The Black Velvet Coat Read online

  A man with wavy hair brushed up into a pompadour opened the ornately carved wooden door. “Good afternoon, Miss McFarland.” He took the piece from her. “You are expected in the library. Follow me.”

  Anne stepped inside. The largest crystal chandelier she had ever seen was suspended above the marbled foyer. Arched staircases reached from each side up to the second floor, where portraits were hung along the walls. The first landing displayed an oil painting of a young woman; her blonde hair was scooped up into a French twist, and a rose-colored gown clung to her lithe body. At her feet, a small beagle preened on a pillow. Anne wished she could run up the steps to inspect it closer, but she followed the butler down a long hallway and into a library bigger than her entire apartment. He set the piece on a desk and turned to her. “May I take your coat?”

  Her hands caressed the velvet in the cold space. “No, thanks.”

  He tugged down his vest. “Will there be anything else, sir?” he asked the man who sat by the fire.

  The older man checked his watch. “Tea in twenty, George.”

  “Certainly.” The butler left.

  Mr. Palmer waved to Anne. “Come on over.”

  “Good to see you again.” She shook his soft hand.

  “Forgive me for not standing. My legs are a little creaky today.”

  “I’m sorry to hear that.” She wanted to ask if he’d had any more fainting spells but instead pointed to the picture. “Would you like me to open it for you now?”

  “Let’s wait until after tea.” He nodded toward a chair. “My wife will join us soon.”

  Anne sat across from him and fingered the brass brads along the edge of her seat, suddenly nervous without really knowing why; she looked around the room. A giant oriental carpet accented the wood floor. The high shelves were lined with more books than one could ever read in a lifetime. A grandfather clock, with a sun and moon inside, stood against a wall.

  “Thank you for buying my piece.”

  He blinked and smiled at her. His gray hair shone in the firelight. “Thank you for being so talented. Your work is quite unique.”

  “I’m curious, what attracted you to it?”

  “You’ll see in a moment.”

  She frowned, puzzled. Not sure what else to say, she remained silent and shifted in her seat. The clock ticked loudly. She looked around again and wondered what it would be like to live in a mansion like this. It would be a far cry from not knowing if you could pay the rent on time.

  “Oh, here she is! My wife, Sylvia.”

  Hearing that name, Anne jumped to her feet. A velvety light glowed around the elderly woman. Her thinning hair was looped up into the distinctive French twist. She wore a small strand of pearls, a turquoise silk blouse, and a pashmina around her thin shoulders, all very stylish, except for the Velcro Nikes on her feet.

  A beagle puppy, like the one in the painting, followed her closely then ran to Paul and jumped in his lap. “Hey, Lucky, my boy.” He leaned down and let him lick his chin.

  Sylvia floated across the room and took Anne’s hand.

  Anne blurted, “My God, it’s you!”

  “Yes, I recognized the coat and pin at the cathedral. Thought I was seeing things.” Her voice resonated like a singing bowl, and she smelled of gardenias.

  “It is you.” Anne wondered if she was having another dream.

  They held hands. Sylvia’s eyes gazed straight into Anne’s heart, the connection deep, as if they had known each other for a very long time.

  Anne had thought that if she ever found Sylvia, it would feel like lightning had struck, but instead, she felt a calm like never before, a softening of her body and a downshifting of her tense brain. Sylvia smiled and smoothed the back of her hair. She touched the pin on the coat Anne wore. “I still remember the day I bought it.”

  “Do you want it back? The coat too?” Anne started to take it off.

  “Heavens, no! Where ever did you find them?”

  “A thrift shop.” Anne pulled out the key. “This was in the pocket.”

  Sylvia took it and twisted it in gnarled fingers. The backs of her hands were spotted with age, but her pink nails were as pretty as the roses in her garden.

  Paul called, “Ladies! Time for tea.”

  George set a tray on the coffee table. Lucky jumped off Paul’s lap, stuck his tail in the air, and wagged it back and forth like a paintbrush.

  Sylvia laughed. “I think he needs a walk.”

  George pulled a biscuit from his pocket. “Walk!”

  Lucky barked and followed George out of the room.

