Isabel's Daughter

by Judith Ryan Hendricks

  I smile. “Only the bad stuff is true.”

  Rita appears from the dark hallway, looking astonishingly fresh and neat, considering she’s just been rolling around in the sack. She smiles at me. “How was the barbecue?”

  “The usual smoke and sweat fest.”

  She hugs herself. “It’s kind of chilly in here, don’t you think?”

  “Sorry. I was having cocktails on the terrace and I forgot to close the door.”

  For a few minutes we exchange awkward glances. “You guys must be hungry,” I say.

  Rick smiles almost shyly.

  “We were thinking about going out to get something,” she says. “You want to come?” It takes me by surprise. Usually she wants her men all to herself, no distractions. Not that I qualify as a distraction from Rita.

  “Thanks, but I’m kind of a mess. I think I’ll just cook something here.”

  “Mind if we keep you company?” she asks.

  Rita and I drink our beers out of sweating longneck bottles while Rick sits at the chrome and Formica table sipping a glass of our low-grade Scotch on the rocks. I scoop a spoonful of bacon fat out of a soup can into a heavy iron pot on the stove and light the burner with a kitchen match. While she sets the table, I peel a yellow onion, halve it, and begin shaving off thin slices that sizzle when they hit the grease.

  “Did you grow up around here?” I ask him.

  “Socorro,” he says. “How about you?”

  “Florales. Rita, can you put some tortillas in the oven?”

  From the cupboard by the sink, I take out the big jar of ground red chile, the smaller ones of oregano and cumin. Rita pulls the two-gallon plastic container of stew out of the refrigerator and sets it on the counter next to the stove. Every time I turn, I see them, Rick watching me cook, Rita watching Rick.

  When the onions are soft and translucent, I throw in a tablespoon of the red chile, some cumin, a dash of oregano. I open the plastic container, ladle enough soup for the three of us into the pot of onions and spices. It hisses and spits in the hot fat.

  Rick inhales deeply. “Smells like my mother’s kitchen.”

  “One of the benefits of having a cook for a roommate.” Rita smiles, first at me, then at him.

  When the soup is simmering I ladle it into bowls, and Rita wraps the tortillas in a clean dishtowel and we sit down together. He closes his eyes, smells a spoonful of stew. He sips the liquid, then tastes the lamb, the beans, chewing slowly, thoughtfully. “Who taught you to cook like this? Your mother?”

  I take a long swallow of beer, set down the bottle. “I lived in a children’s home in Colorado till I was thirteen. I used to hang out in the kitchen with the Mexican cook.”

  “What happened when you were thirteen?”

  “I ran away.”

  He leans back in the chair till it’s balanced on two legs. “Why?”

  “The cook died.”

  Suddenly we’re all laughing. It’s the kind of laughter called up by absurdity and followed by awkward silence. He takes a drink of water.

  “Couldn’t they get another cook?”

  “Not like Esperanza.”

  “So why didn’t you get adopted? Usually, healthy white babies have no trouble.”

  “I was pretty sickly and there was no information on my parents. And my eyes scared people, I think—”

  “What’s wrong with your eyes?” He leans forward, peering into my face.

  “They’re two different colors. I’m wearing a brown contact right now, but my right eye is kind of golden.”

  “Seems like a small thing.”

  “I think everyone was afraid of what other genetic crossed wires I might have,” I say quickly. “Or maybe I just didn’t come across as grateful enough.”

  He smiles with a sort of understanding. “How’d you end up in Florales?”

  “She was hitchhiking,” Rita chimes in. She beams at me like a proud mom who can’t resist telling her kid’s story. “She was going to catch another ride, but she got hungry and then this old lady took her in and—”

  “Rita…You’re telling him more than he ever wanted to know.”

  “I don’t think that’s possible,” he says. “I like stories. It’s very big where I come from. Every family has its own cuentos, its own stories to tell around the fire. I guess that’s how I wandered into newspapering.”

  For the first time I hear the Spanish in him, the soft “s” when he says cuentos.

