The Green Lace Corset Page 3

  God, please save me, she’d silently prayed.

  And, as if in answer to her prayer, the man had released her and run out of the bank with that bag of money—a fortune, she later learned: $10,000.

  The conductor entered the car and stood beside them. “Tickets, please.”

  Sally Sue opened her mouth to speak. Cliff patted his jacket above the gun. “Yes, sir.” He handed the conductor his ticket. “Honey, give him yours.”

  Her hands juddered while she searched through the basket. She handed it to the conductor, who didn’t notice as she tried to catch his eye.

  He studied the ticket with a frown. “This was only good to the last town.”

  Sally Sue tried to stand, but Cliff put an arm tightly around her shoulders, as if they were lovers. “You don’t say. See, here’s my ticket.”

  The conductor inspected it. “Must be some kind of mistake. I apologize. Have a nice ride.” He left the car.

  Cliff leaned back and closed his eyes. When he seemed to have nodded off, Sally Sue stealthily rose, gathered her things, and headed toward the corridor. He pulled her back down and grumbled, “You’re going nowhere without me, pretty lady.”

  Was he making fun of her? “Pretty”—ha. “Wallflower” was more like it, her mother would have said. Sally Sue scowled back at him. “Why won’t you let me go?”

  “You’ll tell the authorities where I am.”

  “No, I won’t. I promise. I have to go to my aunt. She shouldn’t die alone.”

  “All of us die alone sooner or later.”

  Sally Sue cried, “Where’re you taking me?”

  “West. Toward the Pacific.” He handed her a white handkerchief from his front pocket. “Better get used to the idea.”

  “Isn’t it wild out there?” She dabbed at her tears.

  “That’s why I want to go there.”

  She just couldn’t look at him any longer, so she took her tatting from her basket, but she was shaking so hard, she couldn’t work the needles. She considered jabbing him with one and running away, but it would only poke him, and he’d shoot her for sure. She put the needles back in her basket and folded her arms across her chest.

  Why would a man rob a bank? Did he have hungry children to feed, or a sick parent, or was he just greedy?

  “Why’d you do it?” she asked.

  “Do what?”

  “Rob that bank.”

  “I had my reasons.”

  “What could ever justify killing a man?”

  “That was never part of the plan. I’ll say no more about it.”

  She looked out the window. A line of five covered wagons crossed the desolate plain.

  “Look at those prairie schooners,” Cliff said.

  “What?”

  “Those wagons seem like ships sailing out to sea.”

  “Why don’t those people just take the train?”

  “They’re moving all their possessions west. Now that trains go all the way across to the Pacific, we’ll probably see fewer prairie schooners.”

  Up ahead, a dozen shaggy beasts roamed the tall grasses near the tracks, their horned heads bowed, as if in prayer. Their skinny legs didn’t look like they could hold up their immense bodies. As the train slowed with a squeal, the bison began to scatter.

  “Peculiar-looking things,” Cliff said. “Used to be millions of them. I heard there are fewer than a thousand left now.”

  “What happened to them?”

  She’d heard stories of engines slowing down for hunters to shoot bison from open windows. “Did hunters really kill bison from trains?”

  “Yes.”

  “Why would anyone shoot them? They’re not hurting anything. Was it Indians?”

  “No, they only kill what they planned to eat. White hunters mostly shot bison for sport. Sometimes railroad companies paid hunters to keep bison off the tracks.”

  “Did you ever do it?”

  “Do what?”

  “Shoot bison from a train?”

  He just stared at her and didn’t say a word.

  She shivered. As the train continued along, she searched for peaceful animal sightings to dispel the gruesome image of bison shootings and counted each new group she saw: flocks of geese, rafters of wild turkey, herds of elk, bands of wild horses.

  It began to grow dark. She took a shawl from her basket and wrapped it around her shoulders.

  “Are you cold?” Cliff put an arm around her.

  She pulled away. “Don’t touch me.” Memories of the robbery flowed into her senses.

