The Black Velvet Coat

by Jill G. Hall

  “How horrible for you! He must have been terrible—a monster—for you to have done something so drastic.”

  “Yes, but it was a long time ago.” Sylvia sighed.

  “But . . .” Anne had so many questions she wanted to ask, but Sylvia held up her hand.

  “I can’t talk any more about it.” The older woman closed her eyes. “I just wanted you to know the truth.” Her breathing grew shallow, and she patted Anne’s hand. “Please go make us some tea now, sweetie.”

  Boiling the water, Anne thought about how awful it must have been for Sylvia to have gone through and lived with such a nightmare all her life. Anne returned with the tea to find Sylvia with a slight smile on her face as if wrapped in a fabulous dream. The sound of her hoarse breathing couldn’t be heard—only the ticking of the grandfather clock. She looked younger, peaceful somehow. Perhaps it was the gravity, but her wrinkles seemed to have disappeared.

  Anne set down the tea tray on a table and touched Sylvia’s tepid hand, but she didn’t respond. Trembling, Anne grasped Sylvia’s shoulders, but she was gone. Even though Anne knew it wouldn’t do any good, she called 911 and sobbed over her friend until the emergency crew arrived.

  Now Paul smiled at Anne. “Please grab that binder on the desk over there for me.”

  The title read Sylvia Van Dam Palmer Trust. Anne didn’t want to think about what was in it and only wished Sylvia were still there.

  He put on his glasses. “Move a chair over here next to me.”

  Anne rolled the desk chair beside him as he flipped through the pages. “Let’s skip all this mumbo jumbo and all this blah, blah, blah about me.” He pointed at a paragraph. “Read aloud starting here.”

  “The Trustee shall use $10,000,000 to establish a non-endowment fund to expand the San Francisco Episcopal Women’s Shelter, which may be used but not be limited to the addition of sleeping space, transitional housing, and a kitchen. The contents of Bay Breeze’s bedroom safe shall be sold, and proceeds shall be added to this fund. The SFEWS shall be renamed the Betty Lou Center for Women.” This thoughtful gift caught Anne unaware, and she burst into tears.

  “Keep going. There’s more.”

  “Anne McFarland shall be the advisor of these funds.”

  Paul grinned and handed her a handkerchief. “Surprise! It was all Sylvia’s idea.” He reached into his coat pocket again, pulled out a chain, and handed it to her. “This is for you too.”

  She ran a finger over the amber pendant’s smooth surface. “What’s this?” It didn’t look like much.

  “Sylvia always wore it close to her heart, under her clothes.” He chuckled. “She called it her magic amulet.”

  “Really?” Anne clasped the chain closed around her neck. “Let’s see if it works.” All of a sudden, her tense body relaxed, she smelled gardenias, and a soft breeze flooded her chest. She felt the older woman’s presence, which eased the heartache. She knew Sylvia would always be with her.

  59

  Anne read aloud the sticky notes on her mirror: “I am confident. I am talented. My pieces are the best in San Francisco.” She thought about what her aunt had told her about her father’s bravery. “I am courageous. It’s in my genes.”

  Since Sylvia had made the suggestion, Anne had focused on sinking these affirmations deeply in her psyche. She picked up a pen, scribbled another, and stuck it beside the others, thinking back to the day a few months before when Mr. Block finally gave her a check for Sylvia’s portrait.

  “They must have bad taste.” He frowned at her.

  “Can’t he even get a little excited?” she complained to Fay over coffee.

  “I did say to him, ‘Now you need to give her that solo show.’”

  “And . . .”

  “He just scowled and shook his head.” She mashed her lips together.

  “What’s he got against me?”

  “He thinks you are unproven. He doesn’t want to take a chance.” Since then, the gallery had sold quite a few of her pieces. She had even been able to save up a bit for her trip to Milan with Sergio.

  “We’ll see about that!” Anne now said aloud, and then read the Post-its again.

  She inspected herself in the full-length mirror. For this mission, she wished she had a power suit, as her mother used to call them when dressing for a big Avon home party. Nevertheless, Anne felt she now looked pretty sharp in the Ferragamos, charcoal slacks, and a red silk blouse underneath the black coat. She touched the snowflake pin.

