by Jill G. Hall
10
Howard ran off to get another car as Anne put a key on the rack. The mad lunch rush had finally quieted down. She used a truck window’s reflection to smooth out her frizzy hair, damp from parking cars all morning in the fog. “Hey, girl!” a gorgeous blonde squealed and ran toward her.
“Crissy?” If not for her shrill laugh, Anne would never have recognized her. “What are you doing here?”
Crissy hugged her with an overpowering scent of perfumes, as if she had been testing samples in a department store. “Honey-moon!” She wiggled her ring finger to display an enormous marquise diamond.
“My mom told me you were engaged. Best wishes!”
“Stopped here on our way to Hawaii to pick up a few little things. Your Union Square sure beats the Walmart back home.”
Anne studied her friend. In high school, they had called her Skinny Minnie, but under that pink Juicy Couture sweat suit, Crissy had filled out in ways that didn’t even seem possible. In ridiculously high Jimmy Choo’s, she looked like a voluptuous Victoria’s Secret model. Anne smiled. “Look at you!”
“I got a trainer. And you!”
Howard might have enjoyed wearing their work uniforms, but Anne sure didn’t. She knew she appeared god-awful in the white ruffled blouse underneath a maroon vest that clashed with her auburn hair. Men’s Goodwill polyester pants and wingtips completed the ensemble. “Who’s the lucky groom? Someone from college?” Anne asked.
“No!” Crissy whipped out her iPhone. “Here’s Jonathan.”
Anne squinted. Funny—the man in the photo looked a lot like Crissy’s father. “Handsome. Where did you meet?”
“At a Ducks Unlimited dinner.” Crissy giggled her piercing screech then lowered her voice. “He’s a bit older.” She held Neiman Marcus shopping bags up with a shrug. “But then, why not?”
Anne looked around. “Where is he? I’d love to meet him.”
“Got tired of watching me shop and went up to take a nap.”
“You’re staying here then?” Anne glanced up at the hotel.
Crissy nodded. “Pretty sweet, huh?”
Yes, at $500 a night.
“And what are you doing here?”
Anne smiled. “I live here, remember?”
“No, I mean here, here.” Crissy studied Anne’s uniform. “Going to an Austin Powers party?”
Anne tried not to let her shoulders sag. “I park cars. Just temporarily. To help out a friend.”
“Thoughtful as always. And your art?” Crissy fluffed her blonde hair. “We all knew you’d do great things. Which galleries are you in?”
Anne hesitated. “I’m between shows now.”
“We’ll come to your studio then. I’d love to see where you work and for Jonathan to see your collages. He’s an art fan. Never know—might even buy a piece. Tomorrow?”
“I think I have a meeting.” The last thing Anne wanted was for Crissy to see her dinky studio, and besides, they probably wouldn’t really like her collages anyway. They were too modern for the Midwest. “Do you still paint?”
“I’m getting back to it now that the wedding is over. Jonathan loves my ducks. I use his decoys as models. We’ve converted the carriage house into a studio for me. Isn’t that great?”
Anne nodded. “Just ducky.”
Crissy pointed at her and rang out with laughter again.
Ms. Woods, a regular customer and generous tipper, handed Anne a parking stub. “Excuse me, but I’m in a rush!” Her black velvet dress and seed pearl necklaces were exquisite.
“Certainly. Right away.” Anne hugged her friend. “Great to see you.”
“Here’s my number.” Crissy handed her a card. “Call if you have time. We’ll be in town a few more days.”
Anne rushed to get the woman’s car, wondering what Crissy would think if she knew what a bust her art career had been. Anne found the BMW, jumped inside, and swung it to the front of the hotel. She hopped out and held the door open for the owner.
“That was quick.” Ms. Woods handed her a $20 bill.
“I’ll get change.”
“No. Keep it!”
Anne couldn’t believe it. “Thanks so much!”
Ms. Woods smiled at her, slipped in the car, and drove off.