  Rita rests her chin in her hands. “You think you’ll ever write something besides news stories? Like a book or a movie?”

  “Maybe someday.” He looks only at her. “You’ll have to wait and see.”

  It takes them awhile to say good night. There’s not a lot of privacy in our place, but I try to dawdle over the dishes while they dawdle at the front door. She says she’ll walk downstairs with him, but he says no. Every time I move past the door to the hall I see them standing there, wrapped around each other.

  Finally I hear the last of the heavy sighs, the thud of the door, the click as Rita slides the bolt into place. She steps into the kitchen. Her face is burnished, glowing, like she’s been out in the sun.

  “So? What do you think?” She opens the fridge and gets two more beers.

  “Killer smile.”

  She pops the tops with a church key and hands me a bottle. We sit at the table.

  “It’s serious, hm? Must be. You usually don’t bring them around for my approval.” I draw one knee up, resting my chin on it, closing my eyes. My obvious aloneness is like a cold wind at my back.

  “I don’t know,” she says. “He’s really different from anyone else I’ve ever gone out with.”

  “I’ll say. He’s smart. He’s sexy. He’s obviously crazy about you.”

  “Are you implying that my past choices of men have been for shit?”

  “Hell, no, I’m not implying. I’m just saying it straight out.” We laugh.

  And then we sit in silence.

  “Are you okay?” she says after a few minutes.

  “Yeah.” The night seems to press against the window above the sink. I stand up and pour the rest of the beer down the drain. “I’m just tired. I’m going to hit the sack.”

  sixteen

  Camino del Monte Sol is one of the most lusted after addresses in Santa Fe. Running between the galleries of Canyon Road and the more heavily trafficked Old Santa Fe Trail, the tree-shaded road is only about a mile long, but it boasts some of the most beautiful homes and gardens in town.

  Lindsey Hemmings lives on this road.

  Down at the far end on the left, she tells me when I call for directions. She says if I come to the turnoff for St. John’s College, I’ve gone too far.

  I find the gravel driveway with no problem, and as I come around a stand of dusty green Russian olive trees, the house, a dark brown pueblo style, looms up suddenly in front of me. It seems like if you were going too fast, you might drive right through the front wall. A taxicab-yellow Mercedes with vanity license plates that say ARTLVR sits in the shade, top down.

  Lindsey’s standing next to it, wearing running shorts and a baggy T-shirt with the sleeves rolled up. At first I think she’s been watching for me, then I see the dog—one of those goddamn Yorkie things that look more like large hairy rats than small dogs. Before I even get out of the truck, he’s running around and around it, yapping like some midget Indian war party circling the wagon train.

  “Oh, Paco, do shut up,” Lindsey sighs. She dabs at her nose with a pink tissue. “Hi, Avery. Come on in.”

  I grab my purse and my file folder off the passenger seat and follow her inside.

  The tiled entry widens into a semicircular living room with a back wall of glass framing a view of the Sangre de Cristos. A zaguan, or wide hall, branches off to either side, the white walls serving as a backdrop for numerous artworks.

  “Great house.” I pull a pen out of my purse and open my file folder to a fresh event estimate sheet. “What kind
of party did you have in mind?”

  She waves a hand at me. “Let’s have a glass of wine while we’re talking about it.”

  “Nothing for me, thanks. I have to go into work this afternoon.”

  She opens a cabinet, which turns out to be a mini refrigerator, and pours herself a glass of white wine. “I find I do my best work after a couple glasses of wine.”

  “What do you do?” I ask, more polite than curious.

  “I’m a juggler.” She laughs. “Investments.”

  “So is this a cocktail party? Dinner? How many people are you thinking?”

  “It’s probably going to be more of a cocktail reception. Sort of an open house. I have a friend, maybe you’ve heard of him—Andrew Halvorsen. He’s a documentary filmmaker. He’s going to be showing his film on Kosovo at the Lensic. To raise funds for several relief organizations. Basically I want some wonderful food, but it all has to be easy to eat standing up and not messy, you know? Can’t write checks with greasy fingers. For about a hundred and fifty people.”

