for a while, remembering when Sage took it last fall. I loved this picture and I always felt Sage's presence in it, felt the way things I couldn't see spoke to her. God, I love her. I grinned, knowing I looked completely goofy.

  "Nice," came a low voice behind me.

  "Very," I responded as I turned toward Shoshana. She regarded me as she handed me a can of Diet Coke. "Thanks," I said as I opened it and turned back toward the photo.

  Shoshana stood a little too close as she leaned over my left shoulder, studying the picture. I caught a whiff of sandalwood.

  "She does great work," she said, studying the image. "It's so nice having her featured here. Our little gallery in Madrid." She pronounced it as New Mexico locals did, with the emphasis on the first syllable. Mad-rid, rhyming the first syllable with "bad." The pronunciation shifted somewhere in the coal-mining town's past and stuck.

  "She does," I agreed after a bit, smiling. "And getting a show here is ultra-cool." I returned to the last two images I needed to hang and set my can down nearby but out of the way of spillage. Sage worked in both color and black-and-white, though she preferred color. All the stuff she was showing at this opening featured her color work. I hung the picture of the Shiprock formation on the wall. Its vertical spires jutted like a ship's masts into the intense blue of a desert sky.

  "It's crooked," Shoshana said behind me. "Here--" she adjusted it and stepped back, nodding. "I've seen a lot of pictures of that." She crossed her arms over her chest. "And they're nice, but they don't really capture the intrinsic energy of it. I have relatives in Farmington, so I've spent a lot of time in that area." She paused, staring at the photo. "This--this is what it is to really be there." She shook her head, impressed. I warmed to her a bit. Plus, she had relatives in Farmington. Maybe she'd know something about Navajo jurisdiction.

  "Farmington, huh? Are you from there originally?"

  She shook her head. "My uncle married a Navajo woman. I'm close to that side of the family. I'm actually from Phoenix."

  "Oh," I commented. "I'm from Flagstaff, though my parents live in Tucson now."

  "That's beautiful country up there," she said, appraising me. "How did you end up in Albuquerque?"

  "Grad school."

  Shoshana nodded. "So is that how you met Sage?"

  "No. We met by chance later." I smiled. With Sage, there were no "chances." Things unfolded the way they were supposed to in her world, whether good or bad.

  Shoshana waited, clearly interested.

  "I was living in Texas two summers ago and my--" I paused, searching for the right word. Melissa, my ex, had appeared at my grandfather's farm two years ago to ask me to help find her sister. "A... friend asked me to help her with something in Albuquerque. So I did and I ended up staying in a place behind the house where Sage was living. You know--one of those guesthouse kinds of places."

  Shoshana nodded, a little smile on her lips.

  "Anyway, Sage's roommate invited me to a barbecue and--" I smiled. "I did go back to Texas that December to finish some academic business but ended up in Albuquerque again by May."

  "That's a good story." Shoshana's eyes seemed to sparkle. "I've met her once," she continued. "At a gallery opening in Santa Fe. She's a gifted artist." Her gaze returned to the image of Shiprock. "And a different sort of soul."

  I looked at her, surprised at her choice of words though I agreed.

  A Navajo man I'd met briefly when I'd returned to Albuquerque to help Melissa said that Sage carried a rare spirit. I likened her to a force of nature and thanked every lucky star I might have that I met her.

  "She sees things most people don't." Shoshana inclined her head toward the image. "It's a treat to show her work here. I have no doubt it'll sell. To the right people." She turned her head to look at me. "What's your favorite photograph here that she's done?"

  I didn't need to look at the display. I knew all of Sage's work and had gone with her on a few of the shoots. "The canyon." I turned ninety degrees to my right, toward the neutral-color display panel that stood in the middle of the gallery floor. "I have a thing for canyons," I added as I walked the five paces over to the image. Shoshana followed.

  "I can see why," she said, studying this picture like she did the one of Shiprock. "She shows us the life in the stone, invites us to touch it. You can see how warm the rock is." Shoshana pointed to a place in the photo where the fading light of the sun pulled the texture of the canyon wall closer to the viewer. "Excellent," she breathed. "Multi-layered, like the natural world."