At the end of her shift, Anne put on her coat and a knit cap and headed toward home. A bus cruised by as she ascended a hill. Along California Street, she searched for Mata Hari but didn’t see her. When she entered the apartment building, Mrs. Ladenheim stepped onto her doorstep, hair in curlers with a sad face that drooped like a basset hound’s. “Rent’s due.”
“I know. You’ll have it soon.”
She checked her phone and saw that Karl had been texting her all day. What a jerk! She should just block his number.
She added her tips to the cash box, lit the gardenia candle, rang her chimes, and touched the key sitting nearby. It felt cool on her fingers. She drifted to her computer and typed in Sylvia Van Dam again.
Why was she so fascinated by her? Maybe because she lived during Anne’s favorite era, the early 1960s, or perhaps because Sylvia had been orphaned. Anne liked it when a subject called to her, but right now, she needed to focus on pieces she could make a quick buck on, and turned off the computer.
She had it down to a science: one sixteen-by-sixteen-inch still life equaled $100. If she worked all night, she could finish a few to take to tomorrow’s farmers’ market. She pulled a mango from a bowl, rubbed the smooth peel on her cheek, and then set it on the dinette table. Next she squished a glob of phthalo green paint directly onto a canvas and used a wet brush to provide a pale background wash.
The shower went on in Val’s apartment below her. He must have just returned home from the night’s performance. Anne turned on the Gipsy Kings, cranked up the volume, and wiggled her hips to the sounds of their rhythmic beat. With a knife, she peeled back some skin from another mango and took a bite. The pulp was juicy. She wished she could paint a taste, tangy and fresh. To produce the mango’s magenta hue, she mixed red and blue together and added a smidgen of beige buff to soften the color. Her energy kicked in, and within an hour, she had completed a piece.
She bit into the luscious mango again and stood back to inspect the painting. The color contrast worked; other than that, it was pretty boring. But boring was what usually sold. She squinted and felt a tingle in her chest, a yearning not to be resisted. The basket of postcards on the coffee table called to her. As if in a trance, she moved to the basket, closed her eyes, and pulled out a card. A dark-haired man and blonde woman in a turquoise swimsuit sat on a white sandy beach, an aqua ocean behind them. The pair leaned toward each other. A warm breeze flew into the room, and Anne thought she smelled salty sea air again. She walked over to the altar and looked at the key. It just sat there. She glanced at the window, but it was fully shut.
These aromatic apparitions were becoming downright weird. No one would believe her if she told them. She’d be locked in a loony bin for sure. But even so, they seemed to be connected to the art somehow.
She scanned the beach couple’s image onto the computer, enlarged it, and printed it onto thin rice paper. The copy was faint but legible. Anne carefully tore off the sharp corners around the beachgoers, dipped a brush into matte medium, and adhered the couple onto the canvas as if they were sitting atop the freshly painted mango. Getting a whiff of that salty sea air again, Anne paused and studied her new piece. She would paint more plain fruit to sell, but maybe “People on Fruit” would become her next series. She took another bite of mango. The stringy pulp twisted around her tongue and tasted sweet. Too quirky—probably no one at the market would buy it, but she was glad she had done it anyway.
11
The sky above Ocean Beach shone a brilliant blue. A heat wave had hit, unusual for San Francisco in March. The coastline here, known for its frigidity, had heated up to eighty degrees.
Sylvia looked up at the Cliff House in the distance, where they had had their first dat
e two weeks before. Ricardo unfurled her blanket into a secluded spot between two crags. Way down the beach, another couple sunbathed.
“Boy, is it hot.” Sylvia daintily sat on the blanket, kicked off silver sandals, and stuck her feet in the warm sand.
“Sí.” Ricardo leaned over and pulled a Tecate from his red cooler. “Una cerveza?”
“No, thanks.” She shook her head and fingered the floral sequins on her straw tote.
He opened the beer with his pocketknife, and a foamy gush spewed from the bottle. He took a big swallow. “Grrr,” he growled, rolling his r’s. Smiling at her, he tugged off his shirt and plopped beside her. Then he lay flat on his back, closed his eyes, and hummed the serenade tune.
