The Black Velvet Coat Page 21

  Sylvia touched the amulet in fear. “Was he dark with a scar?”

  Better Lou shook her head. “No, soft blue eyes, hair color of lamb’s wool.”

  “Sounds like Paul.” Thinking of him made her feel warm inside. She really missed him.

  “Very handsome.” Betty Lou raised her eyebrows.

  “I guess so. What else did you dream?” Sylvia swallowed the last bite, put down the plate, and licked honey from her fingers.

  “He cares for you.”

  “Yes, I’ve known him my whole life. When my parents died, he became my guardian.”

  Betty Lou stared into Sylvia’s eyes. “Loves you.”

  “Yes, he’s just like a brother.” Sylvia nodded.

  “Not like that. Wants to marry you.”

  “That’s ridiculous.” Sylvia felt her face flush as she remembered that sensual dream she had had in the desert. But Paul would have told her ages ago if he felt that way about her.

  “Dream real. Saw white things: handkerchief, gardenia flowers, pearls.” Betty Lou started to stand up. “Finish tea. Need to go.”

  “What else?”

  “Little squares with letters.” She held up a thumb and forefinger.

  “Scrabble tiles. I bet you saw Scrabble tiles!” Sylvia couldn’t believe it.

  “Time to go.”

  “Wait. Tell me more.” Sylvia, surprised at her raw emotions, felt on the verge of tears.

  “What’s more to tell?” Betty Lou shrugged. “Good man loves you.”

  From Betty Lou’s firm voice, Sylvia could tell the subject was closed. But she really wanted to hear more.

  “Come.” Betty Lou motioned for Sylvia to follow.

  “Where are we going?” she asked.

  “Take you to hotel.”

  Earlier, Sylvia wanted nothing more, but now she didn’t want to leave this wonderful woman. However, she didn’t want to impose any longer. She thought about the accident. “I need to take care of the trailer and car.”

  “Tomorrow another day. First take care of you.”

  Sylvia rose, picked up her purse, and stretched. A bath would be divine.

  They stepped out the blanketed doorway, where a few innocuous clouds drifted in the blue sky above dry sand. Betty Lou’s pickup truck was parked next to the hogan. Sylvia felt a soft wind waft around her as she took in the scenery. In the corral, the pinto flicked its mane, sheep nibbled on short grasses, and a hawk flew in circles overhead.

  Betty Lou whistled, and Lucy shot out of the hogan behind them. “See, leg better.”

  Chased by the sheep, she yelped and scurried behind Sylvia with a whimper. The women laughed deep and strong. Then Lucy reversed things and with a wide distance rambled in circles around the sheep.

  Betty Lou nodded. “That’s one lucky dog.” She whistled again, and Lucy ran to her.

  “Wish I could do that.” Sylvia scooped Lucy up and slid into the truck.

  “You can. Easy.” Betty Lou climbed in, and they pulled onto the dirt road and back to the highway. Sylvia pursed her lips trying to whistle.

  “Yes, a good man loves you,” Betty Lou teased.

  “Does not!” If Sylvia saw him again, would she feel embarrassed remembering the dreams? Could it be true that he really loved her? She fingered the pendant. What if he knew the truth about Ricardo? Maybe God would forgive her, but would Paul?

  As they rode along, Sylvia looked at Betty Lou, her skin the color of the dry sand along the highway. She obviously had special powers. Did she learn them from her family, passed down from generation to generation, or was the magic something she had just been born with?

  After a half hour, Betty Lou pulled onto a long gravel drive. Sylvia had expected a ramshackle roadside motel, but instead, they stopped in front of a Spanish hacienda, a desert oasis painted pale pink. “What’s such a big hotel doing way out here?”

  “Railroad stop. Tracks on other side.” Betty Lou turned off the motor. “See those tiles?” She pointed at the red roof. “I helped make them.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “A girl then. Wet the clay, laid it on my leg.” Betty Lou demonstrated on her thigh. “Curve. Pat. Smooth. Smooth. Curve. Pat. Smooth. Smooth.”

  Sylvia laughed. “You’re kidding!”

  “No. Different legs, different sizes.”

