The Green Lace Corset Page 2

  “I did say step forward with care. It’s important to weigh the pros and cons. How’s his retirement going?” Anne asked.

  “He seems to be a changed man.” Mrs. Landenheim took the milagro and pushed the leg to kick the foot. “I’ll treasure it.” She beamed and dropped it into the pocket of her pink bathrobe. “And in that bag of tricks?” She pointed toward the boutique bag on the floor next to the backpack.

  Anne hesitated. She wasn’t sure what Mrs. Landenheim would think or whether she wanted her opinion. Was her purchase too risqué? Maybe she shouldn’t have bought it after all. Anne swallowed and then pulled out the corset with the skirt and held them up in front of her neighbor.

  Mrs. Landenheim’s droopy basset-hound eyes grew wide. “Oh, my. May I borrow it? I can’t even imagine what Ray Ray might say.”

  “Maybe.” Anne didn’t even want to imagine Mrs. Landenheim wearing it. “See you later.” She repacked her treasures and ran up the stairs.

  Mrs. Landenheim’s cat sat patiently on Anne’s doorstep. Anne nudged Thai with a foot and whispered, “Pssst. Go away. Not now.” If Mrs. Landenheim knew Anne had been feeding her scraps, she wouldn’t be pleased.

  The cat snarled and leaped down the stairs, crooked tail bouncing behind her.

  Anne stepped inside her dark apartment, flipped on the lights, and put her stuff down on her carpet. It felt wonderful to be home. Her small studio was usually a mess—dirty dishes in the sink, bed unmade, canvases stacked on the floor, open bins of paints and found objects on every flat surface, knickknack shelf overflowing. Sergio had once accused her of being a hoarder. She defended herself by claiming it was impossible to keep a place neat when that place was your studio and your home too. Someday she wanted to have a big studio with plenty of space. In the meantime, for at least four months, if she got that residency, she’d have the museum studio to work in.

  She’d recently read on the Hoarder Comes Clean blog that it was good feng shui to return home from a trip to a clean abode. So, before she’d left for Arizona, she had washed the dishes, put away all of her art supplies, and even made the daybed. Today, it felt so fantastic to return to a pristine home that she vowed to always keep it this way. She took a photo of the room, typed home, sweet home and posted it on Instagram.

  “Alexa,” she said, “play Enya.”

  The singer’s voice magically filled the apartment. Sergio had bought her the Echo and hooked it up right before their breakup. Anne got a little thrill every time the bit of technology followed her commands.

  “Alexa, turn on salt lamp.” The light popped on.

  She twirled around, took her lucky key from her jeans pocket and put it back on her artist altar in the corner, rubbed the Buddha’s head, and fingered her father’s dog tags. From the box of travel goodies, she located the pendant she’d bought at the Santa Fe Plaza, where local Native American artists lined up their wares under the veranda to sell. The Navajo she had bought it from had been patient as she’d picked up each of his pieces, until she’d finally chosen the one that called to her the most. The size of two quarters, the oval-shaped turquoise was inlaid in silver filigree and stamped on the back with the artist’s initials. Turquoise signified creativity, good luck, and joy. Perfect for her. She kissed it and added it to the altar.

  Val’s vocalizations from downstairs floated up to her. Ka-ke-kai-ko-koo. Ka-ke-kai-ko-koo.

  Anne sang down, echoing him. Ka-ke-kai-ko-koo. Ka-ke-kai-ko-koo. Some people would think these vocal warm-ups obnoxious, but she found them endearing.

  Val performed in Beach Blanket Babylon, the campy satirical revue at Club Fugazi, in North Beach, that made fun of everything. She loved the humongous hats and cross-gender casting that constantly changed to reflect current politics and trends. Luckily, Val got her comp tickets whenever she wanted. But she’d recently heard that the show was going to be closed down. That would be so sad. It had been a San Francisco favorite since 1974. Where would Val ever find another job that was that much fun?