She hoped her sunglasses hid her stare, tried not to look at his almost-naked body, lounged back on her elbows, eyes toward the sea, but couldn’t resist and peeked back. He was so sexy—dark skin and long narrow waist. Hair swirled around his nipples, but the rest of his chest was totally smooth. However, a trail of dark curls below his bellybutton paraded down his abdomen and disappeared into his tight red swim trunks. She wanted to touch him but instead drew her hand across her own brow. She felt feverish but wasn’t sure if it was from the sun or from perusing Ricardo.
He opened one eye, caught her staring at him, and grinned. She turned away and busied her red fingernails by checking the back of her French twist. He put his moist hand on her thigh. She pulled her leg away, sat up, and stared at the crashing waves, their sound matching the pounding of her nervous heart. His body glowed like a bonfire on the beach, beautiful to look at but too dangerous to touch.
She wished he had agreed to go to the club instead. It was safer there, not as isolated. Here alone with Ricardo, anything could happen. He could ravage her, and no one would see. Paul might have even been at the club. She always felt safe when he was near. But then, he would have seen her with Ricardo and probably would have been disappointed at her for going out with him.
She eyed Ricardo again. His flat stomach moved up and down. Had he dozed off already?
She grabbed a bathing cap from her tote and pulled it on, tucking in stray wisps of hair. Maybe a dip would cool her down. She pulled off her white lace cover-up and folded it on the blanket. Yanking Ricardo’s big toe, she yelled, “Last one in is a rotten egg!” and she raced toward the ocean.
Ricardo chased her down to the shore. “I’m gonna get you,” he hollered.
She ran into the lapping waves, clasped the bathing-cap strap under her chin, and dove in. The icy water shocked her system, but after she got used to it, it felt refreshing. With long, steady strokes, she swam away from Ricardo out past the breakers. There the sun sparkled on what looked like a bed of emeralds. Her fingers tried to catch them, but they disappeared.
Ricardo, shivering and executing a type of dog paddle, took a long time to reach her. When he did, he grabbed her arms and kissed her, long and slow. She could feel it all the way down to her legs that were scissoring back and forth. He tasted of salt and beer. Delicious! He pulled her to him. She could feel his hardness, a new and thrilling sensation, but too scary.
Twirling around she swam toward shore, until a giant wave crashed over her, and she let the momentum push her body to the beach. She sprinted to the blanket and wrapped herself in a towel. Out of breath, she pulled a Coke from the cooler, opened it, and took a sip.
It took Ricardo a while to drift onto the beach. He sauntered up the sand, rubbed a towel along his backside, then drank another beer. She peeled off the bathing cap. A few loose bobby pins fell onto the blanket, and she began to pin her hair back up.
“Leave it.” He settled beside her, pulled out the rest of the pins, and ran his fingers through her shoulder-length tresses. Then he fluffed it gently. “That’s better.”
“Gracias,” she stuttered, and she pulled the towel tight against the goose bumps on her arms while thinking of their ocean embrace.
“In Acapulco, it is sunny todos los días. The water is hot like a bath.”
“Really?”
“The color of your swim outfit.”
“Turquoise.”
“Sí.” He pulled her towel off and flung it over his shoulder, like a matador, letting it drop onto the sand.
She giggled and tugged up the top of her suit so her cleavage wouldn’t show. The sun was warm on her shoulders. Ricardo slicked back his wet hair. She wanted to run her hands over it.
He stretched out on his side, closed his eyes, and hummed again.
She wondered what Ella would say if she knew they were here alone at the beach. “Don’t burn,” is the least she’d say, and so Sylvia pulled Sea and Ski from her tote and spread it on her pale legs, which were turning pink. Ricardo took the bottle, squirted lotion on her back, and massaged it. His hands were cool. He squeezed some lotion onto her chest and began to rub it in.
She turned and brushed his hand away. “I’ll do that myself, mister.”
He gazed at her, and the scar on his cheek glistened in the sunlight. She touched it. “How did you get that?”
He looked out at the ocean. “Sailing in Acapulco.”
“Oh?”
“The big thing, what do you call it?” He swung his arm around.
“Mast? Boom?”