  Downstairs and out the door into the foggy mist, she hoped her updo wouldn’t get all frizzy. She marched to the cable car and hopped on. While riding, she rehearsed her affirmations in her head. I am talented. I create the best work in town. I am a proven artist. Making the walk to Sutter Street, she recited the affirmations aloud: “I am talented. I create the best work in town. I am a proven artist.”

  She peeked into Gallery Noir’s front window and could see Mr. Block sorting portfolio stacks at the counter. In a corner, Lila held up one of her canvases for Fay to see. Kiki and Stephan Sodenburg stared at an ugly paint-splattered abstract on the wall.

  Anne thought maybe she should come back later when Mr. Block was alone. No, Sylvia would have encouraged her to do it now. Anne touched the amber pendant and whispered, “I am talented. I create the best work in town. I am a proven artist.” She stood erect, pushed her shoulders back, and opened the gallery door.

  “Morning,” Fay called, and Lila gave her a little wave. Mr. Block didn’t even look up.

  Anne put her hands on her hips and headed straight toward him. “Mr. Block, I need to speak with you.”

  He nodded to her. “Ms. McDonald.”

  “It is McFarland! Let’s go into your office for some privacy.”

  “No need.” He returned his eyes to the portfolios.

  She took a deep breath and let it out. “There are three reasons you need to give me a solo show.”

  He peered at her over his glasses.

  She raised a finger and said, “One: I am talented!”

  His gray eyebrows shot up.

  “Two: My pieces are the best in San Francisco. Every time you’ve shown my work, it has sold.”

  “That’s true,” Fay called out.

  “Three: I . . . I have courage.”

  “What?” A confused grin crossed his lips.

  That wasn’t the way she’d rehearsed it. Embarrassed, she glanced around the gallery. All eyes were focused on her. Fay smiled, nodded with approval, and moved beside her.

  Anne continued with a firm voice: “I have enough courage to walk out this door and never offer my work to you again.”

  There was silence. Mr. Block just looked at her with that awful smirk on his face. She breathed deeply and counted to ten in her mind. “This is your last chance.” She stared at Mr. Block for a moment, then spun on her heels and paced toward the exit.

  Her hand almost touched the door when he spoke. “Ms. McFarland.” She turned around.

  “Do you still have more pieces like the ones that sold?”

  She held her head high. “You know I do.”

  “I’ll think about it.” He looked down and flipped a portfolio page.

  Slumped shoulders, she ran her fingers over the amber. I do have courage, she thought. Then she blurted, “No you won’t. You’ll decide right now.” She glared at him and put her hand back on the door.

  He glanced around the room. Everyone gave him a frown. He looked back at Anne and nodded slowly. “Okay.”

  “Okay? When?”

  He looked up at the ceiling in thought. “Mid-July?”

  “It’s a deal.” She started to dash to his limp outstretched hand but stopped herself, sauntered over to him, and shook it.

  Fay, Lila, and even the Sodenburgs gave a round of applause.

  “And another thing: make Fay your curator for God’s sake.”

  Anne glided out the door as if floating on air. The fog had cleared to a periwinkle blue sky. Her mind in a daz
e, she walked down the street away from the gallery. Then she stopped in amazement. Her own show! She’d done it. She wished she could tell Sylvia, and she looked up into the sky.

  Anne counted the few months until mid-July. It was right around the corner. And then she realized that was when she planned to meet Sergio in Italy.

  60

  Anne walked around the gallery, straightening all the pieces on the wall, and worried that no one would come. At least the weather wouldn’t keep them away. It had been a warm summer day, and now, as the sun began to set, the usual fog hadn’t even rolled in. Anne inspected herself in Gallery Noir’s plate glass window, then separated the tulle skirt of her green dress. She had considered buying a new outfit for the occasion but couldn’t find one she liked any better at her usual haunts. She had twisted up her hair, and it had cooperated.

  Lights shone over each piece, which made the black-and-white photos and texts more discernible. Crisp turquoise and red hues provided colorful backgrounds. Anne recalled the exhilaration of creating each one: discovering photos, cutting, painting, gluing, drawing, and visualizing what might have happened to Sylvia. When the work had been up in Anne’s apartment, she felt as if it were a part of her.

