by Jill G. Hall
To give herself a confidence boost, she turned on her iPod and set it to “Unforgettable”—Natalie Cole’s duet version with her father—and, looking in the mirror, Anne sang along with the sultry voice, an invisible microphone in hand. “In every way.” At the last minute, she took the Sylvia and Ricardo photo transfer, added it to her portfolio, and walked out the door.
At Gallery Noir, Fay greeted her with a smile. She wore a terrific red vintage number. “Anne, right?”
Anne nodded.
“It’s good to see you again. I see you’ve brought your portfolio. Put it here on the counter, and I’ll go get Mr. Block.”
Anne set her portfolio down feeling woozy, and she looked around. Lila’s fabulous show was still up, and Anne wasn’t surprised to notice many red dots on the painting labels denoting sales.
As Mr. Block followed Fay from his back office, he said, “We’re not really taking new artists right now.” He adjusted his glasses, opened the portfolio, and began to flip through it. “But Fay insisted I take a look.” He held the Imelda piece up for Fay to see. “Collage? That’s not real art. Kindergarten cut-and-paste.” He picked at the edges of the matte finish that held down the cutout little shoes. “See what I mean?”
Anne wanted to refute him, but it wouldn’t do any good. He tossed the piece down, went back to his office, and banged the door behind him. She had tried to just be a painter, but her pieces never felt finished until she glued on a few photos or words to add texture. She didn’t look at Fay as she held back tears, stacked her work, and walked toward the exit.
Fay followed and kept her voice low. “Don’t worry about him.” She glanced at his closed door. “He’s full of rubbish.”
“You mean you don’t agree?”
“He’s just a wanker. I dare not say anything, or I could lose my job. Those Divas are fabulous!”
“You really think so?”
“Certainly.” Fay took the portfolio from Anne and leafed through the Mogul series.
“Have you worked here long?” Anne asked.
“God, no!” Fay shook her head. “Only two months. I used to manage the Circle Gallery on Union Square, but they went out of business.”
“I’m sorry.”
Fay sighed. “So am I. We were doing okay, but then the landlord raised the rent. In this economy, the owner knew we wouldn’t be able to make up the difference.”
“Have you thought of opening your own gallery?”
“I would if I had the quid.”
“Squid?”
“Quid.” Fay laughed. “Money!”
“I hear you. I can barely pay the rent.”
Fay nodded. “This one’s interesting.” She pointed to the Sylvia and Ricardo piece.
“It’s not finished yet. I’m just starting a new series.”
She wanted to tell Fay about the coat, the snowflake pin, and the key, but she wasn’t sure she’d understand. In fact, she might even think she was crazy.
“Yes. You might want to add some color to it. Looks very interesting though.” Fay slipped one of Anne’s cards from the portfolio, retied it, and handed it to her. “Try Howard Dean’s down near the square and Global Beginnings, too. In a pinch, you can always display at a farmers’ market.”
Anne hugged the portfolio to her. “Isn’t that bad for my reputation? That’s what someone in my artist’s group said.”
“Who would know?” Fay shook her head.
“I would.”
“Many artists start out in untraditional ways. There’s no shame in that.”
“I guess you’re right.”
She handed Anne her card. “Keep in touch. I’d love to hear how it’s going for you.”
“Let me know if you have any more ideas. If worse comes to worst, I can move home to Michigan.
Fay’s mouth opened. “Blimey! You can’t leave. Keep at it.”
“I can still be an artist and live in Oscoda. Artsy Crafty, where I worked in high school, told me I can work there again anytime.”
“But you’d be going backward in life instead of forward. I can spot talent, and you’ve got it!”
“Thanks for the encouragement.” Anne smiled then she walked out the door and headed down the street. Mr. Block didn’t like her work, but Fay did, and she had style. Anne thought again of the gallery dream sequence and knew she needed to do all she could to stay in San Francisco. Even shoot for a solo show too. But it was the gallery owner that made all the final decisions, even if he didn’t have style, and she wasn’t sure how to get him to accept her work without giving up her desire to make pieces that called to her.
