by Jill G. Hall
Paul closed the gate while Sylvia leaned over, unclasped Lucy’s leash, and let her revel around on the grass. Lucy flipped onto her back, and Sylvia rubbed her tummy. “You mean about that girl in Acapulco? He told me all about her. They broke up.”
“I’ve heard otherwise.”
“What?” A slight breeze rustled Sylvia’s hair.
Paul paused and looked at her. “It might scare you.”
“Tell me. It can’t be that bad.”
“It is.”
“I’m an adult now. You can tell me anything.”
“He harmed a girl,” Paul said quickly.
She gaped at him. “You can’t be serious. Who told you that?”
“I have a source.” He frowned.
“Your source is wrong. You’re trying to get me to break up with him. But it won’t work. I love him.”
Paul raised his voice. “But how long have you known him?”
“Over a month.”
“Is that long enough to love someone?” The crease between his eyes deepened.
Clouds floated in over the Golden Gate. “How long does it take?”
“I forbid it! Not just as a friend but as your lawyer.” His voice grew louder. “Your parents would never have approved.”
“They’ve been gone a long time, and I need to live my life as I see fit.”
“But—”
She stomped her foot. “I’m going to marry him.”
“Marry him?” Paul yelled. “Don’t be ridiculous. You’re still too young.”
“According to Ella, I’m almost an old maid.” Sylvia’s eyes welled with tears.
He handed her a pressed white handkerchief from his pocket. “You have plenty of time.”
“But I want him.” She wiped a tear from her eye. “Don’t you want me to be happy?”
He lowered his voice and picked up Lucy. “Of course I do.”
“Let’s not quarrel.” She pet the puppy’s back. “After all, it is my birthday.”
“Yes. I’m sorry.”
“I know you feel responsible for me and that you care.”
He put his palm on her cheek. “Maybe I care too much.”
14
Anne didn’t have time to nuke the spaghetti and nibbled a few bites right out of the fridge. She needed to hurry or she’d be late to deliver the collage to Ms. Woods. How serendipitous that she owned a gallery. Anne flipped through her portfolio. Would the woman like the Diva or Moguls? They were so different than Mango with People on Top. Anne wished she had more like that one. What if she added people to the other mango paintings? But that wouldn’t be as funny. The joke had already been told. Anne chewed some more spaghetti and looked over at the Sylvia and Ricardo piece. Ms. Woods might like that one, but it wasn’t finished yet.
Anne put the rest of the spaghetti in the fridge, inserted the collage into her portfolio, and rushed out the door. Arriving at the hotel, she checked Ms. Woods’s room number written on the back of her card and rode the elevator up to her room.
She answered the door in a hotel robe with a towel wrapped around her head. “Come on in! Put it anywhere. I’ll be out in a jiff,” she said, disappearing into the bathroom.
Anne had never been inside a St. Francis room before. This, a corner suite, was probably bigger than her entire apartment. The king-size bed had been crisply made, but papers were piled on a desk, and bubble-wrapped canvases were stacked along the walls. Setting the collage on the dresser, she stood back to admire it. To imagine that someone had liked it enough to spend $500 on it filled her with pride. She clung to her portfolio in hopes that Ms. Woods might also be interested in some of those pieces too.
A hairdryer started to whir in the bathroom. Outside, the neon lights began to pop on and beckoned Anne to read the Union Square store names: Saks, Macy’s, Neiman’s, Tiffany’s. The Victory goddess at eye level now seemed to be waving her trident at Anne. Down below, even though it was only mid-November, Christmas decorations bordered the rink where an ice skater twirled, sped up, and then fell. She looked down at the hotel’s front entrance and thought about the picture from the Life magazine photo taken there many years ago.
Anne checked her watch. She had a half hour until she had to report for her shift, but she still wished Ms. Woods would hurry out. The hairdryer stopped, and Anne watched the door expectantly, but then Ms. Woods said, “Yes, I said sixty percent.” And soon the hairdryer started up once more.
