The Black Velvet Coat
Page 9
She heard a noise behind her and twirled around, but it was only rain dripping off the eaves. She rapped again then cried out, “Hello?” She took a deep breath, waited a beat, and slid the key in the lock.
It fit perfectly!
She turned the knob, pushed the door open, and stepped over the threshold. It was misty dark inside and smelled of salty sea breezes, as if after so many years it had penetrated the walls. She closed the door behind her, stepped out of her wet shoes, and advanced with caution onto the thick carpet that swept the entry. The ocean’s crashing waves could be heard. Unable to see ahead of her, she walked down the hall, grazing her hands along the smooth walls to steady and guide her disoriented body.
She turned a corner and switched on a light. The kitchen appeared to be straight out of I Love Lucy. Black-and-white squares covered the kitchen floor like a giant chessboard. The rounded Frigidaire hummed a steady moan. She opened it and smiled at the six-pack of Corona, with one missing. In the cupboard, white Lenox dishes rimmed with eggshell blue flowers rested. A toaster sat on the counter, but no microwave was in view. Everything looked neat and orderly.
The danger of being a trespasser excited and scared her at the same time. She knew she should leave now before someone showed up, but she wanted to see more.
In the bathroom, she flipped on the light. What appeared to be droplets of blood—bright and stark—shone in the white pedestal sink. She felt queasy, drew closer, and realized it wasn’t blood at all but dried nail polish. A broken bottle with slivers of glass glistened in the drain. In the mirror she saw her pale and wide-eyed face.
The bedroom door was ajar and she pushed it open. Tossed like an angry sea, the aqua silk sheets were twisted and the pillows askew. Pieces from a smashed turquoise lamp were strewn on the floor. Drawers had been rummaged through. Had there been a fight?
Haphazardly thrown on a chair was a silver satin formal. Picking up the slinky dress, she ran her hand over the smooth bodice, its neckline torn. She opened the closet door and, not finding a light switch, she grabbed blindly toward the ceiling and pulled a string down, illuminating the space. Hanging in the back, ghost-like, was a clear plastic bag. She lifted it up to reveal an ivory wedding gown. A net veil with intricate embroidery of white beads and tiny pearls had been draped over the hanger. Peau de soie pumps stood beneath. Anne slipped her feet inside, surprised that they fit. The stiff edges were evidence that they had never been worn. She removed the plastic from the wedding dress and carried it into the bedroom to examine it more closely. Beads and sequins on a lace bodice sparkled in the light, like the sun shining on a still pond.
She couldn’t help holding it under her chin and viewing the reflection in the mirror, a stark contrast between her auburn hair and the off-white gown. It was the most elegant dress she’d ever seen. She glanced around, shrugged off her black velvet coat and turtleneck, and threw them to the ground. The gown smelled clean like Ivory soap as she wiggled it down over her head. She stepped out of her jeans, straightened the dress around her hips, and struggled to close the side zipper. Then she leaned forward and adjusted the bodice to reveal her deep cleavage. The dress fit as if it were made for her. Picking up the veil, Anne placed the band on her head, pulled the netting over her face.
“Very dramatic.” She walked toward the mirror like a bride holding an imaginary bouquet. Step touch, step touch, step touch . . .
“Congratulations!” her cousin Pootie’s voice yelled, and all of a sudden, the mirror shimmered and flipped over, and on the other side, Anne stood in her emerald green cocktail dress. The one she’d bought several months ago at Rescued Relics but had never had the chance to wear. It had a tulle-skirted flounce over a satin A-line and made her look like a cover girl. Her hair had been twisted up into a magnificent updo. Harp music played. And she found herself in a brightly lit gallery surrounded by all her smiling friends and family, and her own colorful artwork covered the walls.
Rain battering on the roof woke Anne from her dream. Body snug in the daybed, she tried to go back to sleep. It had all felt so real and wonderful.