  I smiled, glad Shoshana appreciated Sage's work. Maybe she was just one of those flaky art chicks, as Sage called them, with an intense off-kilter vibe. I relaxed and left her contemplating the canyon while I went to retrieve the last photo, part of a Baja series Sage did in March. This was a shot of Santa Rosalia, a fishing village on the eastern coast of the Baja that overlooked the Sea of Cortés. I hung it in the spot on one of the other display kiosks that stood about three feet from the canyon shot.

  "Crooked?" I asked Shoshana, who was watching me.

  "Looks good."

  I grinned and stepped back, making sure the spacing between this and its three mates worked for flow. Of course it did. Sage had delineated each earlier that morning, using masking tape to mark where she wanted the bottom corners of the frames to line up on the display panels and walls. Sage always seemed to know what would work in each gallery.

  "And the picture's nice, too," Shoshana added in the silence, flashing me a wicked little smile.

  "Uh..." I was glad my hair and the brim of my baseball cap hid the flush on the back of my neck though it was probably obvious on my cheeks. I cleared my throat and wished that Sage would walk through the door. No such luck. However, the phone rang. Shoshana cocked her head at me, playful expression on her face. She headed to the back of the gallery, where the reception desk stood, and answered it. She perched herself on the desk's edge, running her hand over the fabric of her skirt as she talked.

  I avoided her eyes and instead checked my watch. Almost 2.30. The opening was scheduled for 4.00 that afternoon. Jackson's liked to do receptions and openings on Saturdays, so nobody had to fight rush hour either from Santa Fe to the north or Albuquerque to the south. I returned to my can of Diet Coke and picked it up. I could go stand outside. And walk to the north edge of town. And keep walking toward Santa Fe. Sage was bound to come along eventually. Or some nice Harley dude might pick me up and give me a ride.

  Like a message from the gods, the front door opened and Sage entered, taking her sunglasses off as she did so. "Hi, honey. I'm home," she announced, smiling. She placed her sunglasses on the top of her head as she approached, her Chaco rafting sandals scuffing on the concrete floor. I relaxed. My magical nature girl was here to save me.

  "Hiya," I said, grinning while my heart skipped a beat. I pulled her into a hug. "How was the meeting?"

  She grinned back and kissed me and my lips heated against hers. She pulled away much too soon. "Excellent. Looks like the funding's coming through for my Pacific Northwest proposal."

  "That is awesome news." I brushed a strand of her hair away from her exquisite cheekbones and looked down into her eyes. "So, what do you think?" I asked, stepping away and indicating the room.

  She affected a critical assessment air though her eyes twinkled with amusement. "Excellent work," she said. "You're hired."

  I looked at her, skeptical. "Hmm. What's the salary?"

  She took the Diet Coke from me and took a sip. She handed it back and arched an eyebrow. "I think we can work something out," she said in a low throaty voice that always sent little tingles up my thighs. "With benefits, of course."

  I was about to say something else when Shoshana interrupted.

  "Hi--" she started before Sage interrupted her.

  "Shoshana, right? You were at my Medicine Man Gallery opening. I didn't realize you were at Jackson's." She offered a smile that could charm the quills off a porcup
ine and extended her right hand, which Shoshana took, impressed that Sage remembered her.

  "That's right. About a year now," Shoshana said by way of explanation. She released Sage's hand much faster than she had mine. "I was telling K.C. how excited we are to have you and your work here." She smiled. "And if you need anything, just let me know."

  "I will. Thanks. Is everything ready or can I make a supply run?"

  "Oh, no. Maureen's finishing up and should be back any minute. It only takes a couple minutes to get the tables set up and Dan already has the drinks ready. We'll have some outside in the courtyard, but most of them, and the food, will be in here, along the back wall." She gestured toward the tables covered with linen cloths near the curtained entrance into the back. "And you're welcome to change in the back."

  "That's nice of you. Thanks." Sage regarded her warmly but I thought I saw something else in her expression though I wasn't quite sure what it was. I smiled at Shoshana as well but slid my arm around Sage's waist. She didn't miss the gesture and a momentary awkward silence ensued.

  "If you'll excuse me," Shoshana said, breaking the moment first. "I need to do some last-minute things. I just wanted to make sure I had a chance to introduce myself."

  "Of course," Sage responded. "Thanks again. See you in a few."

  Shoshana inclined her head and returned to the desk, partially visible around one of the display panels. Her skirt swirled around her ankles as she walked, the heels of her clogs making flat sounds on the floor.

  "So," Sage said to me. "Burger at the Mine Shaft?" She waggled her eyebrows and brushed a kiss across my lips.

  "Who can refuse an offer like that?" I followed her through the front door, pulling it shut behind me. We walked through the adobe-walled courtyard and emerged onto the one paved road that swung lazily through Madrid--New Mexico Highway 14, often referred to as the Turquoise Trail. Directly across the road squatted the Mine Shaft Tavern, a legendary bar bursting with bikers every summer where I'd tied a few on during my University of New Mexico days. It was well worth the fifty-mile drive from Albuquerque to hang out in a place where a sign stated "In Madrid, there is no town drunk. We all take turns." That and the green chile burgers ensured that the Mine Shaft retained a place of honor in my heart. A herd of Harleys sat out front in the dirt parking lot and music and laughter blared from the large, covered porch.

  Just past the Mine Shaft, Highway 14 curved to the left and various nineteenth-century structures resurrected from Madrid's past lined the road, most painted in bright pastels or primary colors. Many served as quirky art galleries and weird little shops, but a few were residences whose inhabitants displayed a special kind of patience during summers, as tourists often peeked in the windows. Cars lined both sides of Highway 14, making their own parking spaces, often jutting a bit into traffic. Which was okay, since nobody drove over fifteen miles per hour through Madrid. It was one of the unspoken rules here. Tourists caught on fast because locals would make sure they did. Jackson's courtyard wall hugged the roadside on the southbound end of that curve, making a nice target for drivers who might not be paying much attention to the road, instead trying to avoid pedestrians and the town dogs who wandered back and forth from one side to the other.

  We waited for a minivan to pass before Sage pulled me across the road toward the Mine Shaft where we ascended the steps to the porch, past the Harley crowd and into the dark interior.

  I PULLED MY cowboy boots on and arranged the legs of my jeans over them. Lucky for me, the Jacksons had thought to put a full-length mirror on the inside of the bathroom door and I inspected myself. I ran my hands through my hair, trying to arrange it in some semblance of professionalism. I wear it not too short and not too long. Lately it was hanging just past my jaw line. Sage referred to it as "wavy" and though I just said "dark brown," she said "dark chestnut," which I thought sounded nicer.

  I ran some water over my fingers and raked them through my hair again. Thank God I'd thought to bring gel. I doctored my hair a bit more and inspected myself one more time. I had just bought this shirt last week for this occasion. A loose-fitting off-white button-down. Multi-colored Guatemalan embroidery decorated the banded collar and shoulders. I smoothed it a bit, checked to make sure my belt buckle wasn't off-center, and picked up the duffle bag that held the clothes I'd had on earlier.

  I unlocked the door and emerged into the back area of Jackson's, where Maureen, Dan, and a couple of guys I didn't recognize were running around in a controlled chaos, carrying veggie trays, bowls of fruit, and bottles of wine. I checked my watch. Quarter to four. Trying to stay out of people's ways and avoid the various artwork and bubble-wrapped objects stacked on the floor against almost every wall, I emerged into the main gallery, where Sage was helping set the food out on the tables.

  She had changed into a lightweight faded red skirt that moved and fluttered around her calves with every air current. She'd chosen a long-sleeved cream-colored blouse cut to hug her sides, emphasizing her shoulders and back. Her sleeves were rolled up to her elbows and I saw the silver bracelet I'd bought her last Christmas on her right wrist. Sage had opted to pull her hair back into a pony tail. Her leather hair tie was decorated with a silver concho. Simple but elegant. I loved watching her at these events because she was Zen personified. In the midst of absolute freak-out, there was Sage, utterly at peace and at home in the world, doing what needed to be done, unchained but somehow down-to-earth. She finished arranging the paper plates and napkins and glanced over at me, as if she'd known the whole time I was watching her. She probably had.