  Sylvia and Anne sat on the sofa, side by side. Paul poured from a floral teapot, handed Sylvia a cup, and then offered one to Anne. “Ginger snap?” he asked.

  She didn’t think she could eat a thing. To be polite, she picked up a cookie and laid it on her plate. “What a privilege to meet you, Ms. Van Dam. I mean . . .”

  “Mrs. Palmer, but you can call me Sylvia.” She covered her mouth with her elbow and coughed.

  “Sylvia.” Anne liked the way it felt in her mouth, smooth and sophisticated. Suddenly it all made sense as her mind put the pieces together. She remembered she had seen the name on the check, Paul Palmer, in the Sylvia research. He had escorted her to the Valentine’s Day dance. But Anne had never researched to find out more about him.

  “Go ahead and show Sylvia your art piece.” Paul’s excited voice filled with enthusiasm. He limped over and sat on the other side of his wife on the couch.

  Anne held her breath as she unwrapped the paper and handed it to Sylvia.

  As the older woman held it, her face fluctuated from frowns to smiles. “It’s amazing. Paul had tried to prepare me. ‘Sylvia, where are you?’” she read the scrawled question aloud. “I’m right here.” She daubed at her eyes with a lace hanky.

  Anne stood behind the couch and put a hand on Sylvia’s shoulder. “I didn’t mean to upset you.”

  Paul’s eyes pooled up too, and he patted Sylvia’s hand. “Now, dear. We’ll just put it away.”

  Anne started to reach for the collage. “I’ll take it home and return your money.”

  “No!” Sylvia held the picture to her chest. “I love it.”

  “But I don’t want you to have it if it makes you sad.”

  “I’m just having a good cry, that’s all. It’s just these memories.” She wiped her eyes. “Some good and some bad, but they made me who I am today. They take me back to the time when I grew up.”

  “You sure you want to keep it?”

  “Of course. And what ingenuity.”

  Anne smiled as pride enveloped her.

  Sylvia pointed above the desk. “We’ll remove those botanicals and put it there.”

  “Shall I hang it for you now? I brought a hammer and nails.”

  “Not now. This has been enough excitement for one day. Would you mind coming back another time to do that?”

  “I’d be happy to.” Anne nodded.

  “How about next Friday at the same time?”

  Anne nodded. “If I’m not prying, what did happen to you? Where were you?”

  “Well, dear. It’s a long story.” Sylvia looked at Paul.

  “She went away. When she returned, let’s just say we kept our lives private.”

  Sylvia tugged at the white cloth napkin on her lap. “Yes, and . . .” She held the napkin to her mouth and coughed.

  Paul looked at her with worried eyes. “When I saw your work in the gallery, I couldn’t believe it.” Paul chuckled. “How did my Sylvia get up there on those walls? I almost passed out.”

  “And scared me half to death.” Anne laughed.

  “What a perfect gift.” Sylvia patted Paul’s hand. “Thank you, dear.

  They were such a sweet couple. Anne wondered if she would ever have a love like that someday.

  55

  How sweet of you to help like this.” Sylvia handed Anne an apron.

  “No problem. Besides, I’d like to improve my cooking skills,
which are nonexistent.” Anne slipped the apron on over her head and turned around for Sylvia to tie the sash.

  She admired Anne’s thick hair, so full of life, just like her—and lovely today, pulled back in that chiffon scarf matching her hazel eyes. Sylvia enjoyed having her near. Ever since they met, just over a month ago, Sylvia’s spirits had felt more energetic.

  “Start chopping here.” She sat on Ella’s kitchen stool at the counter and pointed to a cutting board surrounded by fresh tomatoes, bell peppers, and mushrooms. Lucky rushed in and stood at Sylvia’s feet. “Go sit on your carpet.” He backed up, turned in circles, and obeyed.

  Anne picked up a knife and starting hacking at a tomato. “Like this?”

  “Slow down.” Sylvia took the knife and demonstrated just as Ella had taught her years ago. “This way, and then that way.”

  Anne retrieved the knife and tried again, this time getting into the rhythm. “How much do we need?”