  She pulled the corset and skirt out of the bag and held them up to her, looking in the full-length mirror on the back of her closet. The light hit the outfit just so, and the sequins shone. Her belly tingled. She had made the right decision to buy it after all and couldn’t wait to wear it with a special guy. She opened the door and hung it on the back.

  Inside, she caressed the black velvet coat that had brought her to Sylvia and the friendship that meant so much to Anne. She fingered the snowflake pin and watched it sparkle in the light. She slipped it back on the rack.

  She turned on the water in the farmhouse kitchen sink, added detergent, and stuck the oily hubcap in the suds to soak. She dried her hands and got her phone. There were several messages. Unlike many people, she never talked on the phone while driving. Hard enough to concentrate as it was. The first one was from her mom. Anne would call her later. The second message was from Sergio. Just seeing his number on her phone made her heart speed up.

  “I see you’re back. FaceTime me. It’s been a long time since we talked.”

  He must be keeping close track of her. She had posted that Instagram photo not even half an hour earlier. He was right on time to break the silence. She was afraid to see him, though. It might let out all those feelings she’d been trying to shove into the cupboard of her heart and shut up tight for the past year. Since then, they’d occasionally texted and liked each other’s posts but hadn’t FaceTimed. She missed his sturdy body next to hers in bed, his warm hands and deep kisses. A fervent longing for him overtook her whole being. No, she wasn’t ready to talk to him in person yet.

  From her altar, she picked up the diamond ring that had been his nonna’s. He had insisted she keep it even after Anne broke off their engagement. She slipped it on and lolled on the daybed, remembering the romantic afternoon in Tuscany when he’d proposed.

  Her phone broke her reverie with a text message from Tony: Pizza’s ready.

  She’d forgotten about it and the fact that she’d been starving, and she ran down the stairs. Outside the door, Anne almost bumped into Mata Hari, her homeless friend, who was walking down the sidewalk, wearing one of the pink pussy hats Anne had knitted for the women’s shelter for the 2017 Women’s March.

  Mata’s blue eyes lit up. “Hi, missy. Long time no seen you around-o.”

  “I went on a road trip to Arizon-o.”

  “I was there once. Thought I’d fry from the desert heat. Bad for beauty.” Mata grinned.

  “I was in northern Arizona; it’s pretty nice this time of year. Hungry?”

  “Am I ever.”

  Anne held up a finger. “Just a sec.” She went inside Tony’s, paid for the pizza, and gave one of the slices to Mata.

  “Thanks.” Mata took a bite. “Where’s that handsome moneybags of yours?”

  “We broke up ages ago.” Anne had shared this with her several times before.

  “I told you he was a keeper. You’re not getting any younger.”

  Anne didn’t need reminding of that. “I just couldn’t live in New York.”

  “You’re so right. Those hot Broadway lights dry out our skin, like Arizona deserts.” Mata touched her wrinkled cheeks. “Not our misty San Francisco air and sultry moons.”

  After staying with Sergio in New York for a month, Anne had realized that even though they adored each other, it just wasn’t going to work out. True love or not, home was here in San Francisco, and she planned never to leave it again. Still, she’d probably call him tomorrow. She hoped when she saw his face, she didn’t fall in love with him all over again.

  4

  In the morning, Anne awoke from a Sergio kissing dream. His king-size New York bed was deep, sheets smooth. Wearing the green lace corset, she ran her fingers through the curly hair on the back of his neck. His hands explored the corset’s bodice. His clean scent, honeysuckle mixed with sage, permeated the air.

  Anne sat up. She certainly wasn’t going to call him now. She eyed the corset hanging on the clo
set door. The dream was right: Sergio would like the outfit. She sighed. He’d never get to see it.

  Who might have owned it before? What year could it be from? Maybe it was a costume from a movie or TV western. Many had been filmed out that way.

  Out of coffee, she grabbed a Diet Coke from the fridge and poured it into the ARTISTS DO IT IN COLOR mug Sergio had given her for her birthday.

  Anne remembered her mom telling her about someone in the family wearing a corset. Anne called her number.

  “Hey, Mom.”

