Isabel's Daughter

by Judith Ryan Hendricks

  “Then one day, I think it was when the new refrigerator came, they had to bring it in the front because it was too wide to go through the kitchen door. When they were bringing it in, they bumped the mask off the wall and it fell on the floor and knocked a chunk of paint off, and I saw that the wood underneath was brand-new. When I called Tom on it, he laughed and said he’d been wondering how long it would take me to figure it out. He brought me the real original and fixed the copy and I put it in the Buena Vista. Two weeks later a doctor from Boston bought it.”

  “Did he know it was a copy?”

  “Not till I told him. But even after I told him, he wanted it anyway, because he said it was such an incredible copy, nobody would know the difference. And it was true. Unless they thought to cut into it. Which is, of course, about the last thing anyone does with a piece of art.”

  “What about the rest of it?”

  “The rest of it simply happened. I don’t recall exactly how it got started. An acquaintance of mine in Mexico City made certain works available to us—most of it was religious art, some of it from churches, shrines. Unusual things. Works that the general public in this country rarely sees. Tom made copies of them, and I sold them.” His voice fades like he’s turned the volume down. “It was unbelievably easy.”

  “But the retablo I saw was so obviously new. How did he make them look old?”

  “It’s not difficult. There are chemicals, heat. Rollers. Tools of the restorer’s art.” His tone is mocking.

  “What about the originals?”

  “I sent them back to my contact. He was supposed to repatriate them.” He looks away. “Or perhaps that’s what I wanted to think.”

  “Paul…”

  He rushes on. “Remember, this was years ago. When Tom was unknown and I’d just opened Pinnacle. We were both strapped for cash. The money enabled Tom to paint. If you’re not an artist, you can’t know what it means. To be able to live while you do the work you want to do. Not to worry about how you’re going to eat, to pay your bills. Eventually, his work gained acceptance and we began to be able to sell it for what it was worth. More than enough for both of us to make a good living.”

  I raise my eyebrows. “So, of course you stopped selling the fakes—”

  “No. We didn’t.” He rubs his hands together in a pantomime of washing them. “But the people who bought them—in a way, they were stealing—or they thought they were. Not one person asked for documentation, no one questioned the provenance. They didn’t want to know. They didn’t care where the work came from, whether it was legal or not. All they cared about was getting what they wanted.”

  “So you’re saying they deserved to be cheated.”

  A sharp gust of wind bangs a shutter against the wall outside. I tuck my hands under my arms.

  “Are you cold?” He gets up as if he’s going to stir the sputtering fire but he just stands there with his back to me.

  “The day of the party, Isabel had gone off for the afternoon. She said she was going shopping. I…didn’t believe her. I thought she was going to Tom’s studio, and I was right. But it wasn’t him she went to see. In fact she knew he wasn’t there. She went to retrieve something—a nude study he’d done of her that she wanted back.

  “Apparently when she was looking for it she discovered his other workroom. She saw the equipment he had and some of the copies and she realized what was going on. She was very much involved with charities in Central America. Of course, she was furious. After the party, after everyone else was gone, she said she wanted to talk to me. I should have known what was coming.

  “As soon as we were alone, she started screaming at me for destroying peoples’ churches when that was all they had, calling me every name she could think of in English and Spanish. It was—”

  “How did she know you were involved?”

  “I suppose it was obvious that Tom didn’t have the contacts either to obtain the originals or to sell the copies. I tried to explain how things happened. I told her I was sending the works back as soon as Tom copied them, but she wouldn’t listen. She told me she was moving out in the morning. And then she said she was going to sleep out in the guesthouse…

  “Avery.” He turns his back on the fire and looks directly into my eyes. “I’ve had nothing to do with…all of that. Ever since the day she died. The pieces that were in my possession, I repatriated. I personally did, so I know they went where they belonged.

  “It’s just so…very difficult sometimes. When I saw you last night in that dress. It was just one more reminder that she’s gone. That I, for all intents and purposes, killed her.”