  “Enough for thirty women.”

  “Thirty! Wouldn’t it be easier to make it at the shelter?”

  “Can’t. They don’t have cooking facilities.”

  “Why not?”

  “There’s not enough room at the shelter, and besides, kitchens cost a lot to build and maintain.” Sylvia put a skillet on the front burner and turned it on. “Now toss it in.”

  Anne slanted the cutting board toward the skillet. “Oops!” Some pulp plummeted to the marble floor.

  “That’s okay, just wipe it up. There’s a dishcloth in that drawer. Start on the peppers next.”

  Anne cleaned up the floor and began to chop a green pepper. “How long have you been doing this?”

  “Every Monday for almost fifty years.” Sylvia shook her head with a smile and thought about her conversation with Paul when she told him she wanted to volunteer at the shelter. It had been a few months after that horrible night with the police questions.

  Paul had been over for dinner, and they sat at the card table in the library. He opened the Scrabble board and said, “Sylvia, you need to start getting out more.”

  “I know.” She peeked at the door to make sure Ella wasn’t near and lowered her voice. “Is the business with the police over?”

  “At least for now. I think they accepted that you just couldn’t find that gun.” He smiled at her.

  “But I still feel so guilty. How can I ever live with it?” She flipped over some Scrabble tiles.

  He leaned over and took her hand in his. “When the truth is too much, you can squeeze like this.” He pressed his thumb into her palm. She gazed down at their fingers woven together, the smooth sensation of his power evident in his calmness and sincerity. She thought maybe he was finally going to kiss her. Even though she thought he loved her, he still hadn’t. But instead, he released her hand and sat back. “It’s time you move forward and live your life.”

  “I know, and I think I’ve come up with just the thing to occupy my time.” She’d been thinking about it for quite some time but wasn’t sure he’d approve. “Guess what it is.”

  He laughed. “I suppose what you’ve always done. Shop.”

  She touched her pearls. “I don’t want to do that anymore.”

  He blinked. “You don’t? Do you want to go back to school?”

  “No.”

  “Join the Garden Club or Junior League?”

  She shook her head.

  Paul continued. “Play bridge?”

  “Something more meaningful.”

  “A stock club. I know one that’s starting just for women. It’s called Dollars for Dolls.”

  She scrunched up her face.

  “What is it then?”

  “I’ve heard the church is starting a women’s shelter.”

  “What’s that?”

  “A place that provides needy women with whatever they might need. A place to get a good meal, sleep, or maybe even to get away from a bullying husband or one that hits them or . . . It could have been so much worse for me. I have so much and have been so fortunate. What do you think?”

  He smiled at her. “I think it’s perfect.”

  So she wrangled Ella into teaching her how to cook, which hadn’t been easy. And now, all these years later, Sylvia was showing Anne how to do it.

  “I can’t believe you make all this sauce from scratch.”

  “As Ella used to say, ‘Don’t be hasty. It will be more tasty.’” Sylvia began to stir the pot. How wonderful to have a companion to help her! Even after Ella died, she had continued. Recently though, her stamina had waned, but she just couldn’t give it up.

  “Here comes some more.” Anne scooped up a handful of peppers and dropped them into the sauce.

  “You’re doing a great job. Keep at it.” Sylvia tossed in a handful of herbs and stirred the sauce, and an enticing aroma sprang into the room.

  George came in and looked around. “Mr. Palmer says it’s almost time to go. Walk?” He looked at Lucky, who jumped up and waited for his leash to be clasped.

  Lucky and George left the kitchen, and Anne whispered, “I don’t think he likes having me around much. He’s always so grumpy.”

  “That’s just his nature. He’s had a hard time. He lost his wife last year and then his house too.”

  “How sad.” Anne shook her head.

  “We do what we can to make him feel like family.”

  Anne pushed the last of the mushrooms into the skillet. “That’s it.” As instructed by Sylvia, she added pasta to the giant pot of boiling water and stirred.

  With a spoon, Sylvia scooped up a little sauce, blew on it, and tasted. Lucky scuttled into the kitchen with George and Paul in tow. “Ready?” Paul asked.