  “Sorry.” He closed his eyes.

  Darkness fell. The train rumbled rhythmically beneath her. After a while, she heard Cliff’s soft breathing. Quietly, she picked up her basket and crept into the corridor again.

  She heard Cliff’s gun cock against the small of her back.

  “Like I said, you’re not going anywhere without me.”

  She returned to the seat and stared out into the blackness. How would she ever get away from him? Wouldn’t he have killed her already if he was going to do so? Even though she was exhausted, she would never be able to sleep.

  Cliff nudged Sally Sue’s shoulder. “Morning, glory.”

  She opened her eyes, stretched, and yawned. She must have fallen asleep. The train continued to chug along the winding tracks. Outside the window, as the sun rose, a vast, sandy landscape glowed rose pink. The train passed lofty, flat mesas striped with bands of color. Maybe that was what the moon looked like.

  Cliff handed her his canteen.

  Her heart lurched as the realization of this nightmare journey flooded back into her. She shook her head no, but he pushed it toward her again, with force. She took a sip but refused the biscuit he offered.

  He eyed her.

  “What are you looking at?” she asked, with a scowl.

  “Your beauty.”

  “Stop teasing.” For an outlaw, he sure was a sweet-talker. If she was going to escape him, she’d need to stay alert.

  The train slowed but didn’t stop as it passed a few buildings beside a wooden sign that said ADAMA.

  Frothy, scalloped clouds with navy-blue undersides floated above. That was probably what ocean waves looked like. She didn’t know for certain, because she’d never seen them before. Since Cliff said they were going to the Pacific, she’d find out soon enough. To her chagrin, even though he was a thief, she still thought he was handsome.

  A line of pines taller than any church steeples she’d ever seen passed by. Misty rain wafted sideways, hovered, then disappeared from sight. The train curved around a bend, and her heart opened at the awe-inspiring vista. She’d never seen such massive snowcapped mountains. She wished she could reach up and touch the peaks with her white-gloved hand. They resembled Mount Olympus, like she’d seen in the mythology book at the library, as if gods really could live up there.

  As the train began to slow, she spied a real church steeple and a smattering of buildings up ahead. Beside them, a cowboy lassoed a roan mare and led her into a corral. The whistle blew, and a crowd of folks looked up expectantly at the windows as the train rolled to a stop beside a row of rusted-out boxcars.

  Cliff stood and handed her bonnet to her. “Let’s get out.”

  “Are we at the Pacific?” She tied the bow beneath her chin.

  “No. We’re gonna get off here for a while.” He grabbed his saddlebag and tilted his head toward the corridor. Sally Sue followed him, holding her basket tightly.

  6

  Anne knocked on Priscilla’s door and stepped inside. An abstract painting, maybe even an original Rothko, hung behind her desk. Diplomas up the yin-yang covered another wall: BA in art history from Vanderbilt, MA from the Rhode Island School of Design, PhD from Yale.

  From behind her desk, Priscilla peered at Anne through thick-rimmed glasses. “Welcome back. Have a seat. You look rested.”

  Anne held the application with shaky hands. “Thanks again for letting me go. I really appreciate it, Dr. Preston
.”

  “No problem.” Priscilla removed a pen from her gray, schoolmarm-ish bun and spanked it on the desk as if it were a paddle. “Artists need rejuvenation. Are you feeling fresh?”

  “Yes. How did my classes go?”

  “One of our new volunteers did a fine job covering for you.”

  “Glad to hear it. Speaking of rejuvenation, I’ve come up with a project I think the kids will enjoy.”

  “You mean young artists.”

  Oh, brother. “Yes, young artists will enjoy. Do you happen to know anyone who has horses?”

  Priscilla hesitated. “In fact, I do. One of our board members has a ranch out near Los Olivos. What do you need?”

  “Used horseshoes.”

  “Really?” Priscilla tapped the pen on her desk again. “Why?”

  “We’re going to mosaic them using found objects. You’ve encouraged me to be more innovative with my lessons.”