Flipping through the stacked paintings, Anne read their taped labels: Disraeli, Janpers, Forgo. All three local artists were well known and highly regarded. No way could she ever compete with them. But Ms. Woods really seemed to like her collage. Or perhaps she was just being nice to the parking valet? Could she have really only bought it to help her out? Anne started to feel as if the walls were closing in on her. She glanced toward the bathroom again, then rushed out the door and down to the garage.
She parked and delivered cars for about an hour, but when Howard handed her the keys to Ms. Woods’s car, she said, “Howard, I’d prefer you take care of this one.”
“But I thought you were buds?”
She begged, “Please, I’ll explain later.”
“Okay. Don’t mind her good tips.”
Anne watched for Ms. Woods to come out of the hotel and then hid behind a truck as Howard pulled up in the BMW.
Trudging home up California Street, Anne passed the Mark Hopkins and then Grace Cathedral, with its stained glass windows all lit up. A crazy guy with wild hair and eyes preached on the sidewalk in front of it. Storm clouds gathered, and she hoped they wouldn’t let go until after she made it down the hill and into her apartment.
Vaulting over Mata in the doorway, she said, “Be right back.” Anne pulled the note off of her door, recognizing Mrs. Ladenheim’s spiky handwriting. She started to open it but then remembered Mata, put the leftover spaghetti in a pot on the stove, added mushrooms and a jalapeño to make it go further, and sprinkled on some Parmesan cheese for protein. She delivered it to Mata in a paper cup with a plastic fork. “Take out for you.”
Mata sniffed and took a taste. “Snappy!” She nibbled tiny bites and swallowed with a smile as if she were the Queen of England.
Back in the apartment, Anne read the landlady’s note: Your rent check did not clear. Please remedy this, or you will need to vacate within thirty days.
What happened? She started to cry. The farmers’ market check must have bounced. Had she been duped by that sweet young mother and her cutie-patootie son? To check her account, Anne turned on her computer. There was an email from Jewels checking in to tell her that the ruby necklace was still available, and then a Facebook post from Dottie popped up. In the photo, Dottie looked as if she had died her hair black, and the notice said, OMG! I’m having a solo show at New York’s Punctured Gallery.
Anne felt like a bucket of paint had been thrown on her. Dottie’s having a solo show! She tried to be happy for her dear friend, but all Anne could feel was anger. Why wasn’t she the one getting the solo show? Maybe that’s why Dottie hadn’t called back when she left that message about Karl. She might have been trying to spare her feelings.
She thought back to the first day they met. Dottie’s dishwater blonde hair had been pulled back in a ponytail, and nerdy glasses had been perched on her nose. She had arrived late and had struggled to set up her easel, but the contraption wouldn’t cooperate. Anne had come to the rescue and showed her how to do it.
They became fast buddies, with Dottie always following Anne’s lead. Anne taught her tricks like how to use the end of the paintbrush to etch out paint and mixing in matte medium to make the paint go further. By the time they graduated, they’d been roommates for two years, sharing an apartment off campus. Anne had tried to get her to move to San Francisco with her, but Dottie decided to move back to Alabama with her folks for a while. Six months ago though, she had called and said, “I’m moving to New York.” Anne just couldn’t believe it.
She squeeze
d her eyes shut, and Dottie’s primary colors came to mind, mostly of clowns in motion: running, jumping, juggling, etc. She had loved to paint dots and said it made sense because of her name. The dots became part of the clowns’ costumes. For her senior project, she had transitioned to other circus acts of elephants, acrobats, tightrope walkers, and lion tamers. Not the Cirque du Soleil pastel style, but old-fashioned Vargas or Ringling Brothers. They looked like something you might find on a nursery wall. Anne hated to be catty, but Dottie’s technique had been mediocre at best. How did she get a solo show in New York when Anne couldn’t even break into the San Francisco art scene?
She started to type in a reply to Dottie: Congrats! You deserve it. It wasn’t even close to sincere, and Anne erased it. “I will not let the green-eyed monster overpower me!” she yelled, and she slammed her computer closed and slumped on the daybed with a pout.