17
Sylvia sat in the beach cottage’s window seat and gazed out to sea. Large waves, as turbulent as the emotions that roiled inside her heart, crashed on the shore. How could she have been so naive to think Ricardo truly loved her? Now she knew the truth. That he had been counting on her wealth to keep him in his lavish lifestyle.
Her whole body shook with fear. From the bedroom, she got the velvet coat and put it beside her in case she needed the snowflake pin for courage. She should have listened to Ella. “He’s not good enough for you,” she’d cried. Even Milo, always on Sylvia’s side, had stepped in and tried to make her see reason. She had been spending a lot of time at the cottage to avoid their constant barrage.
Sylvia never should have let Ricardo move into the cottage. He had convinced her that it would be the perfect romantic hideaway from Ella’s watchful eyes. Now Sylvia knew he hadn’t paid his bills and that was why the St. Francis had asked him to leave.
How was she going to tell Ricardo the marriage was off? Could she wait and tell him after the engagement party tonight? But it would probably be better to tell him before. Then Paul could announce at the event that the wedding had been canceled. Sure, there would be a scandal, but that wouldn’t be as bad as a life of misery with a monster. She’d rather be lonely forever.
At least she hadn’t given herself to Ricardo. Tempted many times, she really wanted to, but she decided to wait for their wedding night. As the girls at Mills used to say, “Why buy the cow when you’re getting free milk?”
Too bad her jewelry boxes weren’t here. She would open each one and touch all the shiny pieces. That might calm her nerves. Or if Lucy were here, she could stroke her smooth back for comfort. Too bad Ricardo never did warm up to the puppy. He called her Fat Burrito and teased her with treats that he ate himself.
Out the window, Sylvia fingered the snowflake pin as Ricardo screeched up and parked his Cadillac in front of the cottage.
He sprinted up the steps and opened the door. “Hola, mi amor.” He tossed the keys on the coffee table and kissed her cheek, smelling of cigars and rum. “Excited about the fiesta tonight?” His usually slicked-back hair was disheveled, and his T-shirt was stained. He plopped into an easy chair and put his shiny boots on the table. “Una cerveza, por favor.”
She stood on wobbly knees and made her way into the kitchen. From the icebox, she took out a Corona, flipped it open, and poured herself a glass of lemonade. She put the drinks on the coffee table and sat on the sofa across from him. He guzzled down the beer with closed eyes.
Her throat felt dry, and she took a sip of her lemonade; it was sticky and tart. “Ricardo. We need to talk.”
“Not now. I’m napping.”
“But it’s important.”
He opened his bloodshot eyes and stared at her. “What?”
She grasped the pin. “We c-c-can’t get m-m-married,” she stuttered.
“What do you mean?” He sat up straight. His eyes became slits as thin as knives.
“I just can’t marry you.”
“Why not? Everything’s set.” He clunked his boots to the ground, leaned across the table, and grabbed her shoulders. “It’s that Paul. He was snooping around. Wasn’t he?”
“No.”
Ricardo snatched her wrists, twisted them toward him, and shook her. “You’re in love with him, aren’t you? Aren’t you?”
“Nothing like that!”
With Ricardo’s nose an inch from her face, he yelled, “I’ll kill you if you try to get out of it.”
“Stop! You’re hurting me.” She started to cry. “I-I-I’m just not ready. That’s all.” He let go, and she collapsed onto the couch, breathing hard, massaging her wrists.
He watched her cry for a moment. “Quiet!”
She felt evil emanating from his pores and knew for certain the things she’d heard about him had been true. He was capab
le of murder.
But then that evil suddenly evaporated, and he moved next to her on the couch. “Sorry, chocolate drop. I would never hurt you.” He took a kerchief from his pocket and handed it to her.
She dabbed at her face.
“You’re afraid of the wedding night. Aren’t you?”
She looked at him. “Yes, yes. That’s it.”
“I’ll be gentle. I promise.” He petted her head. “So we’re all right, now?”
She nodded.
He kissed her, and even though she cringed inside, she kissed him back. She had to pretend everything was okay.
“We’ll have a wonderful life together. Got it?”