  Priscilla shrugged. Her big, shoulder-padded jacket looked like something out of the 1980s. She was probably about Anne’s mom’s age, but it was hard to tell. At least her mom tried to stay stylish for her Avon business.

  “I’m sure he can help with that. I’ll introduce you by e-mail.”

  Anne stood up. “I’d better get ready for class. Here’s my application.” She put it on the desk.

  “Oh, that’s right—you’re applying for the residency. It’s going to be hard work. You’ll be on your feet all day and interacting with museum guests.”

  Strange. Priscilla had told her to apply. She’d always been warm to Anne; today, though, she was downright chilly.

  “I know. Thank you for the support and encouragement.”

  Anne made her way down the hall to the classroom, went inside, and opened the blinds for the natural light. Even though she’d been gone only two weeks, everything looked different. The space was neater than usual; a new shelving unit had been added, and many of the bins had been rearranged. She hoped she’d be able to find her materials. Adorable tinfoil sculptures were displayed on a top shelf.

  “Hi, Anne. You’re looking gorgeous.”

  Stunned at the sight of her old boyfriend, she stepped back. It had ended very badly. “Karl, what are you doing here?”

  “I covered for you while you were gone.” He closed the space between them, gave her a hug, and kissed her on the cheek.

  His cinnamon scent used to entice her but now made her want to throw up. She pulled away. “But you aren’t even an artist.”

  “I am now. I left the hardware business and studied sculpture at the community college.”

  She pictured him whittling with a Swiss Army knife, scraping a twig into a marshmallow skewer. An artist, he must have been kidding. When they were together, he hadn’t understood her creativity and hadn’t been supportive of her artwork at all, had even called it a hobby.

  She eyed his handsome, chiseled face, with its steep cheekbones and cleft chin. “You were always handy.”

  That was for sure. He was handy in bed. Their sex life had been incredible, and she had fallen for him right away. The jerk. After she’d finally broken up with him, he’d kept texting and calling until she’d decided to block him.

  Anne looked at the clock. Her students would be arriving any moment. She spread collage paper on the tables. She’d been seeing Karl for a year when she’d broached the commitment subject and he’d been forced to make a confession. He’d said he was married but that he and his wife slept in separate rooms—as if Anne would ever believe that.

  “How’s your wife?” she asked now.

  “I don’t know. We’re not living together anymore. I haven’t seen her for a year.”

  “What about your son?” Anne asked. Karl had wanted to move in with Anne while his divorce was being finalized and she could help him with his one-year old baby boy on weekends.

  “I haven’t seen him for a while, either.”

  “Why ever not?” She grabbed a pile of magazines and tossed them in the middle of the tables.

  “Let’s just say it’s complicated.”

  “I’m sure it is.”

  Fortunately, Perky Penelope, Anne’s favorite student, bounded in the door. She knew she shouldn’t have a favorite, but she couldn’t help herself.

  “Hi, Penny. I missed you.” Anne opened her arms wide.

  “Oh. Are you back?” Penny barely glanced at her as she ran into Karl’s arms and gazed up at him. “Mr. Karl is so cool.”

  Anne felt like she’d been kicked in the stomach by a horse. Penny used to say Anne was cool too.

  Then the Tromble twins bounded in. Each grabbed one of Penny’s elbows and lifted her off the ground. She shrieked.

  “Find a penny, pick it up. All day long, we’ll have good luck,” they said simultaneously, with loud laughs.

  “Boys, stop!” Karl stood between them. “Sit down.”

  “Sorry, Mr. Karl.” They made their way to their seats, while Penny found a chair as far away from them as possible.

  Anne could never tell the twins apart.

  “Mr. Karl is so cool,” one of them said.

  “So I’ve heard.” She tried not to feel jealous.

  One of the boys pointed at a tinfoil sculpture. “There’s the piece I made.”

  “And there’s mine.” His twin aimed his finger at another and looked at the paper on the table. “Not collage again!”