  “You did not.” My own vehemence surprises me.

  His shoulders lift, then slump. “My greed and stupidity did. It’s the same thing.”

  “Paul.” I pull my feet up and sit cross-legged on the couch. “You guys kept breaking up and getting back together—did it ever occur to you that maybe it wasn’t going to work out? That maybe you two weren’t meant—”

  “Never. I loved her—even that sounds so insipid, compared to the reality of it. And I know she felt the same way. We were just very different temperamentally. That’s why we argued.”

  “But she was leaving you,” I point out. “Maybe she was tired of all the high drama.”

  He gives me an indulgent smile. “Back to Liza’s. It was almost a game. She’d go over there for a few weeks and then I’d go over there and get her or she’d come back here…Once we ran into each other in a restaurant and got back together. We both knew we’d always be—” He shakes his head in exasperation.

  “I know you don’t understand. I know it defies logic.” He looks at me, his dark eyes round with a certain innocence. “But I still love her. I always will.”

  Part of me wants to throw cold water in his face and shout Guess what, you’re a fool. She wasn’t just going back to Liza’s. She was running off to

  Spain either alone or with somebody else. You were out of the picture. I could march over to the guesthouse, drag out the suitcase, wave her passport and ticket under his nose.

  So why don’t I? Isn’t the truth supposed to set you free? Wouldn’t he then have to accept it and get on with his life?

  Maybe. But she’s been dead for eight years. For all that time he’s been able to rationalize everything that happened between them. Who’s to say he couldn’t just incorporate this new bit of information into his personal version of reality.

  And if he couldn’t, then what? I don’t think I want to watch someone’s world collapse under the weight of something I said. There’s a huge difference between having love snatched away from you by fate or luck or even by your own stupidity, and having it turn its back and walk away from you.

  I can’t do it. And I suppose that in some bizarre twist of role reversal, I’m protecting Paul DeGraf. Saving him from being abandoned by Isabel.

  He picks up his coffee cup. “I have a lot of paperwork to catch up on before year-end,” he says. “I’ll be in my office.”

  “What about Tom?”

  He looks blank, as if he’s forgotten what we were talking about.

  “Is he still making copies?”

  An ironic smile hovers around his mouth. “Of course. Only now he signs his own name, and they’re worth nearly as much as the originals.”

  On New Year’s Eve Day, I decide to take some things down to the cabin—all things that I can just lock in the storeroom. Isabel’s green box, which now holds not just her work materials, but her passport and airline ticket. The Querencia plaque. Two new kerosene lamps that I bought at the hardware store. I looked at a battery-operated camping lantern, but its strange blue-tinged light and some sort of low-level hum that the salesman swore he couldn’t hear put me off. Besides, the kerosene lamps with their soft golden glow remind me of Cassie.

  On my way out of town, I stop by The Good Earth. Cookie called last night while I was eating dinner and left a message on the answering machine that she had something for me. Prob
ably the herbs for the tea that I finally agreed to make for her.

  When I get there, three people are standing in line at the register, so I wander around, holding crystals up to the lights, thumbing through herb books and free broadsides on somatic body work and vision quest.

  When the customers are gone, she comes over to hug me. I ask how her Christmas was.

  “Oh, a bit lonely. An old friend from St. Kitts came in for a few days, so I wasn’t allowed to wallow in self-pity for too long. What about yours? How was the dinner? Did everyone like the dress?”

  “Great.” I smile. “Five-star chef and belle of the ball—who could ask for anything more?”

  “So what does the new year hold for you?”

  “I guess I’ll have to wait and see.”

  She folds her arms, looking annoyed. “You’re being awfully vague this morning. Where are you off to?”

  “Bluebird Canyon.”

  “Oh, the cabin. How’s it coming?”

  “It’s almost finished. I’m taking a few things down there today.”

  “When are you going to take yourself down there?”