  “I followed your posts. Looked like you had a good trip. I’m sorry you couldn’t come home to Michigan on your vacation. I understand that as an artist you need new experiences.”

  Anne appreciated that her mom really tried to be supportive. Most Michiganders didn’t travel much. In fact, her mother had never even come out to visit in all the years Anne had lived in San Francisco. Not even when she’d had her solo show at Gallery Noir. She’d accepted long ago that her mom didn’t travel out of state, but it would be a whole lot easier if she would come to California, instead of depending on Anne to always make the trek.

  “Find any treasures?”

  “Plenty. The best find was a corset.”

  “What?”

  “A corset. The most gorgeous green. Didn’t you tell me your grandmother used to wear a corset?”

  “Yes. An ugly old thing, dingy white cotton, with laces that crisscrossed down her spine. She wore it all the time, whalebones and all. She claimed the corset helped her bad back. I don’t know how that could be. Grandma never left the house without hers on. She also wore all black, even though Grandpa had been gone for twenty years . . .”

  Anne knew she had better hurry up this conversation, or she’d be on the phone all day. Anyway, she had to get that application finished to drop off before her afternoon class.

  “Well, this one isn’t ugly. I’ll go now so I can send you a photo. Love you. Call you later.”

  Hard to believe women had worn corsets for so many years. All the time.

  She scrolled through her photos, found a fun one of her posing for Lola in the boutique, and texted it to her mom. Sergio would like the picture, but she didn’t send it. He might get the wrong idea.

  Anne skimmed through more road-trip photos and forwarded a few to save to her computer. Some of her favorites were the whipped-cream clouds. On hot afternoons, they’d turn dark and thunder and lightning would ensue. She’d hurry back to the B and B before then so she could curl up in her room, listen to the rain pound on the gable roof, enjoy the show. That was what vacations were for.

  How fun it will be to paint that sky. Even though she should really work on her application, it would take only a few minutes to start the background. She pulled out a new canvas and set it on the easel. “Nothing is truly white in the sky,” she remembered her college professor telling the class.

  Anne squished a dollop of Titanium White and a tad of Mars Black directly on the canvas, dunked her biggest brush in a jar of water, swirled the two paint colors together, and washed the mixture over the fabric. After having not painted for a few weeks, she felt the motion of spreading colors filling her whole body with sublime contentment. She’d never been a good dancer, but the rhythm of creating art was her dance. She swished the brush across the canvas a few more times and left it on the easel to dry.

  She climbed out the kitchen door to inspect her rooftop garden, maybe find something for breakfast. She would go to the grocery store after work. Misty fog hung overhead, this sky so different from the giant Southwest sky. A blue jay pecking on a blackberry vine squawked at her and flew away. Anne watched it dart across California Street to the pitched roof of one of the pastel-colored Victorian row houses. They’d been painted two years before and still maintained their brilliant hues.

  Mint had begun to march all over the other plants in her plot. She pulled up a handful, releasing the fresh aroma. With so much of it, she should research how to make mint tea, which was supposed to be very soothing.

  Peeking from underneath the mint, vivid red strawberries emerged. She tugged one off and tossed it in her mouth, the sweet taste perfect.

  “Choose delicious—that’s nutritious.” She quoted Sylvia, who’d had her own garden right outside her kitchen at Bay Breeze. She’d taught Anne so much about eating healthfully and the power of growing some of your own food staples.

  She picked a dozen ripe strawberries and the few blackberries that smoothly came right off the vine. Inside, she tossed them in a colander on the counter beside the sink. Pushing aside the hubcap, she drained the dirty water, rinsed the berries, put them in her blender, and added water, chocolate protein powder, and a teaspoon of honey to make a smoothie. She scrubbed the hubcap; grease still clung to the inside edges, so she poured in more dish soap, turned on the hot water, and let the metal continue to soak.

  As Anne sipped her smoothie, she climbed onto the daybed and began to read the application on her computer.

  RESIDENCY DESCRIPTION

  The artist-in-residence program will redefine the museum experience to make art more accessible and personally meaningful to guests. It will give them the opportunity to view the creative process firsthand and interact with local artists working in a studio environment. The interview panel will review proposals and choose an artist and project that have the strongest “wow” factor.