  Sylvia nodded. The tiles were varied, but still Sylvia wondered if Betty Lou was just teasing.

  “Go on. Get out.” Betty Lou handed her a bundle wrapped in a woven blanket. “Pick you up in the morning.”

  “What time?”

  Betty Lou scowled. “Don’t know. Sun about there.” She pointed in the sky behind the hotel.

  Sylvia hopped out of the truck and lifted Lucy down.

  Betty Lou nodded. “Rest up.” She pulled out the drive and headed down the road.

  In the hotel’s lobby, a welded jackrabbit held an ashtray. Decorated with Indian rugs and Mexican paintings, the inn looked like the home of a wealthy, but eccentric, ranch family. Much cozier than Bay Breeze, here you could probably slouch on that deep velvet sofa and even put your boots on the coffee table.

  A lamp, shaped like a blooming cactus, flickered on the reception desk. Sylvia rang the bell, and a man sporting a vest, bolo tie, and thick mustache came out of the back room. She pulled dark glasses from her handbag and slid them on. With a lisp, he said, “Welcome to La Posada, the Resting Place.”

  Sylvia hoped it would live up to its name. She put Lucy down.

  “Cute puppy!” The man smiled at her. Lucy blinked at him and backed up behind Sylvia.

  “I’d like a room.”

  “Certainly, pretty empty this time of year.” He swiveled the guest book around, pushed it forward, and handed her a pen. “Sign the registry.”

  She hesitated. Usually she took her time and wrote her name very neatly. She recalled Paul saying, “You can tell a lot about a person by his or her John Hancock.” It might have been illegal to sign a fake name though. So with determination, she wrote her name, Sylvia Van Dam, very fast and messy so no one would be able to read it.

  The innkeeper squinted. “Miss a . . . a . . . a . . . Dawn? Follow me.” He grabbed a skeleton key off a rack, came out from behind the desk, and looked around. “Where’s your luggage?”

  Sylvia held up the bundle. “Just this.” Her boots clicked on the red pavers as she followed him through the lobby. “This inn is lovely.”

  “She sure is. Even designed by a woman architect. Built in 1929 for the railroad to bring tourists to the desert and see the Indians.”

  Sylvia’s hand grazed the wrought iron railings as they ascended a staircase up to the second floor. At the end of a dark hallway, the man pushed open a door, and she smiled at the lovely room. Lucy jumped onto the bed with the hand-carved headboard. A saint’s icon hung above it. Over a stone fireplace, the mantel had been painted with a floral motif. Sylvia peeked into the bathroom and spotted a big clean tub! She handed the man a quarter from her purse. “Perfect.”

  He laid the key on top of a stamped tin chest and quietly closed the door. She took off the necklace, ran her fingers over the smooth amber, and put it back on. Perhaps it brought her luck after all. She spread the contents of Betty Lou’s blanket on the bed: a white blouse and full floral skirt with embroidered roses. How thoughtful of Betty Lou. Sylvia couldn’t wait to try on the outfit. But first she needed a bath. It had been at least a month! The fact that she had been in the hogan for many days baffled her. She couldn’t even remember exactly what had happened there—just that she still felt a resonating calmness in her chest.

  Sylvia tossed her filthy clothes in a pile on the floor, reached to turn on the bathwater, then hesitated. The tub was so clean. She should probably take a shower first to rinse off her grime. Funny, she couldn’t ever recollect taking a shower. She opened the door, turned on the water, and stepped in. The frigid water pricked her skin, which released a long-forgotten memory she couldn’t quite place but that now be
gan to surface.

  She jumped out, wrapped herself in a towel, sat on the bathmat, and tried to piece together her memory. She had been about five and had discovered a shiny tiara hidden in her mother’s closet. It was the most beautiful thing Sylvia had ever seen, filled with diamonds that sparkled in the dim light. She had put it on and paraded in front of the mirror, a queen with arms stretched overhead.

  Her mother had swept in, shrieking like a wrathful hawk, and ripped the tiara off Sylvia’s head.

  She cried, “But Mama, I want to be a beauty queen too.”

  “You are far too plain. Plain, plain, plain. You will never win a contest.”

  “I want it!” Sylvia reached for the tiara.