  “Give it a whirl,” Sylvia commanded her husband.

  He pulled a noodle from the pot and threw it against the wall, and it stuck. George didn’t even crack a smile.

  “Hey, let me try it!” Anne tossed a noodle, and it dribbled down the wall. Lucky raced over and gobbled it up.

  “No, you gotta give it a good flick.” Paul showed her his wrist action. “See?”

  Anne tossed another one. This time it held fast, and the room exploded in applause—except for George, who was all business. He used the hot pads, carried the pot over to the sink, and drained out the water. Anne stirred in the sauce.

  “Don’t forget the parmesan cheese,” Sylvia said, and she coughed into her elbow. George grabbed it from the fridge, and they all hurried out to the old Lincoln. Paul sat in the front passenger seat, and the ladies climbed in the back. Sylvia put a dishtowel over her knees, and George set the warm spaghetti pot on them. He rushed to the driver’s side, started the engine, and pulled out of the drive.

  “Yesterday I made gingersnaps for dessert. But we need to be careful and only give each woman two. Too much sugar isn’t healthy. If you’d like, next week, I’ll teach you how to make Ella’s secret recipe.”

  “What happens when you go on vacation?” Anne asked as they rode toward downtown.

  “I give the center a donation for pizza or some other type of take-out.”

  When the Lincoln pulled up to the center, there was nowhere to park. George put on his flashers as Anne ran inside, and an assortment of ladies followed her back out to the car.

  “Mrs. Palmer, you always bring the best food!” A hefty woman in a rainbow-colored knit cap grabbed the spaghetti pot from her. Still more gathered the salad, cookies, and bottled water from the trunk. “Thank you so much!” they cried. “You’re the best.”

  “No, you are the best!” Sylvia called as Anne helped her out of the car.

  “George, we’ll see you in an hour.” Sylvia grasped Anne’s arm for support.

  They entered the shelter, and Anne heard a familiar voice. “Missy!” Her homeless friend stood there, with a hand on her hip wearing the worn out turban.

  “Mata. Here for a hot meal?”

  “You bet. I always come on Mrs. Palmer’s night,” Mata said, then she hurried to get a spot in line.


  56

  Knit one. Purl two. Knit one. Purl two,” Sylvia’s voice recited in rhythm as she clicked the needles. Turquoise yarn slid back and forth through the loops.

  Beside her on the library couch, Anne chanted too. “Knit one. Purl two. Knit one. Purl . . .” The words were meditative, like a mantra.

  “Lucky, stop!” Sylvia yelled, and she nudged the beagle away with her Nikes. “Sit.”

  The puppy sprinted across the room and back again then ran around in circles chasing his tail.

  “How are things going?” Sylvia asked.

  “I’m frustrated. I just can’t seem to make ends meet.” Just this morning, Mrs. Ladenheim reminded her that rent was due again.

  “In what way?”

  “I really want to make it as an artist, but maybe I’m really not good enough. I’ve tried every gallery in town.”

  “Not good enough! You are a wonderful artist! Be brave. You must have had courage to move out here in the first place. Now find that courage and persevere!”

  Anne sighed. “I go to sleep at night with bravery, but when I wake up in the morning, I’ve lost it again.”

  “I make notes to myself.” Sylvia held up a knitting needle and wrote in the air. “I write them on sticky notes and post them on my mirror.”

  “You do?”

  “Try it. They have to be positive though. Not I will be brave, but instead, I am the most courageous person in the world. Is there a particular gallery you want to show in?”

  “Gallery Noir, where Paul bought my piece. But Mr. Block, the owner, doesn’t like my work.”

  “What do you mean he doesn’t like your work? Who wouldn’t?”

  Anne shrugged.

  “I’ve learned sometimes you need to tell someone what they’ll do instead of ask. Come up with reasons that will convince them. Use the sticky notes. Stand tall, and rehearse in the mirror. Now, how’re things with Sergio?”

  Anne tried to keep her knitting needles from tangling. “The relationship has cooled off for now. He lives so far away. I’ve tried to meet someone who lives closer, but no one compares to him.” Her last Skype date with him hadn’t gone well: