by Wind, Ruth
She opened her eyes. Luke bent over her, his hand warm on her shoulder. “I made you some coffee,” he said. “It’s right here.”
“Okay. I’m awake.” She blinked hard to make it true. A hint of a smile crossed his mouth, and he rubbed her arm. “Coffee is right here,” he repeated before he left her.
Groggily, she turned and struggled upright. Gray light fell through the window, and she glared at it with annoyance. Was the sun gone forever? The sun shone three hundred days a year in Colorado. Why was she getting three straight days of clouds?
She reached for the coffee, steaming and sweet and pale with milk. Excellent. She sipped it gingerly, hearing Luke and Giselle and Marcia chatter in the kitchen. A scent of food filled the air.
Jessie didn’t want any. She looked at the clock and realized they’d let her sleep until the last possible minute. Grabbing her coffee, she rushed to the bathroom. “I’m going to take a quick shower,” she called.
“Towels are in the cupboard,” Luke answered.
There was no time for washing her hair. She showered and dug through her clothes, wishing for something stark and plain to wear. There was a tailored white blouse in her closet at home that would have suited her mood this morning. Unfortunately, she was stuck with her usuals—a flowing rayon skirt printed with paisleys and a poet’s blouse with full sleeves and a romantic collar.
To compensate for the softness of the clothes, Jessie meticulously applied her makeup—foundation to cover the lines of strain and the dark circles under her eyes, blush to replace the color that had drained away, lipstick to hide her tense mouth. Her hair she pulled into a knot. The well-groomed and severe woman looking back at her from the mirror was not the Jessie Luke had known, was a long way from the instinctive, bohemian girl he’d fallen in love with.
Unfortunately Luke had not changed much at all from the man she’d fallen in love with. His hair gleamed like river water and his face was the perfect advertisement for the outdoor life, not too pretty, not too harsh, undeniably rugged and male. In deference to the meeting, he wore a crisp shirt paired with new jeans—about as dressed up as he ever got. His boots, as ever, were expensive and well-worn; he’d probably been wearing them for five or six years.
He got to his feet when she came into the room and put his coffee cup down on the lamp table. “Ready?”
She nodded. “Giselle, are you sure you’re going to be okay?”
“Mom, she’s my aunt.”
Jessie glanced at Marcia, who gave her an impish smile. “We’ll be fine. Don’t worry.”
Luke gathered the weavings, flung them over his shoulder and settled his hat with the beaded band on his head. “Let’s go.”
“Do you mind if I drive?” Jessie asked.
He shrugged. “No. I just don’t want to be late.”
It was a small thing, but it made Jessie feel more in control to drive. Her car didn’t smell of forests and there was no blue jay feather on the mirror. The CD was Enya and sounded of Ireland, not Van Morrison and lost days with Luke.
He didn’t talk, didn’t smoke, didn’t move. When she asked for directions, he pointed out the turns, but otherwise just sat there. In the small car, his legs seemed too long, his shoulders too broad. He was tall for a Navajo. Once he’d told her he had a Spanish grandmother, a long way back in the family history, and that was where he’d gotten his size.
At the gallery, Luke took her arm impersonally, opening the door for her to go through first. Jessie murmured her thanks in the same matter-of-fact way.
When the secretary led them into the gallery owner’s office, Jessie’s heart sunk. Harlan Reeves sat behind a massive mahogany desk, a fit and elegant man in his early sixties. The silvered hair, the English suit, the discreet red tie, all signaled old money and interests. Not the best candidate for support.
But he stood up and rounded the desk, extending a hand. “Hello. You must be the representatives of the weavers’ project. Come in. Sit down.”
Jessie glanced sideways at Luke to see how he was reacting to the warmth in the man’s tone. His face showed no expression.
“I’m glad you were able to come back today,” Reeves said, sitting not behind the desk, but in another chair in the small grouping by a warmly curtained window that looked toward Cheyenne Mountain. “My granddaughter broke her arm at school yesterday and she needed her grandpa there at the hospital before she’d let them set it.”
Jessie smiled, warmed by the admission. “I hope she’s all right.”
“Oh, she’s fine. Just a broken wrist. It happens.” Spying the weavings, he reached out. “May I?”
Luke passed them over. “Mary Yazzi wove the first.” Reeves nodded. “I recognize her work at twenty paces. She’s a great artist.”
Luke unfolded from his stiffly erect position and leaned forward to point out design features he particularly liked. “These wefts are a unique trademark,” he said. And to Jessie’s surprise, he added, “They were my mother’s invention.”
Reeves peered over his glasses. “Your mother? Not Rose Bernali?”
Luke grinned. “Yeah.”
“Well, I’ll be damned. Do you have any of her work?” Reeves asked urgently, the rug in his lap forgotten. “I have a collector willing to pay almost anything you’d ask for them.”
“Some, I guess,” Luke said with a perplexed frown. “I don’t know how I’d feel about selling them. Who is this guy?”
Reeves leaned forward and pressed a button on his desk. “Janet, bring me the Bernali file, will you please?” He leaned back in his chair and gave Luke an expansive smile. “I’ve been dealing in Indian goods most of my life, and there’s probably not a weaver you could name I won’t recognize. My grandfather started this business in 1902, when the rich were coming here in droves for the sanitariums.” He leaned back and took off his glasses. “Every so often you see something special, a kind of magic or genius no one can ever pinpoint, but everyone agrees it’s there. Your mother was one of them.”
Luke leaned forward. “Who is the collector?”
“A Denver lawyer. Name’s Garcia.” Reeves flipped open the file. “He found the first ones at a flea market in Albuquerque, I believe, about ten years ago, and tracked down a few others through a reservation trader. He came to me four or five years ago, and I’ve helped him locate a couple of others. If I’d known she still had family here, I would have contacted you sooner. Would you be interested in talking with him?”
Luke glanced at Jessie. “I don’t think so,” he said. “I have a daughter now. That’s her only legacy.”
“I understand,” Reeves replied. “Perhaps she’ll inherit the gift.” There was no rancor in his tone, and he took the rugs in his hands again. “Shall we discuss terms, then, for these?”
“Mr. Reeves, you need to understand why we’re here,” Luke said.
Reeves waved a hand. “I know. All the gallery owners know. You want a better price for the weavings or you’ll open your own galleries. Am I correct? I support the project,” he told them. “I’m willing to do what I can to talk to some of the others around, as well, but you may not have much luck. They will call your bluff, so I’d advise following through on the leases for galleries of your own by summer.”
“We’re willing to deal with studios who will go along with our requests,” Jessie said.
He smiled at her. “I’m counting on it. Why don’t you leave an invoice with my secretary for these weavings, and I’ll look it over.”
Jessie felt a little nonplussed at the speed of his agreement, and she glanced at Luke for clues as to what should happen next. He seemed at ease as he got to his feet and held out a hand. “Thank you, Mr. Reeves. We appreciate your support.”
“You let me know if you ever change your mind about letting some of your mother’s work go, you hear?”
Luke smiled noncommittally.
Jessie added her thanks and collected her bag. As they turned to go, Reeves cleared his throat. “Let me offer a frie
ndly warning, folks.”
They both turned back.
“Most of the gallery owners are not taking kindly to this. There are some rumors—” he frowned “—that someone may have hired some thugs to harass members of the project.”
Luke touched Jessie’s shoulder, as if in protection. It surprised her. “Thanks,” he said. “We guessed that might be the case.”
“Take care then.”
It was as they stepped into the cold from the gallery that Jessie was seized with a wisp of a vision. One moment, she was thinking of the very real danger she had now placed herself and her daughter in. The next moment, her eyes caught on the deep blue of the mountains below their adornment of gray cloud, and she was lost, seeing against that backdrop a clear, compelling picture of a woman.
She narrowed her eyes, still walking with Luke toward the car, but what she saw was Luke’s mother bent over her loom. She had Luke’s hair, that thick glossy mass, impossibly black and full of light. The face belonged to Marcia and Giselle.