  Provide a summary of the work you envision creating during the residency by answering the following questions:

  1. What is your project? How did the idea come to you?

  2. In what ways is this project risk-taking or innovating?

  3. How will you share your project with museum guests?

  4. How much money will you need to complete the project?

  She read through the questions again, her mind blank. A shaky, panicky feeling hit her chest. She had no idea how to answer these questions. Maybe she wasn’t supposed to apply after all. Many other local artists were more qualified. What chance did she have of getting it, anyway? She envisioned working in that big studio space and just had to suck it up and give it a go. Perhaps if she spread more paint on the sky canvas, the answers would come to her. Sometimes when she was blocked, she worked on something else and the problem was solved. This was different, though; now, she was just procrastinating—one of her downfalls.

  She needed help. Fay would be at Gallery Noir now. Anne hated to bother her at work, but she had to get this done.

  She texted Fay: SOS!

  A few minutes later, Fay called. “Welcome back. What’s up?”

  “I’m stuck.”

  “Sorry, mate. Take deep breaths and follow your heart, like you always do.”

  Fay’s British accent made Anne smile. “No, not my art. I’ve got lots to inspire me since my journey. I have to fill out this stupid museum residency application, and I don’t know what to say.”

  “What’s the difference between doing art and writing? Isn’t writing an art too? As I said, take deep breaths and follow your heart, like you always do.”

  Anne thought for a moment. “You’re brilliant. I owe you a coffee.”

  “Very soon. A customer just came in. Gotta go. Ta-ta.”

  Anne moved to the daybed, held her journal in her lap, closed her eyes, inhaled and exhaled a few times, relaxed into the zone, and started writing.

  Magnificent Mosaic

  I plan to create a life-size mosaic of a woodland creature. The idea came to me in dreams last year during the nearby wildfires, which killed many animals. This would be the first of a series to honor and remember lost fauna. It’s risk-taking because this will be the largest piece I’ve ever made. Museum guests will be invited to adhere pieces to the mosaic so they can experience process versus product. Expenses will be minimal because most of the materials I use will be found and donated objects. I’ll also approach local businesses about donating many supplies.

  Anne reread her draft, typed it on her computer, printed it out, and ki
ssed the application for luck. With only minutes to spare, she threw on some sweats, grabbed her backpack, and ran out the door to the museum.

  5

  Sally Sue broke the man’s gaze to look at the rack above his head and saw his hat. A brown Stetson—exactly like the one he’d worn that day!

  Her heart plunged, and she jumped up. “You’re the bank robber! You held a gun to me.”

  He nodded and grinned. “Mighty fine to see you again. I’ve been keeping an eye out for you.”

  The whistle blew, and the train began to slow as they pulled into Emporia.

  “This is my stop.” She clutched her basket and stepped into the corridor.

  He grasped her bustle from behind, pulled her toward him, and growled, “You’re not going anywhere.”

  She tried to yank herself away. “Let me go!”

  “No.” He held her tight around the waist, as he’d done the prior month in the National Bank, though this time he didn’t hold a gun to her chest. Her heart beat rapidly, and her mind revived that horrible day.

  “Please,” she pleaded.

  He pulled her beside him on the seat next to the window, held open his jacket, and showed her the pistol resting in a holster on his hip.

  Her shoulders slumped, and she looked down at her hands.

  “Glad you see it my way.”

  “Do I really have any choice?”

  The train whistle sounded again. The locomotive creaked, its bottom scraped along the tracks, and it rumbled out of the station.

  Fear rippled in her chest as she relived that horrible day for the hundredth time. She had just stepped into the bank as the guard shot a bandit, who fell to the ground with a blood-wrenching scream. This man—the man beside her now on the train, the man who’d laughed at her joke—blasted the guard, who also collapsed to the floor.

  This man had seized her shoulders, held her tight, with his pistol to her chest, and yelled, as he pulled her backward toward the door, “Nobody move!”