  “This area seems a bit small for that number.”

  “True, but let me show you…” She walks over to the wall of windows, pushes something and slides one whole panel aside. I follow her out onto a broad flagstone patio that wraps around both sides of the house. It’s furnished almost like a room, with groupings of bent-willow tables, chairs, loveseats, even a fireplace. Just beyond the patio is a sandy little arroyo and beyond that, the piñon-dotted foothills begin.

  “Over here is the door to the kitchen.” She leads me around to the right and back inside through French doors to a kitchen that Julia Child would be happy to call home, complete with pickled pine cabinets and a blaze of orange-and-green Talavera tiles.

  “Okay, this should work.” I’m sketching a rough layout on my pad. As we head back down the hall to the main entrance, I become aware that several of the paintings on the walls seem vaguely familiar. One of a bull rider sitting on a split-rail fence was used as a state rodeo poster last year. I look at the signature. Thomas Hemmings. Of course. No wonder they look familiar.

  I look at Lindsey. “Are you married to Thomas Hemmings?”

  “Not at this current running moment.” She chuckles unpleasantly. “All the paintings you see here were part of the divorce settlement. Actually…” She looks at me through narrowed eyes. “I had the one of your mother, too, but Paul begged and whimpered till I sold it to him.” She pauses. “I don’t suppose he told you about the picture. What happened with it, I mean.”

  “Well…”

  “No, he wouldn’t. Well, you’re bound to hear about it. As soon as people find out you’re her daughter.”

  “Hear about what?”

  “About your mother and my husband.” She gives me a brittle smile. “I hope I’m not going to shock you.”

  “I’m not easily shocked.”

  “Good. Are you sure you won’t have a glass of wine? At least have a seat.” She gestures toward one of the cushioned bancos. “You look like Lois Lane standing there with your pencil and paper.”

  I sit down, pushing aside some suede throw pillows that I know cost more than our couch. She folds herself down cross-legged on the floor.

  “I’ve known Paul for a long time. We actually met in Paris. We were both living in the Marais.” She pronounces “Marais” with a French accent, gargling the “r” at the back of her throat. “I was separated from my first husband, Jay—he ran off with the nineteen-year-old au pair. It just about killed me. I mean, do you have any idea how hard it is to find a good au pair?”

  It’s a few seconds before I realize I’m supposed to laugh.

  “Anyway, I was living there with my little girl in a horrible old building that smelled of urine and cabbage. Waiting for the divorce to come through, living on checks that Jay sent when the spirit moved him, and selling the odd story to the English-language publications there. Paul, of course, had a wonderful flat very close by—that’s the way it is in Paris. I met him in the boulangerie one day. I was trying to explain to the witch who ran the place that I wanted some day-old bread—because it was cheaper—and she was acting like she didn’t understand me. Paul overheard me and realized that I was American. I don’t know what he said to her, but she got very red-faced and gave me exactly what I wanted.

  “He was very kind. He had a lot of contacts in the English and American ex-pat communities. He introduced me to Tom—who was studying art restoration—and a number of people who bought my articles and gave me other writing jobs—”

  “So you’re a writer?”

  “Oh, I’ve dabbled in almost everything. These were just what they call ‘puff’ pieces. You know, features about interesting people, new restaurants, things to do that were not the typical tourist places.” She waves her hand. “Anyway, eventually Paul came back here to settle his mother’s estate, and he decided to stay, and we lost touch. Until Tom and I came to Santa Fe. We walked into Pinnacle Gallery one day and there was Paul. He’s the one who convinced us to move here, and he represented Tom’s work. And we were friends—the four of us—Paul and Isabel, Tom and me.”

  She takes a long drink of wine. “Everything was cozy, except Paul and Isabel were always breaking up and getting back together. And during one of their periodic skirmishes, Tom decided he just had to paint Isabel. By the time she got through sitting for him, she was also lying down for him. One day Paul came to the studio when I was in Albuquerque shopping and found them together. In what’s known as a compromising position.”