19
In his pressed tux but wearing a five-o’clock shadow, Ricardo steered Sylvia into the St. Francis ballroom. Her heavily made-up eyes, accented with brown lines and scads of mascara, disguised her turmoil. She concealed the terror she felt behind a fake smile, all a show for the high-society crowd. Ricardo had insisted that they invite all the San Franciscan elite. Looking around the room, she didn’t even recognize all the guests sipping champagne—men in tuxes, women in colorful sequined gowns.
Long gloves hid the bruises on Sylvia’s wrists. She ran a hand along the side of her snug satin gown and fingered her diamond-and-emerald necklace, but it was impossible to capture a soothing effect through her gloves. Besides, since she realized Ricardo had probably gotten the piece through some kind of shady deal, the necklace’s sheen had faded for her.
The hotel’s consultant had done a wonderful job. Tables glowed with candles and bouquets of baby’s breath, lilies, and white roses—white for virginal and naive. She was a virgin still, but she wasn’t naive anymore. She knew firsthand how violent Ricardo could be. As they moved through the packed ballroom, she struggled to keep her composure, nodding to well-wishers, dabbing a scarf to her moist, hot face and chest. She wanted to scream, It’s all a sham. Help me! He’s dangerous. She had to keep her composure and find Paul.
The orchestra began to play “What a Difference a Day Makes.” On the dance floor, Ricardo held her close, one hand on her lower back and the other tight around her wrist. The bruise underneath throbbed within his grasp as if he would never let her go. Faces passed while he twirled her to the center of the floor beneath the chandelier, and the slow dance sped up with Ricardo’s reckless rhythm. All eyes were on them, but she remained certain no one in the crowd could see her desperation.
Sylvia saw Paul as he watched from the outskirts of the throng. Each time they turned, he was there. He started to move toward them, like a beam from a lighthouse, a beacon of safety in the stormy sea of people. She wanted to rush to him and plead for protection, but Ricardo held tight. Then the music stopped.
“Damn it,” Ricardo said when he noticed Paul approach.
“I’m next.” Paul tapped Ricardo on the shoulder.
But Ricardo shook his head. “No!”
Paul firmly tapped again. Suzie Jones and Rochester Smythe along with other nearby couples stared, and only then did Ricardo step away.
“Just one,” he sneered, and he sauntered off to light a cigarette and then grabbed a drink off a tray being passed.
“Uncouth, as usual.” Paul shook his head and took Sylvia in his arms. His fresh lime scent began to quiet her rapid heartbeat, and they started to move to the music, both keeping an eye on Ricardo as he stood on the dance floor’s edge.
The tenor at the microphone started to sing “The Very Thought of You.” His smooth voice led the orchestra while Sylvia and Paul watched Ricardo watching them. After a few moments, he narrowed his eyes at Paul, flicked his ashes into his glass, and drifted over to the bar.
Sylvia whispered into Paul’s ear. “We need to talk.”
“What?”
Suzie and Rochester danced next to them. Sylvia, afraid they might overhear, said, “Let’s go out on the veranda. I need air.” Paul led her over to an open doorway, and they slipped outside, where the night sky cooled her nerves.
“What’s wrong?” he asked.<
br />
“We haven’t much time.”
“You can’t marry him.” Paul’s firm voice let her know he was ready for another argument.
“You’re right. I’m . . . I’m scared.”
“What happened?” Paul’s eyes filled with concern.
“I’ll show you.” She glanced around to make certain they were alone and began to pull down her gloves.
“Here’s your drink, chocolate drop.” Ricardo came up from behind them, handed her a glass of champagne, put his arm around her waist, and pulled her close.
Paul stepped toward him.
“We’d better get the dinner started,” Sylvia interrupted and looked at him with wide, warning eyes.
“You sure?” Paul frowned.
She nodded.
“Well, I’m sure,” Ricardo said, and he turned Sylvia back into the ballroom. Paul approached the stage and motioned the band-leader to wind it down. At the table, Ricardo sat down without pulling out a chair for her. Sylvia pulled one out herself, slid onto it, and put a napkin in her lap. Across the table, Carolyn Swanson apparently noticed and quickly covered a disapproving frown with her hand. The amethyst earrings, the same ones she had worn at the Valentine’s dance, caught the light. Sylvia thought of that night and wished it had never happened.