He nodded. “Sí. Boom. On a windy day, the boom flew around fast and hit me. My lips were so fat I couldn’t even kiss for two weeks.” He laughed. “My eyes were black and blue. I looked like I’d been in a fight.”
She shuddered thinking how much pain he must have been in. “Didn’t it hurt?”
“No mucho.” Ricardo pulled a piece of fruit from his cooler, leaned forward, and handed it to her.
“What’s this?” She held it to the light and rubbed the yellow-orange skin with her fingertips.
“A mango.” He raised an eyebrow. “They say it’s a sexual fruit.”
“Oh!” She dropped it in her lap as if it were hot, then scooped it up fast and handed it back to him.
“We have many of these in Acapulco.” He grinned. “An amigo brought this one to me from across the border.
“I’ve never seen one.” She shook her head.
“They grow on trees outside my villa. From the veranda overlooking the ocean, I can reach out and pick them.” He plucked the air. “We have a whole orchard.”
“Sounds like Shangri-La.” She thought of being alone with him in Mexico by the sea and hoped to stand there with him on the veranda some day.
She had never been further than Napa Valley or Santa Cruz except when she was ten. Her grandmother had died, and so Sylvia had gotten to ride in the back of the limo with her mama all the way to Fresno for the funeral. Daddy had to work and hadn’t been able to come. Most of the countryside had been boring though. She did remember how funny those baby telephone poles looked.
“Those hold the grapevines,” Milo had laughed behind the wheel.
Her mama had looked exquisite, in a black suit with shiny diamond-like buttons. “Yes, it’s your duty to go to the services when a parent passes away.” Her voice had sounded sweet as a bell. “Sylvia, it’s important to marry the right man. If I had settled for Charles from the farm next door, I’d still be living in this god-awful place. Pee-u, smell those cows!”
Ricardo broke into Sylvia’s reverie. “Espera. I’ll prove to you it’s the fruit of love.”
He crossed his legs and held the mango in his hand. She tried not to gape at the bulge in his swimsuit. With his other hand, he used his pocketknife and cut the fruit in half and pulled it apart. He carefully serrated around the pit and dropped it into the sand. Then he scored it like a checkerboard, stabbed at a piece, and put it in his mouth. As he chewed, juice trickled out over his chin. She wanted to lick it off but instead took a corner of her towel and wiped it off for him.
“Here, taste. Suck out the juices.” He extended a piece toward her on his knife and watched as Sylvia released the slice with her fingers and slipped it in her mouth.
With l
ips closed, she chewed and swallowed. “Mmm.”
“Sí,” he mumbled, still chewing.
The tangy nectar clung to Sylvia’s lips, and she felt a tingly sensation. Ricardo leaned over and kissed her. His tongue slid inside her mouth and licked around as if searching for leftover juices.
Sylvia began to liquefy. She felt as soft as the ripe fruit, trembled all over, and kissed him back, sticking her tongue into his mouth, exploring for nectar too. His hand glided from her knee up her thigh and toward the edge of her swimsuit. Her breath quickened, and she wondered what it would feel like to have him touch her there, all the way up inside her suit. But nice girls didn’t let men touch them there. And because she was a nice girl, even though she wanted him to keep going, she pushed his hand away. “Let’s go. It’s getting late.” She started to stand on wobbly legs. His strong arms enveloped her, and he kissed her again. She gasped for air. “Ella is expecting me home for dinner.”
“Let’s stay and watch the sunset.” He tugged her to him again, then rolled on top of her, covering her neck with kisses.
She could feel him again through their swimsuits. They had to stop. Panting, she pushed him off and yelled, “No!”
“Why?” He shook his head and sat up.
“I don’t want to.” She looked down. “I’m afraid.”
He gently pulled up her chin to meet his eyes. “But I love you.”
“You do?” She had waited her whole life for someone to say that to her.
“Yes.” He nodded, and they began to reach for each other, but Ricardo looked beyond her shoulder to the cliffs above them. She followed his gaze to where a man peered at them through binoculars.
Ricardo stood. “You’re right, let’s go.”
“What?” she asked, confused and disappointed. “Who’s that man?”