  “No. And you’ll never wear any of my jewels again.” Her mama’s usually serene face had become twisted and frightening.

  But Sylvia wanted the tiara. She rubbed her scalp, wailed, and stamped her feet.

  “Nice girls don’t have tantrums,” her mother had said through clenched teeth. She dragged Sylvia into the bathroom and threw her in a cold shower. Through the door’s etched glass, she could see her mama holding the shower closed with a sneer on her face. Sylvia hunched on the tile and cried while icy water pitted her skin like rose thorns from the garden.

  It seemed like forever before dear Ella pushed her mother aside and opened the door. “Mrs. Van Dam!” Ella pulled Sylvia out and wrapped her in a soft towel. “She’s only a child.”

  Sylvia had never understood why her mother had been so mean, but looking back now, she realized it might have been jealousy. Sylvia had taken away some of her mother’s spotlight. Could her mother’s treatment have been why Sylvia held back her emotions all these years, growing up quiet and shy, even after her parents were gone?

  Her heart now felt injured as if wrapped in gauze. Ricardo never loved her, but neither had her mother. She now remembered another conversation she had overheard after the funeral. Paul was in the library studying the will with some others and he raised his voice to ask, “All the jewelry to Grace Cathedral’s building fund? Not even a keepsake for Sylvia?” Her mother had kept her promise that day with the tiara. It all started to make sense to her now.

  42

  Anne flipped through a Cowboys and Indians magazine, cut out some boots, and glued them onto the Arizona map. Then she perused more National Geographics in search of places Sylvia may have visited. The photos of natural wonders made Anne wish she had driven through Arizona when she moved to San Francisco instead of through Vegas, where she had dumped a lot of cash into a slot machine. Her apartment now looked like a tsunami had hit: newspapers, magazines, clothes, and art supplies were strewn about, and a pile of dishes sat stacked in the sink. Canvases leaned against the walls, and other pieces had been pinned to them. She had kicked into a last flurry of energy to get ready for Fay.

  “Sorry the place is such a mess,” Anne apologized as Fay stepped inside.

  The gallery manager ran her fingers through her spiked hair. “I’d worry if your studio was tidy.”

  “Would you like some coffee or tea?”

  “No, thanks.” Fay slipped on some cat-eyed glasses and examined the pieces pinned to the wall. “This is a new direction for you.”

  “You don’t like them?”

  “No, I mean, yes.” Fay raised her arms and waved them. “I’m gobsmacked!”

  “Really?”

  “It’s a whole new level. How did you ever come up with the concept?”

  “It’s like I’m obsessed—working from an intuition stronger than I’ve ever experienced.” She told Fay all about the coat, pin, key, and Sylvia research.

  “That’s wild. What do you think happened to her?”

  “Don’t know. That’s why I keep researching.”

  “I love this one of Sylvia’s headshot. She sure was a looker.”

  Fay climbed over a tarp to inspect a whitewashed shadow box on the wall more closely. The assemblage had a glass heart suspended over a pair of tiny silver heels pointing away. Another section held a snowflake pin similar to the one on the velvet coat. “How did you ever come up with this combination of images?”

  “Some are from my research, and others are from dreams.”

  “Your pieces will be the best in the show!” Fay hollered.

  Anne felt her heart chakra open with pride. “It’s been a magical process.”

  “I wish we could display all of these instead of including other artists’ work.”

  “But that would be a solo show.”

  Fay sat on the edge of the daybed. “I know. But Old Blockhead insists on group shows now. He thinks we’ll sell more. I don’t agree, but he’s still the boss.”

  “When’s the reception?”

  Fay shook her head. “We’re not.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Mr. Block doesn’t want to spend the quid.”

  “We could do a potluck.” Anne pulled over a kitchen chair and sat facing Fay.

  “That’s a thought. But then there’s still the cost of marketing mailers, etc., etc. Where’s your price list?”