As the partygoers settled at their tables, Paul stepped onto the stage and spoke into the microphone. “May I have your attention?” The crowd continued to babble.
Ricardo clinked his glass with a fork.
Paul said again, a little louder, “May I have your attention, please?”
Guests hushed each other until the room quieted. Paul began, “Ladies and gentlemen, I’d like to propose a toast.” Sylvia thought Paul appeared attractive up there. He had what they called good stage presence, and she understood now why he had won those court cases. Everyone in the room raised their champagne glasses. Paul’s deep voice sounded self-assured but sad as he read from his notes:
“To Ricardo and Sylvia.
Two weeks hence, these two shall wed,
that lucky guy, I wish it were me instead.
I wish them well,
only time will tell!”
The crowd laughed, raised their glasses, and sipped. They wouldn’t have thought it funny if they’d known the truth.
“Now, let’s eat!” Paul descended the stairs and sat on the other side of Sylvia.
Ricardo nodded at him and then finished his champagne and raised his hand for a waiter to pour him some more.
As dinner was served, Sylvia’s nerves expanded and her stomach churned. She pushed food around on her plate and managed to swallow some mashed potatoes. In between bites, Carolyn talked nonstop and didn’t even pause for Sylvia to answer questions: “You must be so thrilled. Who designed your wedding gown? Where will the honeymoon be?” Dr. Griffith on Carolyn’s left smiled at Sylvia and rolled his eyes.
Sylvia pretended to listen but couldn’t concentrate. She wished Milo and Ella were there. “You can’t invite the help,” Ricardo had said. She hoped the couple would forgive her recent attitude. She had said some horrible things to them.
The orchestra began to play again, and Ricardo grabbed her hand. “Let’s dance.” He pulled her up and hustled her onto the floor. “Unforgettable, in many ways.” He sang along loudly with the crooner. Ricardo twirled her around and almost bashed into another couple.
During the next song, “Embraceable You,” Paul tapped Ricardo on the shoulder again. “Cutting in.”
“Ricardo, please.” Sylvia tried to keep the urgency out of her voice. But he ignored Paul and steered her to the opposite end of the dance floor. Soon she couldn’t stand being pressed against Ricardo anymore and excused herself to the powder room.
She squeezed her way through the congratulatory crowd. “Many years of bliss! Best wishes,” they called, but Sylvia couldn’t focus on any of their faces as she searched for Paul in the bustling ballroom.
Out of breath, she entered the powder room, dampened a cloth, and patted her cheeks and forehead with cool water. She sank onto a settee and struggled to figure out what to do. Should she try to get Paul’s attention again? No, the crowd was too big. She would sneak out through the kitchen and find her way home to Bay Breeze.
She touched up her makeup, taking time to gather the nerve to sneak out. But when she stepped into the hallway, Ricardo stood there waiting. “Took you long enough.” His voice sounded rough.
“I’m not well. I want to go home.”
“More champagne should help.” He held up a bottle. “This party’s a bore. Let’s go. We can drink it at the cottage.”
Sylvia didn’t want to be alone with him ever again and tried to pull away, but he held tight. Fear overpowered her as she struggled to breathe. They traveled back through the ballroom. There, the walls, the tables, the lights, and the guests seemed to close in around her, and she felt as if she might suffocate. They were almost to the exit when she crumpled to the floor in a faint.
When she opened her eyes, Sylvia saw Paul kneeling over her. She had no idea how long she had been out.
“Stand back.” Paul cradled her head and held a glass of water to her lips. “Drink this, darling.”
She took a sip and looked up at all the gaping spectators. “Sorry, too much champagne,” she explained weakly. Ricardo stood back, smoking a cigarette.
“Let me through.” Dr. Griffith shone a light into her eyes then held a stethoscope to her chest. “She’s fine. Must have been all the excitement.” He stuffed the equipment back into his black bag. “You should go home and get some rest.”