  The catering crew had just finished setting up the appetizers and had left. She wandered toward the enticing aromas and gaped at the crab-stuffed mushrooms, baked Brie, bruschetta, crostini, and more stacked into a lavish display, resisting the urge to dig in and ruin the effect.

  Mr. Block peered over his glasses at Fay in the back office. They’d been in there for half an hour. Anne hoped he hadn’t decided to give her friend the boot. Something was up though. Besides the opulent spread, he had splurged on fancy postcards and had even snail mailed them to his client list.

  She checked her phone again. Of course Sergio was in Italy now, but Anne thought he might at least call or text. The night she had told him she couldn’t meet him in Milan, she had called instead of using Skype. She hadn’t wanted to see his disappointed face.

  “Hi, Big Foot.”

  “I have good news and bad news. Which do you want first?”

  “The good?”

  “Mr. Block has agreed to give me a solo show at the Noir.”

  “Wonderful! That’s what you’ve always wanted. The bad?”

  “The opening reception date collides with our trip.”

  “Can you change the date?”

  “No. Mr. Block has it all set. Are you mad at me?”

  “Not at all. I can’t tell you I’m not disappointed. And my family was so looking forward to meeting you.”

  “Your family?” He hadn’t said anything about his family being there!

  “A first solo show is only once in a lifetime. This is an important step for you.”

  “Can you rearrange your trip and come to San Francisco then?”

  “What’s the exact date?”

  “July sixteenth.”

  “I’ll be in the middle of my meetings.” He had paused for a moment. “Let’s just face it. Maybe we aren’t meant to be together.”

  She had felt dejected. “Don’t be like that.” That had been a few months ago, and since then, things between them seem to have fizzled out. She tried to forget about him but instead thought about him all the time: his handsome face, silly hats, and kind words.

  She sighed and fluffed her skirt again and hoped people would show up. Mr. Block emerged from his office with a frown, headed for the appetizer table, and heaped a plate. Fay came over to her, looking like a jaguar that had swallowed a macaw.

  “What is it?” Anne whispered.

  Fay mouthed, Tell you later.

  A delivery boy came in with his hair gelled up like Bart Simpson’s. He carried a huge bouquet of red roses.

  Fay led him to the counter next to the guest book. “Put it here.” She tipped him, and he left. “Sergio, I presume?” Fay raised her eyebrows at Anne.

  Anne reached for the tiny envelope hoping it was addressed to Big Foot, but it only said To Anne. She opened the card and read silently.

  Congratulations! When are you coming home?

  Love,

  The Michigan Clan

  Anne laughed. She knew they were teasing her this time. “No, from my mom and family.” She had tried to get someone from there to come, but no one had been willing to make the trip.

  Anne saw a familiar face walk in the door, turned her back, and asked Fay, “What’s she doing here?”

  “You’ll see,” Fay said mysteriously.

  “There you are, Miss McFarland.” Fredricka Woods handed her a small basket of mangoes and glanced around the gallery. “Congratulations! I knew you had promise.”

  Anne set the offering on the counter and gave her a sheepish grin. “Sorry about running out on you that night.”

  “No problem. You just weren’t ready yet.” Fredricka turned to Fay. “Has he told you?”

  “Just now. Can I share the news with Anne?”

  Fredricka nodded and toyed with her milagro bracelet.

  Fay grabbed Anne’s hands. “Ms. Woods bought an interest in the Noir.”

  “What?”

  “I sure did! Mr. Block needed an infusion of cash. I offered to buy out 75 percent of the business.”

  “You did?”

  “I said only if you let that smart girl help make all the decisions.” Fredricka put a hand on Fay’s back. “First time we met, I could tell you really knew your stuff.”

  A shriek came from the entrance as blonde Crissy ran toward Anne. “Surprise!” Jonathan trailed close behind.

  “You came!” Anne gave Crissy a big hug.

  “Of course.” She pecked Anne on the cheek. “Besides, I wanted to come shop in your Union Square. I have plenty to buy for now!” She screeched again and put her hands on the tent dress, over a baby bump.