  “Here.” Anne handed her the agonized-over-for-hours neatly typed sheet:

  Anne McFarland

  The Sylvia Series

  1. Portrait of LIFE…………………………………. $275

  2. Lucky Strike……………………………………… $275

  3. Cliff House, Seal of Approval………………. $400

  4. Missing…………………………………………... $500

  5. Pockets of Deep Secrets………………………. $500

  6. Walking Away from Love…………………. $1000

  7. On the Road in Arizona…………………… $500

  8. Full Moon Over Monument Valley……. $500

  Fay straightened her glasses, picked up a pencil from the coffee table, and circled numbers on Anne’s list. “I’d like to show number 1. That’s a twenty by twenty-two, correct?”

  Anne nodded. “Yes.”

  “And 4, 5, and 8.”

  “Eight isn’t finished yet.”

  “Then finish it!” She laughed.

  “But I thought you could only choose one.”

  Fay took off her glasses and looked at Anne. “Mr. Block has seemed a bit distracted lately. He might not even notice and let them slide in.”

  “Mr. Micromanager himself?”

  Fay nodded. “He asked if I’d be interested in curating future shows.”

  “Wow! What did you say?”

  “That I needed a raise.”

  Anne laughed. “Did he give you one?”

  “He said he’d get back to me, but I don’t count my hens before they’re hatched.” Fay looked back at the list. “These prices are way too low.”

  “But if I price them too high, they’ll never sell.”

  “That’s not true. If you price them too low, they’ll be devalued.” She crossed out and doubled the cost of each piece. “Of course, we’ll need to take a 50 percent commission as usual if anything sells.” As she put the pencil down on the table, her eye caught the Ferragamos underneath. She leaned over and picked them up, studying the label. “Where did you get these?”

  With a straight face, Anne said, “I bought them.”

  “On eBay?”

  “No, on sale at Neiman’s.” She took them from Fay, slipped them on, and strutted across the room.

  Fay’s eyes grew wide, and she swallowed. “How much were they?”

  “Only $500. Isn’t that a deal?”

  “It’s probably not any of my business, but should you really spend that kind of money now? Maybe after you sell one of these pieces to celebrate, but . . .”

  Anne started laughing. “I’m just teasing!”

  “What do you mean? Where did you get them?”

  Anne put her hands on her hips and dramatically paraded around. “You were right. New York can be very romantic.”

  “Tell all!”

  “I met
a guy there, and he sent them to me.”

  “Ferragamos? Just like that?”

  Anne sat down on the chair again and nodded. “Practically. My heel had broken in a grate, and he threw that old knockoff pair away.”

  Fay grinned. “Fast work! When’s he coming to visit?”

  “I’m too busy right now. Plus, he—Sergio—lives too far away.” Anne sighed.

  “Sergio sounds sexy! I’ve heard bicoastal relationships can be thrilling.”

  “We have a Skype date for next week.”

  “Blimey. Things have changed. I haven’t even had a phone call from a man in years.”

  Anne didn’t want to pry. “Sorry.”

  “Don’t be. I had a love once. I gave up on finding another one years ago. Me mom calls me a spinster.” Fay checked her watch and kissed Anne on the cheek. “Gotta run. Thanks for sitting the gallery for me the other day. I’ll let you know when I need you again. Can you deliver the pieces at the end of next week?”

  “Yes. See you then.” Anne closed the door, sat on the daybed, and studied the list. If she really could sell something at those prices, it would be amazing. She’d better start working again on that last piece, or it would never be finished in time. It needed many more layers.

  To add the final touches on Full Moon over Monument Valley, she mixed brown and red paints together and dipped a brush into the smooth texture, and the smell of cinnamon sprang into the air. She sniffed again, but the scent was gone. Anne looked at the portrait, and a chill went down her spine. It was as if Sylvia was really looking at her, trying to tell her something.

  43

  Betty Lou drove the Ford along the highway dressed as if going to a powwow, in a garnet-colored dress and loads of silver and turquoise jewelry. Her hair had been smoothed back and wrapped into an exotic type of loop. Sylvia felt fancy too in her new prairie outfit. Lucy sat on her lap and looked out the window.

  This morning, the sandy ground had popped with wildflowers, a coverlet of beauty. The colors more striking than an ocean full of gems: magenta, purple, gold, white. Filled with gratitude, Sylvia could feel God’s presence. “Amazing!”

  “You’re lucky to see. Doesn’t last long.”

  “But it looks like it could last forever.”