  “I don’t know.” I put the book on wild herbs back in the rack. “Maybe I’m waiting for a sign.”

  “Well. In the meanwhile, I have your herbs. I’ll give you some small plastic bags for the tea. And…”

  She’s rummaging around under the counter, pulling out a stack of bags, securing them with a rubber band, putting them in a brown shopping bag along with the large Ziploc bags of fenugreek and black cohosh, lemon balm, ginger, and anise.

  “And,” she continues, still looking for something on the bottom shelf, “I took the liberty of ordering these.” She pulls out a stack of what looks like thick brown cards. She takes one off the top, squeezes it, and it pops open into a box. “For the tea. They’re made from recycled paper.”

  She hands me one, and I look at it for several seconds before my brain registers the image on the packaging. It’s brown flecked and organic looking, except on one flat side there’s a picture—a circle of green vines with delicate tendrils and tiny white flowers. Inside is the head-and-shoulders profile of a woman. She’s wearing a red dress. Long black hair falls down her back. Arching over the top of the circle is the word Isabel’s and cupped under the circle is the word, Daughter.

  When I look up, Cookie’s watching me anxiously. “I do hope I haven’t overstepped my bounds here.”

  “I don’t know what to say.”

  “Do you like them? I really hope you do, because I had to order two hundred and fifty to get a decent—”

  The laugh comes up from deep in my throat, forcing my head back and closing my eyes. “Two hundred and fifty? Oh my God, Cookie.” I try to catch my breath. “They’re beautiful. They’re just beautiful. But two hundred and fifty?”

  Her grin blossoms into a huge smile. “Actually, I ordered five hundred, but I thought I’d just say two hundred and fifty, in case you didn’t like them.”

  After I wash the lamps and dry them, fill them, and trim the wicks, I put them in the storeroom with the extra kerosene and the green box and walk down to Isabel’s grave. The canyon is winter quiet, but surprisingly warm. We still haven’t had much snow and only an inch or so of rain.

  I sit down and pull a few plugs of grass off the grave, toss them aside. The summer’s wildflowers—golden yarrow and the Queen Anne’s lace—sway listlessly in the breeze, their dried flower heads stiffly upright but lifeless.

  A sudden cold ache settles in my chest. I close my eyes and let the tears seep out. This has been happening more often lately and I’ve learned that I sort of have to go with it. If I let it out, it’s over in a few minutes. If I fight it down, I’m depressed all day.

  I could drive myself crazy in a hurry wondering who Isabel really was—the talented, intense, driven artist. Or selfish, beautiful seductress. Or generous, tireless philanthropist. Faithless lover. Devoted friend. Did she love Paul? Or was she, as Cate Mosley said, a user—taking advantage of him to further her career? Was the trip to Spain a last-ditch attempt to get free of his suffocating brand of devotion? Or was it just a fling she’d have and then get tired of and come back to the house on San Tomás?

  Paul lived with her and he obviously doesn’t know. So there’s no guarantee that I could know her any better if she was still alive. And maybe not even if she’d raised me.

  The only thing I can know for sure is, she was my mother. I’m Isabel’s daughter. It’ll have to do.

  I get to my feet, dust off my jeans, and walk back to the cabin.

  There are still things to be done if I’m going to live in this place full-time. Alonzo said he would come in early spring and burn off the grass and weeds surrounding the cabin. This not only makes room for my garden, but it also makes a close personal encounter with a rattlesnake less likely. He said he and Maria would come help me turn over the ground after the burn and prepare it for planting. He’s already got another of his primos lined up to supply me with chicken shit.

  It’ll be interesting living without a refrigerator. Even Cassie had one. I don’t have any desire for a generator—too smelly and noisy. I suppose I could get a propane tank, which is what most people do out here, but they’re so damned ugly. Like some big tubular UFO plopped down in your yard. Then there’s the water thing. The good news is I have a decent well. In the warmer months, I can get one of those solar showers rigged up outside, but how am I going to bathe in the winter? I might end up being like a couple of old ladies in Florales that I’d run into at Begay’s grocery now and then. Nobody wanted to get downwind of them, and when you did talk to them, you had to breathe through your mouth.