She nodded again and looked at her watch. “Better take me home so I can get ready for tonight.”
“You’re not going anywhere.”
It felt like a heavy rock beat in her chest.
“Your dress is in the closet.”
“Oh, yes.” She had hoped he had forgotten. Stupidly, she had brought it here in order to avoid another row with Ella.
He raised an eyebrow at her. “We’re getting married. Understand?”
Sylvia managed a smile.
He closed his eyes, pulled the flask from his pocket, and lifted it to his lips. “Damn. Empty.” He shook it. “Gotta have rum for tonight.”
He slipped into the bedroom and came back out a few moments later with his coat. She followed him to the door.
“Back in five.” He kissed her slowly, gazed at her, and said gently. “Start getting ready. You have a lot to do.”
She watched him pull away from the curb, ran into the bedroom, threw herself on the satin sheets, and wept. She felt like she was in an abyss so deep she would never be able to climb out. The tears continued, but she realized that time was precious. Ricardo would be back soon. She needed to pull herself together and try to reach Paul or Milo to come get her. Sitting up, she opened the nightstand’s top drawer and grabbed for a tissue. Her fingers felt something hard and metal. She sat up and looked in the drawer.
Her heart careened as she peered at a gun, so small it looked like a toy. She delicately picked it up, held the pearl handle, and tapped her red-polished fingernails on the cool metal shaft. Was it Ricardo’s, or had it been her father’s? Was it loaded? Cautiously, she peeked into the barrel but couldn’t tell. She heard a noise. The gun grew heavy in her hand. She started to put it back in the drawer then changed her mind and slipped it into her pocketbook on the nightstand instead. She waited and listened. There was only silence.
With shaky hands, she grabbed the phone to call Paul, but there was no dial tone. She clicked the top mechanism up and down, and then her eyes opened wide as she saw that the cord had been severed. Sprinting to the living room, she looked out the window and considered running out onto the coast drive, but the traffic moved fast, and she knew Ricardo would still track her down wherever she went. Her thoughts raced considering options, but it was like a labyrinth, with each turn leading to a dead end.
Sobbing, she lay on the couch and realized that she just had to go to the party with Ricardo, see Paul there, and ask him to protect her.
She ran a hot bath, locked the door, and climbed in, the warm water soothing her chilly body. Her wrists were turning black and blue. Fortunately, gloves would hide the bruises.
She knew now that nothing Ricardo had told her was true. He told lies and made up stories to impress and deceive. She closed her eyes and heard his voice, “My villa in Acapulco is muy grande.” “Sorry I was late; I got called away on business.” What business? She realized now that he probably didn’t even have a job.
She stepped out of the tub, wrapped a towel around her, and entered the closet. As she slipped into the silver satin evening gown, the wedding dress caught her eye—the one she would never wear. She lifted the plastic cover and touched all the shiny beads and pearls. It calmed her for a moment, but then her nerves unraveled.
She had to compose herself. Hands trembling, she twisted her hair up and used a hand mirror to check out the back. She put a cool washcloth over her swollen eyes for a minute and then applied heavy foundation. Love is blind was the saying. Well, Sylvia’s eyes were fully open now. She picked up a pencil and redrew her eyebrows.
She clasped a diamond and emerald necklace around her neck, a birthday gift from Ricardo, remembering that night at Ernie’s just after Paul had brought Lucy to Bay Breeze: A sommelier poured the last drop of burgundy as Ricardo slid the velvet box across the table toward her. “You like shiny things. Go ahead, open it.” She lifted the lid, and her heart somersaulted. The lavaliere cluster of shiny baguettes and emeralds released a soothing sensation in her stomach as she ran her fingers over it.
“Let me put it on you.” Ricardo leapt up and connected the clasp at the back of her neck. “Something to match your eyes.”
She had chosen not to correct him and spoil the moment, even though her eyes were blue. Then he had kissed her, right in front of all the other diners. She should have known then that it was all a charade. Less than a week later, he had asked to borrow $10,000. She didn’t even bother to request it from Paul, knowing he’d refuse the loan. Ricardo had argued, “But we’ll be married soon anyway. What does it matter?”