  Anne shook Jonathan’s hand. “Congratulations.”

  He smiled. “Now we’ll have a Jonathan IV!”

  Lila nudged in and touched Anne’s elbow. “I’m here. I’ll talk to you again after I have a thorough look around.”

  “We can’t wait to see your work either.” Crissy and Jonathan wandered off as Fredricka left to pour herself a glass of wine.

  Fay stood with Anne while she watched the door. After a few minutes, Howard arrived straight from work in his ruffled-blouse uniform. A black-clad couple she didn’t know walked in, and then the Sodenburgs arrived. Next were George and Paul.

  Paul took Anne’s hands in his. “She would have been so proud of you tonight.”

  Anne looked up at the ceiling. “She is!”

  “Yes, she is.” He spread his arms around the room.

  “Paul, here’s my friend, Fay.”

  She shook his hand. “Pleased to meet you. And who is this gorgeous bloke?” Fay asked.

  “I’m George.” He blushed with a shy smile.

  Mr. Block edged over and whispered to Anne, “The Sodenburgs want to talk with you.” He grabbed her arm and pulled her toward the chichi couple.

  “Tell us the motivation behind your work.” Stephan held his wine glass toward her.

  “I found a coat with a key in its pocket. Then I saw a picture in a magazine, and did Internet searches. Images arose, and I lost myself in the process.”

  “Interesting.”

  “Isn’t her work fabulous?” Mr. Block smiled at the couple.

  “We’d like to at least purchase this one.” Kiki smiled and pointed to a collage. “I think it represents . . .”

  Anne’s attention began to wander. She watched George help Paul to a chair and deliver a plate of food to him. The butler then returned to Fay with a grin. She held a bunch of grapes to his lips and tried to feed him, and he let her.

  Across the room, Anne recognized Jewels from the farmers’ market in full gypsy regalia: red headscarf and fringed shawl over a long dress. A critic from The Examiner studied Anne’s large Monument Valley piece and took notes. Mrs. Ladenheim, wearing a fancy lace dress, stood in th
e doorway. All gussied up and without her curlers, she actually looked quite nice. Anne couldn’t believe she had really come. Mr. Block made a beeline for her with an outstretched hand.

  Even though the reception appeared perfect in every way, it felt as if something were missing. She looked around the space again. And then she saw him walk through the door. The fedora on his head reminded her of something out of The Godfather. But this guy was no gangster.

  Her Ferragamos sprinted forward, and she threw her arms around him. “You’re here!”

  He kissed her cheek and then the other. “I wouldn’t have missed it. Even if I had to come from the other side of the world.”

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  First I would like to thank provocateur Judy Reeves for teaching me to slow down, go deep and write wild. You were there at the beginning and throughout the process with your thousands of prompts, and cheered me to the finishing line. I would not be here without you.

  A huge shout of gratitude goes to my comrades and colleagues at San Diego Writers, Ink and especially to all the Brown Baggers and marathon writers who sat beside me while these characters magically appeared on the page and their stories began to unfold. I am deeply indebted to Amy Wallen and her read and critique group that pored over my first typed drafts with patience and encouragement. I also want to thank Jeanne Peterson and those Reeling and Writhers that continued to help me mold the novel as I further honed my craft. To Steve Kowit and Sundays at Liberty Station group, thank you for giving me the respite and confidence I needed to move forward and submit this novel for publication.

  I am very appreciative to the editors Victoria Austin-Smith and Tracy Jones for cleaning up my messes, and to coach Marni Freedman for insisting I go back in and rewrite the book for the jillionth time. To Brooke Warner and all those at She Writes Press, thank you so much for being brave and providing this great opportunity of hybrid publishing to women like me.

  I am forever grateful to Tanya Peters and Kristen Fogle for literally holding my hand along the way. A huge hug goes to my Point Loma Book Club for teaching me to be a better reader, listener and friend. A special thank you to The Amigos for their love and support and for demonstrating how to be artists every moment of every day. To Phil Johnson who helped me focus on my goals, ignited my sense of humor and made me laugh.