Jessie had seen several pictures of Rose, always looking severely into the camera as if it were an ill-mannered and unfriendly intruder. In those pictures, Jessie always thought of Rose as a mother, then as Giselle’s grandmother—a woman from such a different lifestyle as to be nearly alien.
What she saw against the mountains was Rose as a woman, an artist like Jessie herself, working in the strong Southwestern light of northern Arizona, uncovering a twist in a weft string that had become her trademark.
Absently, Jessie opened the car door, but paused to peer a little longer at the sudden painting in her mind. Half of her saw the brush strokes she would use, saw her hands mixing the oils to form a perfect sienna for the weaver’s skin, a color like the wood of a living pine tree, pale brown with hints of warm red blood below.
Luke’s voice, quiet as the forest she stared at so intently, swirled into the vision. “What do you see?”
Jessie answered without thinking. “A yellow fire and a baby sleeping…”
It was only then she realized she had allowed herself to drift so far. Before she could retreat, however, Luke smiled. “A painting.”
She met his eyes. “Yes.”
“Good,” was all he said before he ducked into the car. Jessie climbed in beside him, smiling to herself. As she settled into her seat, she bumped his arm and he playfully pushed back. “This car is too small for me.”
She looked at him, only inches away in the cold car, and felt an odd thrill. It was Luke sitting next to her, her lost, beloved Luke, sober and calm and mature and still so achingly beautiful, he made her dizzy.
Without knowing she would, she leaned forward to kiss him, full on the mouth. She didn’t close her eyes, and Luke didn’t, either. For a full minute, she pressed her mouth to his and met the dark velvet of his eyes. Jessie felt all the scattered pieces of herself whirl together as she drifted there, lost in his eyes. Lightly, gently, their lips moved together.
His face was grave when she pulled away, and he caught her hand. “Jessie, you were right last night.” He swallowed, touching her fingernails with his thumb. “We have to find a way to just be friends. There’s too much between us.”
She turned her face away, appalled and embarrassed that she’d kissed him so boldly, without any invitation on his part at all, and now he was rejecting the overture.
He tugged on her hand. “I’ve worked hard to keep things even in my life, Jessie. It’s not always easy for me to stay on the wagon, you know?” He paused. “I don’t want to lose Giselle the way I lost you.”
“I understand,” Jessie said, meeting his gaze with as much honesty as she could muster. She squeezed his fingers. “I really do.”
He didn’t let her go, and Jessie made no move to start the car. They simply sat there, holding hands in the cold. “I’m really glad to see you again, Jessie. I’m glad that through Giselle, there’s always gonna be something strong between us, that you won’t go away again.” He smiled a little sadly. “You were the best friend I ever had.”
The admission pierced her and she reached over to hug him. “Oh, me, too, Luke.” He hugged her back, fiercely. She bent her head into the shoulder of his jacket. “I can’t be sorry any of this has happened.”
“No,” he whispered, and tightened his arms almost painfully.
After a minute, they parted. Jessie started the car and drove back to Luke’s house.
Marcia was on the phone when they came in. Spying Luke and Jessie, she spoke quickly in Navajo, too fast for Jessie to pick up what she said, then hung up.
Luke tossed his coat over a chair. “Was that Daniel?” he asked.
“Yeah.” Marcia folded her arms. “How did it go with Reeves?”
“He was great,” Jessie said. Shedding her shawl, she found her bag of art supplies and dug out a big sketchpad and a thick-tipped charcoal pencil. Settling on the couch, she added, “He’s willing to do whatever it takes to get the project moving.”
“Oh, that’s great!” Marcia bustled in and sat next to Giselle, who strung beads from a multicolored jumble in a bowl. “That means four galleries that are willing to negotiate at the higher prices.” From another shallow dish, Marcia carefully extracted a woven cluster of beads, probably an earring, Jessie thought.
Luke touched Giselle’s necklace. “Pretty,” he said.
“Marcia told me she has a little beading loom I can have.” She lifted the strung beads and held them against her chest. “I like ‘em all mixed up like this, don’t you?”
His eyes tilted upward with his smile. “Yeah, I do. Will you make me a bracelet to wear?”