“I’ll take you,” Paul said as he gently helped her up. Someone handed him Sylvia’s black coat, and he held it out and she slid into it.
“She’s riding with me.” Ricardo nudged Paul away and grabbed her arm.
Sylvia’s eyes met Paul’s as Ricardo pulled her into the lobby. Paul stepped in front of them. “You’ve had plenty to drink. Let me drive you both.”
“No, she’s mine and coming with me.”
Outside the St. Francis, while they waited for the car, Ricardo lit another cigarette. A photographer snapped their picture, and the bright flash blinded Sylvia for a moment. A valet pulled the Cadillac to the curb. Ricardo opened the door and shoved Sylvia in.
“I’m going to drive you,” Paul said, and he stepped over to the driver’s side, but Ricardo pushed him out of the way and climbed in. Paul ran around toward the passenger door and yelled, “Sylvia, get out!”
She reached for the locked handle, but without even kissing the Madonna, Ricardo revved the motor and screeched the car onto Powell. Sylvia watched out the back window as Paul ran after the car, but Ricardo picked up speed, and Paul couldn’t catch up. Sylvia waved to him and tried hard not to cry. Ricardo put his hand on her leg and squeezed. “We’re alone now, baby.”
“Not to the cottage. Please take me home.”
“Forget it,” he said, and he drove toward the ocean, weaving in and out of the lonely midnight traffic.
20
Even though the full moon glowed like an opal, darkness consumed the white Cadillac as it careened around a corner past the Cliff House and almost flew over the edge. Ricardo took another swig from his flask and picked up speed along the straightaway of the high-cliff drive.
Certain they were going to crash, Sylvia grabbed the dashboard. “Slow down!”
His laugh pierced the cool night air as he pressed even harder on the gas pedal. She closed her eyes and prayed, “Our Father, who art in heaven, hallowed be thy name.”
A siren screamed behind them, and a blinding light flooded the rear window, which forced Ricardo to slow down and pull over. “Damn it.” He stuck the flask under the seat and smoothed back his hair.
The black-and-white police car parked behind them. A stocky officer got out, walked to the driver’s side of the Cadillac, and shone a flashlight into Ricardo’s eyes.
He squinted with an innocent expression. “Something
the matter, sir?”
“Do you know how fast you were going?”
With wide eyes, Sylvia, behind Ricardo’s back, tried to catch the officer’s attention. He shone the light into her face, grinned, and looked at her cleavage. To her dismay, she realized he thought she was flirting with him.
“No, sir. Was I going over the limit?” Ricardo asked.
“Way over.”
Ricardo tapped the speedometer. “This thing must be broken.”
The officer sniffed. “Have you been drinking?”
“Just a little glass of champagne to celebrate. You see, we just got engaged.”
“Consider this a warning then. Slow down.” He started to walk back to his car.
Sylvia couldn’t let this opportunity pass. “Officer!”
Ricardo placed his hand on her thigh and squeezed.
The officer returned. “What?”
“Have a good night,” she said with a quavering voice.
“Night.” With a confused look on his face, he strode back to his car, and within a couple of minutes, he pulled away.
Ricardo let go of her leg. “We’ll just wait until he’s long gone.”
Sylvia felt despondent. If she jumped out of the car and started to run, Ricardo might plow her down—there was no telling what he was capable of. Sick to her stomach, she unrolled the window and looked out at the tumbling waves offshore. A distant foghorn reverberated in the clear sky.
Ricardo turned on the ignition. Sylvia put her hand on his arm. “I’m not well.”
“You’ll be okay once we get to the cottage.”
“I mean, I might get sick.”
“Not in my Cadillac!” he yelled. “Get out.”
She opened her door and stepped onto the graveled shoulder. “All I need is a little fresh air.”
Ricardo got out, leaned against the Cadillac, and lit a cigarette. Not only did her stomach hurt, but she also felt stiff. “I’d like to stretch my legs.” She started to walk along the road. A car honked and skidded by.
“Let’s go down on the beach. It might help.”
“Okay.” She wasn’t sure she wanted to climb down there. But it would be safer than another wild ride with his maniacal driving.