How could she have run out on Ms. Woods like that? It might have been a good opportunity. Anne was going nowhere fast. She should just give up now and move home. It wouldn’t be so bad. She would only take what could fit in Tweety for the drive back. The furniture could be sold on eBay, and castoff clothes could be given to Mata and the homeless shelter. Her artwork sold at the farmers’ market at cut-rate prices. Maybe she had been too hasty in letting Karl go. Perhaps marriage was the answer. Actually, he had been leaving messages for her every day, which she had been ignoring.
She went over to her altar and rang her Tibetan chimes. The sound echoed, hung in the air, then faded away. She picked up the key and yelled at it: “You are supposed to be good luck.” Her brain felt as if bees buzzed around in it. Maybe she should try to meditate again. She settled cross-legged on a sheepskin and turned on her iPod. Carlos Nakai’s Native American flute music drowned the sound of late-night traffic. With eyes closed, twisting the key’s label in her fingers, she inhaled and exhaled, willing her jabbering mind to shut up.
15
Sylvia entered the Top of the Mark and rushed toward Paul. When he saw her, his smile seemed to emanate from the center of his whole being. It had been almost a month since they had argued about Ricardo. Paul had checked in by phone often but hadn’t dropped by like he used to. Seeing his kind face now, she realized she had missed him.
“I got here as fast as I could.” She tried to seem nonchalant. “What’s this all about?”
“Have a drink first.” Paul waved to the waitress. Then he pulled a chair out for Sylvia at the wraparound bar overlooking the city and the bay beyond with the sun shining on it.
She played with the graduated pearls around her neck.
“Great suit color.” He smiled and pointed to his gray suit, the same shade as hers. “You look so grown up.”
“Well, I am.”
“Don’t be so defensive. I meant it as a compliment.”
She could tell he was trying to sweet-talk her. “I don’t have much time,” Sylvia started.
The waitress delivered their highballs. Paul frowned. “What’s the rush?”
“I’ve got a meeting.” She wished he would get right to the point. When he called this afternoon, he sounded like his pants were on fire, but now he seemed relaxed and calm. She pulled off her kid gloves, laid them on the bar, and tasted her drink, leaving a blood-orange lipstick smear on the glass. “Well?” She raised her eyebrows and looked at him.
“Dear, I can’t let you marry Ricardo.” Paul’s voice was soft and deep.
She tried not to lose her temper. “We’ve been over this. It’s really not that complicated. The engagement party is tomorrow night, and the wedding is in two weeks. It’s love. And you can’t stop me.”
Their eyes locked until she lost her nerve and turned her head, gazing out the window to the city below. Shadows began to overwhelm the buildings as the sun moved west to set. She inhaled and then let the air out. Even though she’d been here many times, the panoramic view always calmed her. She tried a different tact. “Haven’t you ever been in love?”
He hesitated. “Yes, but that’s beside the point. You’re a bright girl. I’m surprised you’ve been so charmed by him.”
“Enough! I know he drinks like a marlin, but he’s so, so much fun.” She stared at Paul’s shiny gold tie clasp then reached out and ran her fingers over it. He put his hand on hers gently. She tugged his red dotted necktie aside as if to strangle him. “You infuriate me!”
He started to laugh and clutched her hand while trying to loosen his tie.
She let go and sat back. He would never be convinced she was old enough to get married if she didn’t start acting more serious. She pulled a Lucky Strike from her clutch and leaned over for him to light it.
He blinked and held out his lighter. “When did you start smoking?” She took a deep drag and slowly blew smoke to one side.
“Oh. It’s been ages now.” She waved the cigarette, tapped it on a crystal ashtray, and let the ashes drop. “I know it’s all a bit of a rush.”
In fact, she had suggested a longer engagement, but Ricardo had scoffed, wanting a big to-do. When she complained there wasn’t enough time, he said, “You have connections and money. You can work it out.” To please him, she acquiesced and hired a consultant to help with all the details.
Paul’s brow furrowed. “Sylvia, he’s dangerous.”
“Those rumors aren’t true. There’s no proof.”
The waitress stopped by, but Paul motioned her away. “Yes there is.”
“What?” Sylvia looked at him.
“I needed to know for sure, so I sent someone down to Mexico.”
Her eyes widened “You didn’t.”
“Sylvia, I couldn’t let you ruin your life.” He put his hand on hers.