Jessie watched as Giselle looked at him a little warily, then wrapped the slender string around his brown wrist. The tiny beads looked fragile against the strong tendons. Jessie felt a deep tug at her heart. “It isn’t long enough yet,” Giselle said.
Marcia leaned forward. “You have to make sure you leave enough room for it to go over his hand, too. I’ll show you how to tie it off when you’re ready.”
Jessie inclined her head and began to sketch the trio of them idly. Three dark heads and three pairs of graceful hands. Between Luke and Marcia, Giselle looked as if she belonged, the way she never quite belonged to Jessie. The knowledge didn’t bring the jealousy she might have expected, but a kind of relief. Jessie had never been Indian, never would be, could never hope to give Giselle more than a cursory pride in being Indian herself.
“So what did Daniel have to say?” Luke asked, taking a chair.
Marcia bent over her shallow dish of beads. “He can’t leave Dallas right now. He’s been trying to set this meeting up for months, and the gallery owners there have finally agreed to talk to him.” Carefully, she speared two beads on her needle and slid them into place. “He wants me to take the meeting in Shiprock, but I’ve got to go back to work tomorrow.” She lifted her eyes. “He wants to know if one of you will go to Shiprock.”
Jessie and Luke answered together. “I can’t.”
Luke gestured for Jessie to go first. She frowned. “Marcia, there’s nothing I can say to those women. I don’t have the right to say anything to them, and I also don’t speak Navajo.”
“Daniel told me you can, but you won’t,” Marcia answered with a grin. “Anyway, Luke does,” she said, delicately shifting the earring in her hand.
“But I don’t know a damned thing about the project,” Luke protested with a scowl. “Surely not enough to lead any kind of meeting with the weavers.”
Before the smile spread over Marcia’s face, Jessie saw how neatly they’d been trapped. “So, you’re going together, eh?”
“No.” Luke stood and stalked into the kitchen.
“Marcia,” Jessie said, glancing after him, “it would be too hard—there’s too much between us.”
“I’m open for suggestions,” Marcia replied, putting down the beads. “If you have another idea, let’s hear it. I just don’t want all this work to go down the tubes. If someone doesn’t get down
there and address the fear of the weavers, there won’t be a project left.”
Luke spoke from the archway to the kitchen. “So why don’t you go? Cancel your appointments and take a few days off?”
“Because I have three big recitals coming up this week and I can’t run out on the children. You know that.” Her voice was calm, but Jessie heard the annoyance low in her throat. “Sometimes that violin is the only thing of beauty those children have. I won’t take it away from them.”
Luke sipped his coffee, but Jessie could see the taut way he held his body, could see how the whole idea disturbed him. “I haven’t been to the res since I was sixteen.”
“You don’t have to say anything you don’t believe, Luke. You’re the son of a weaver, you know the language, you know the way these people think. Jessie knows all the details of the project; she’s been working on it since the beginning.”
Giselle, looking from one adult to the next, suddenly stood up and looped the beads around Luke’s wrist. “Can I go, too?”
Jessie saw how the gentle appeal weakened him, and she spoke up. “We aren’t going, Giselle. In fact, we’re going to have to get ready to get home or we’ll be on the road all night.”
“No!” Giselle whirled. “I don’t want to go yet!”
“I know you don’t,” Jessie said, realizing she should have anticipated this resistance. “We’ll work everything out, sweetie. I promise.”
Giselle burst into tears and flung herself into Luke’s lap. “It won’t be the same!” she wailed.
Stung, Jessie stared at Luke, who looked back at her with a tight expression on his mouth. She saw her own guilt reflected in his eyes—they’d been so wrapped up in their own lingering emotions that they hadn’t given enough consideration to the question about Giselle.
He touched the girl’s hair. “You can call me tonight,” he said. “Okay? And I’ll come down and see you next weekend. I promise. Maybe your mom will let you come to my house on your Christmas break, eh? That’s only a few weeks from now.”
“I don’t want to go home,” Giselle whimpered softly. The words were doubly painful in such a mournful, quiet voice.