She touched the necklace now, hoping it would help relax her, but its power had lost effect. Could there have been a connection between the necklace and that money?
She put on red lipstick and practiced her smiles: lucky, sparkly eyes; gracious, closed-mouth grin; radiant, white teeth exposed. Adding a last touch of polish to a chipped nail, she heard the key in the lock and, startled, dropped the bottle in the sink. It broke, and the red liquid oozed onto the white porcelain. No time to clean it up now.
What if Ricardo grew hostile again? She rushed to the bedroom and slipped the gun from her purse into the deep pocket of her black velvet swing coat. Uncertain how long she could keep up the charade, she greeted him with one of her fake smiles.
“You look ravishing,” he said, and he pecked her on the cheek.
She gritted her teeth and kissed him back, wondering if she’d ever be able to get away from him alive.
18
It was almost noon, and the rain continued to pound on Anne’s roof. Rolling over in bed, the key, cottage, and flashing mirror of the dream came back to her, and she thought about the wedding dress. Did it mean she should forgive Karl and move in with him after his divorce and plan a wedding with him? No way; she would never be able to marry someone she didn’t trust. It wasn’t only that he had been married but that he had misled her. She didn’t think she could ever get over that.
The green dress, harp music, and gallery images floated into her mind. She relived the thrill of having her collages on display and celebrating with all her friends. Did it signify that she was supposed to go for it and get her work out there and someday maybe even have her own solo show too, just like Lila and Dottie? But then reality jumped into her mind, she remembered that her rent check hadn’t gone through, and she sat up. She needed to get some money fast. Remembering Crissy’s interest in coming to see her work, she found her card on the coffee table, picked up the phone, and dialed her number. They might actually like the mangos.
“Aloha!”
Anne could barely hear Crissy due to all the garbled noise in the background. “Aloha?” she yelled. “It’s me, Anne.”
“Great to see you the other day!”
“Want to bring Jonathan over to my studio for a glass of wine this evening?” Anne looked around her apartment. She’d have enough time to straighten up before then.
“But we’re in Hawaii,” Crissy giggled. “On the beach right now. Listen.”
Anne could hear the crash of waves and imagined Crissy’s voluptuous body in a passionate pink bikini, holding a cell phone aimed at the ocean.
“A little more right here, honey.”
“What?” Anne asked.
“Jonathan is lathering me up. Bought a Wyland this morning.”
Crissy giggled. “How did you know?”
“Psychic. Let’s rendezvous when you come back through on your way home.”
“We’re flying through L.A. I’ll call next time we come to town.”
Anne hung up the phone. They probably wouldn’t like the pieces anyway. Her work was a far cry from ducks and whales. But she wouldn’t let this get her down. Brushing her teeth, she thought of that nice woman at Gallery Noir who had encouraged her to bring in work again. At group, Lila had told her The Divas series had a unique content, balance of colors just right and textures intriguing. But were they strong enough to get displayed on the walls of a gallery? Lila had thought the Mogul series was pretty good too, but no one had wanted them. Anne had no desire to brave the rejections again, but she had to at least try.
Perhaps if she had an irresistible statement, someone would show them. She sat on the daybed, picked up her journal and pen, and started writing:
THE DIVAS
Eva Peron, Madame Mao, and Imelda Marcos helped their husbands rise to political heights. These women claimed to be “for the people” when actually they spent the people’s money on their own luxuries. While creating this work, I kept asking myself, What would I have done in their situations?
“What’s the use?” She sighed and threw down her pen. Buck up, girl! Closing her eyes, she inhaled and then let it go. The she typed up the statement, printed it out, and slipped it into her portfolio. As an attempt to look professional, she donned work slacks, that Ralph Lauren jacket, and her wing tips. Taming her hair, she stuck it up in a scrunchie and attempted to twist it on top of her head like in the dream, but it wouldn’t stay in place.