  She smiled at me.

  I held my duffle bag up. "I'm going to put this in the car. Do you need anything?"

  "You." She closed the distance between us and kissed me on the cheek. "Mmm--" she breathed. "My girlfriend is so fucking hot," she said, pulling back to study me.

  "Aw, shucks, ma'am."

  "I love when you wear your boots." She arched an eyebrow and her smile lit up her face like a promise. We both heard Maureen's voice in the back, yelling something. "Wait a sec," Sage said, holding up an index finger. She pushed through the curtain covering the doorway. I moved over to the tables, looking at the trays piled high with veggies, fruit, and cheese, all covered with plastic wrap. And a plate of brie. Yum.

  "You look nice," Shoshana said as she came up behind me and placed a plate of crackers next to the brie.

  "Thanks. This is my quota for the year. After this, it's back to looking like a desert dog." I tightened my grip on my duffle and hoped she didn't notice that I'd taken a little step backward.

  She crossed her arms, eyes drilling into mine.

  No way. I will not break first... How mature. A stare-down with Art Chick.

  A slow smile pulled at the corner of her mouth. "Do you always act like this when someone notices you?"

  I started to say something but she raised a hand and brushed my thought aside. "Maybe you don't want to hurt my feelings."

  Help me, I prayed to whatever deity might be listening. "I don't like to hurt anybody's feelings," I said, finding my voice. I put on my most charming grin. "It's not good manners." I regained my footing. "And I'm a sucker for good manners." I turned before she could respond and moved toward the doorway that led to the back just as Sage brushed the curtain aside.

  "Crisis averted," Sage said. She looked at me, playful, and her expression shifted. She threw a glance at Shoshana, then studied my face again. Sage smiled, the look in her eyes softening. "Averted here as well, I see."

  I nodded, relaxing. "So do you need anything? Everything okay?"

  "Much better, now. I'm going to help Dan with the wine." She winked at me and returned to the back. I sighed, relieved, and headed for the front door. People were already arriving. I hoped there was a large turn-out.

  I exited the patio and went left, toward Opera House Road, a dirt strip lined with old miners' shacks that had been refurbished. Madrid had an odd history. A true late-nineteenth-century boom town, it tanked afte
r World War II because coal production shifted elsewhere. It was literally a ghost town until the 1970s, when wandering artists and other so-inclined people discovered it nestled in the Ortiz Mountains north and slightly east of Albuquerque. Many of the miners' houses had been re-done, though a few still stood abandoned amidst their more lively neighbors.

  I turned right onto Opera House. Sage had parked here, squeezing close to a cinderblock wall somebody had built across from the houses. I put my duffle bag into the trunk and locked up as a sleek newer-model SUV bumped past, its driver no doubt looking for parking as well. I returned to Jackson's and made myself unobtrusive but useful while Sage worked the crowd, which was growing larger by the minute. By 4.30, the gallery was packed, filled with the drone of voices, laughter, and soft jazz through a couple of large speakers near the food.

  "¡Esa!" said a familiar voice.

  "Hey! You made it with time to spare." I grinned at Chris, who pulled me into a quick hug.

  "I love these things. And I love you two, so missing it wasn't an option." She patted my abdomen.

  "You still clean up good," I noted as I pretended to assess her outfit. Black trousers, light blue denim shirt, and classy black shoes. Tall, dark, and handsome. Chris's dark mop of hair fell past her ears and a lock or two always hung over her forehead, giving her sort of a playful, boyish air. "Damn, you could be a model for GQ," I teased.

  Chris rolled her eyes. "Please. I had to find something to wear to compete with you."

  I glanced down at my faded jeans and cowboy boots. "Oh, for sure. Kenneth Cole versus cowpie. I see why my fashion sense would concern you."