  “So you divorced him?”

  She smiles, her eyes like blue glass. “In a New York minute. I wasn’t about to hang around and put up with that shit again.” She gives a little sniff. “Do I have bad taste in men or what?”

  “I’m sorry.”

  “Don’t be. It’s ancient history.”

  “But Paul and Isabel got back together?”

  She laughs. “Isabel knew which side her bread was buttered on.”

  “But what about Paul?”

  She rolls her eyes to the ceiling. “He was too far gone. He couldn’t let go of her for long. No matter what she did.”

  “Did you ever speak to her again?”

  “Well, I had to, didn’t I? If I wanted to stay friends with Paul.” Her shrug is deliberately casual.

  “What happened to the little girl?”

  For a second she looks puzzled. “Oh, you mean my daughter? Sophie grew up weird, as you might expect. She dabbles in painting. She lives in Paris part of the time, Greece part of the time, Morocco, too, I think…”

  “Are you not in touch with her?”

  “You could call it that. Anyway, she doesn’t send my checks back.”

  I don’t know what to say, so I revert to the business at hand. “Did you have any particular kind of food in mind for the reception, or did you want Kirk to suggest a theme?”

  She studies me for a minute. “You know, the physical resemblance is absolutely uncanny. And Isabel was stunning. You could be, too, with some makeup. Do something with your hair. Different clothes. Different attitude.” She pauses, then adds, “Yes, I think Kirk could suggest a theme. Maybe two themes, then I could decide. I always do better when I’m presented with a choice, rather than having to make up something original out of thin air.”

  “What time were you thinking of starting?”

  She finishes the wine in her glass. “Let’s say we start here at nine.”

  “Are you going to specify a cutoff time?”

  “Bien sûr, chérie. The people I know could drink Santa Fe dry. I can’t afford to finance it. I’ll put nine till eleven on the invitations.” She gets up and heads for the refrigerator, pulling out the bottle of wine and holding it up to me. “Last chance.”

  “Thanks, but I’ve got to get going. I’ll have a couple of menus with estimates for you by the end of the week.”

  In spite of my reluctance to get sucked into some wild goose chase after Isabel, I can’t be completely i
ndifferent to the little I’ve learned about her. I catch myself wondering how Paul DeGraf would respond to a direct question about her and Tom Hemmings. I can’t quite imagine myself asking. I hardly know him, but there’s a sadness under the high-gloss exterior that makes me hesitate to dig up an old grief just out of curiosity. It’s too much like those people who crane their necks when they go by an accident, trying to get a look at a body.

  But there is one other person who might be willing to give me some information.

  It’s past noon when I find the nerve to make the phone call, but I can tell from his voice that I woke him up.

  “Is this Thomas Hemmings?”

  “Who the hell else would be answering my phone?”

  “I’m sorry to bother you—”

  “We’ve now established that you’re bothering me and that you’re sorry. What do you want?”

  “I…um…you don’t know me—”

  “So why are you calling?”

  “I wanted to ask you about my mother,” I blurt out.

  “If I don’t know you, why the hell would I know your mother?”

  “She was a model for you. A long time ago. Isabel Colinas.”

  The silence lasts till I say, “Her name was Is—”

  “I heard you.” He stops again. Finally he says, “I didn’t know she had a kid.”

  I plunge on before I chicken out. “I was wondering if I might come see you sometime.”

  “I can tell you whatever you want to know right now. No need to come all the way up here.”

  “Please, let me explain something. I never met her. I only found out who she was a few weeks ago. I’m just looking for a little information about her—”

  “I didn’t really know her,” he cuts in. “She was just an artist’s model, that’s all.”

  “Mr. Hemmings, please. I promise I won’t take up much of your time, I just—”

  “You’re not going to take up any of my time. There’s not a goddamn thing to tell. Isabel Colinas sat for a portrait. I paid her for her time, and that was it. Now leave me alone.”