She pulled it away and returned her gaze to the horizon as the Golden Gate’s lights blinked on. “Well. What did you find out?” She took another drag of her cigarette and stubbed it out.
“First of all, he’s broke. He owes money all over Mexico.”
Her heart thudded. “Are you certain?” Just last week, Ricardo told her he had to check out of the St. Francis because they were booked and needed his room. Maybe that wasn’t quite true. Perhaps she shouldn’t have let him move into the family beach cottage after all.
Paul continued, “And he has a record.”
“What?” She grabbed her pearls.
“Two years ago, he was arrested.”
“Why?”
Paul’s eyes turned to iron. “Murder.”
Sylvia reached for his arm and shook her head. “No,” she whispered. “That can’t be true.” Yes, Ricardo did have a temper, but murder? She thought he would be kinder to her when he grew to love her more. Sometimes he did raise his voice, but he had never hurt her physically. Like the other night when he threw the bottle in the sink—he didn’t hit her, although the wild look in his eyes told her he wanted to. “I don’t believe it.”
“See for yourself.” Paul slid a manila envelope toward her.
She opened it and spilled the contents onto the bar. With trembling hands, she studied a black-and-white photo of a younger Ricardo, with no mustache but wearing his usual slicked back hair and all-teeth grin. His arm was wrapped around a Mexican girl. Her white peasant blouse scooped low, exposing voluptuous breasts. Between them, a silver onyx necklace dangled. A sequined skirt hugged her tiny waist and flared to sandaled feet. Sylvia grew warm as she flipped the picture over and read the printing on the back:
Ricardo Lopez and Julieta Garcia
10 Febrero, 1959
Casa de la Juarez
With a cocktail napkin, Sylvia dabbed beads of sweat from her forehead and upper lip. Paul handed her a police report. “I had the detective translate it into English.”
Acapulco Police Department
5:00 PM
2-11-59
Report by: Officer Jose Dominguez
Julieta Garcia’s parents contacted us because she hadn’t returned home the previous night from a date with Ricardo Lorenzo Lopez. It was determine
d that they had attended a party at the home of Juan Juarez. When interviewed, the host stated that Miss Garcia and Mr. Lopez had argued around 10:00 PM. He had asked them to leave, and they exited onto the beach. Police searched the beach but found no clues. At 11:00 AM, officers finally found Mr. Lopez at his home. A scratch was visible on his left cheek, and his lips were swollen.
The report continued, but Sylvia choked up and looked out the window. A thick fog rolled in, covering the city. She could no longer see the Golden Gate or its lights. A deep sorrow mixed with fear settled in her chest.
She handed Paul the report and pointed to where she left off. She asked, “Then what happened? Just tell me.”
“Ricardo was put in jail and extensively interviewed. He said he dropped Julieta off at home around midnight. A week later, police had to release him due to lack of evidence.”
Sylvia shivered, looked at the picture again, and asked, “What happened to the girl?”
“No one knows.” Paul gently held Sylvia’s elbow. “She was never seen again.”
16
Raindrops plopped on the canvas top as Anne chugged Tweety over the San Francisco hills and cruised down Balboa. She turned on the windshield wipers, glad that she had recently changed them. Traffic lessened near the coastline. Wind buffeted Tweety as Anne turned left at the Cliff House then whipped south along the Great Highway above Ocean Beach, where whitecaps zigzagged out in the navy blue sea. The small beach houses she had seen in long-ago photos had been bulldozed to make way for condos. Sea Cliff was probably gone too. She continued to drive toward Golden Gate Park until she spied a small cottage between two huge buildings. This might be it.
She made a U-turn, pulled Tweety to the curb, and parked. The dilapidated sign under an arbor said Sea Cliff. It was hard to believe this was it. Sylvia would have lived in a mansion. Perhaps this was just a summer home.
Its white paint looked dull gray under a cloudy sky, and the green trim had faded. Lace curtains in the front windows were drawn. The cottage appeared deserted. She grasped the key and waited a few minutes for the rain to abate. Did she dare go up to the door? Heart pounding, she got out of her car and glided up the three short steps to the porch. Trembling on the threshold, she knocked and waited.