  I put my new padlock on the storage room, take a last look inside the cabin, lock it up, and head out for Santa Fe. As I drive past the Rio Bravo, it registers that the brown Chevy parked off to the side is Bettina’s. I jerk the wheel to the left without signaling, earning myself a honk and a hand gesture from the guy behind me, and roll into the half-full parking lot.

  The place is just getting cranked up for lunch, and Felicia waves at me. “She’s in the kitchen.”

  Bettina’s back is to the swinging door and she and Miguel seem to be having a family argument. I start back out, but she turns and sees me.

  “Chica! How are you?” She hugs me, laughing.

  “I’m fine. How are you? When did you get back? Are you staying? What’s going on?”

  Miguel gives us a disgusted look and turns away to the stove. She holds up her left hand in front of my face to show me the gold ring.

  “I am a married woman now.”

  “Oh my God. Congratulations! Ed Farrell?”

  She nods, and my eyes stray over to the stove where Miguel stands, his rigid back a perfect expression of disapproval. She follows my gaze and makes a face at him, then links her arm through mine, pulling me toward the back door. We go outside, past Raoul who’s sitting on a beer keg, having a smoke, over to a small table and bench in a patch of weeds. She sits on the table, feet on the bench, wrapping her full skirts around her legs.

  “Miguel, as you see, does not approve.”

  “He’ll get over it. Eventually.” I settle down next to her. “But tell me what happened.”

  She smiles contentedly. “I simply did what I should have done long ago. I refused to see him when he came. I sent Felicia out with a note. I said that I was getting too old to play his games. That I wanted love, not a roll in the hay whenever he happened to come down this road.”

  “So what did he do, fall down on his knees and beg you to marry him?”

  “Not at once. He went away that night. Then about two weeks later, I was cleaning up the café after lunch, getting ready for dinner, and he just came walking in, looking pitiful. He said he had something he needed to ask me…” She blushes. “And then he did.”

  “Where is he now?”

  “He got a new job. A real job as a foreman on a ranch near Cimarron.”

  I let this info
rmation percolate for a minute, then say, “So, are you going to stay there?”

  She nods. “I just came back to get the rest of my things. I thought I had better before Miguel burned them.”

  “Why is he so upset?”

  She shrugs. “One, because I married an Anglo. Two, because I married a cowboy. Three, because I married. And I will no longer be here to work at the café.” Her eyes slide over to me. “You aren’t by some chance looking for job, are you?”

  I smile. “Well…a little money coming in would be nice. But I really want to cook, not just wait tables.”

  She gets up off the bench. “Venga. We’ll talk to Miguel. We’ll work it out.”

  twenty-seven

  My eyes open wide in the dark, and I lie motionless except for my galloping heart, trying to remember where I am and what woke me. A dream? A noise? I turn over to see the digital clock. Five-twenty-one A.M. The contours of the room, the furniture slip into their familiar places. I’m in the guesthouse on San Tomás, but something is wrong. Sweat mats my hair to my forehead.

  Oh God. I left the stove on. I sit bolt upright, throw back the comforter, grab my keys, and run down the hall, still trying to jam my feet into my sandals.

  I let myself in the back door quietly. The kitchen is dark and silent. And cold. I check the six burners on the range top. I lay my hand on the doors of both ovens. Stone cold. I sniff the air for gas. I bend to touch the radiant heated tile floor. Barely warm.

  I shiver in the frosty air, rub my arms. Everything seems fine. But it’s not. I know with a certainty that tugs at me like a little kid pulling my sleeve. I tiptoe into the dining room, the living room. Nothing’s out of place in Paul’s office. Back to the kitchen, my unease growing steadily. I let myself out, lock the door behind me.