  “I thought you liked collage.” Anne felt her face redden in front of Karl.

  “I’d rather do sculpture.”

  Karl looked at Anne and shrugged.

  Before long, ten more students darted into the room, all screeching and running around the tables.

  “Sit down!” Karl hollered.

  The students rushed to find seats.

  “Sorry, Mr. Karl.” Rhonda popped a wad of gum.

  “Would you like me to stay and help out?” he asked Anne.

  “No, thanks.”

  “I’ve gotta turn in my residency application now anyway.”

  He was applying for the residency too. How could he be infringing on her territory like this?

  “Want to have coffee after you get off?”

  “I have plans.” She passed out some scissors.

  He whispered in her ear, “Let’s take up where we left off.”

  She thought she might gag.

  “See you kids later,” Karl called, and started out the door.

  She wanted to throw the scissors at his back.

  7

  The next morning, Anne woke up with a yawn. The night before, she’d tossed and turned, trying to expel the bad memories of Karl from her mind, along with the fact that he was now applying for the residency. She couldn’t let him get to her.

  She googled him. He didn’t even have a website, or any art photos posted on Facebook or Instagram that she could find. He wouldn’t be any competition for the residency. On the other hand, she had no trouble locating plenty of pictures of him posing next to women wearing lots of makeup and low-cut tops. What a pants man!

  She loved Sundays without anything scheduled. She had the whole day to do her art, and she didn’t want to waste it. So many ideas from her trip were buzzing in her head, she didn’t know where to start.

  The apartment still dark from the fog outside, she yawned, tempted to go back to sleep. Instead, she said, “Alexa, play disco music.” That always got her going.

  “Stayin’ Alive” came on, and in her sweats and old T-shirt, she flipped on the lights, boogied to the sink, scrubbed the hubcap as best she could, and set it on a dish towel to dry, then made coffee.

  She decided to start with her lesson sample. She covered the kitchenette table with newspaper, grabbed a paper plate, and placed on it the horseshoe she’d brought back from her trip. She poured the baggie filled with small found objects onto a silver tray. She selected possible focal-point options; a plastic pony, a rose pendant, and a red heart called to her. She placed each, one at a time, in the middle of the horseshoe. The
heart looked best, and she glued it down.

  When she had bought it at the flea market, the man had said, “Anyone who owns one will have good luck. Be sure the arch is at the bottom, or the luck will pour out.”

  Uh-oh. She’d glued the heart on the wrong way. She quickly pulled it off, reset it, and flipped the horseshoe around. She squeezed out more glue; placed three blue marbles, white buttons, and other objects from her grab bag on it; and sprinkled seed beads over the entire surface, then set the whole thing aside to dry. She couldn’t wait to see how it turned out.

  She began to mix more paint to add to her sky canvas when her phone chimed. She should have put it on silent mode. She hated to be interrupted when doing her art. Staying in the zone took practice.

  Sergio again: Call me.

  She finished mixing the paint and quickly washed it over the canvas. She wanted to call him later, but she knew she wouldn’t be able to focus on her art because she’d keep thinking about talking to him. In the bathroom, she brushed her teeth, put up her messy hair in a scrunchie, and added lipstick.

  She commanded Alexa to turn off the music and FaceTimed Sergio. She held her phone tight.

  “Amore mio.”

  She loved it when he spoke Italian to her. Just hearing his voice made her heart chakra feel like it might explode. She adjusted her phone so she could see his whole, handsome face: deep-set brown eyes; curly, dark hair bouncing on his shoulders; bright smile.

  “How are you?” she asked, trying to keep her voice even.

  “I miss you,” he said.

  A siren screamed outside, and she paused. “I miss you too.”

  “Looked like you had a good trip.”

  “Yes. Incredible. What have you been up to?” She was tempted to ask if he was seeing anyone, but she didn’t really want to know. “How’s work going?”

  “There’s no business like shoe business,” he sang.

  “Hardy-har-har.”

  “How’s the museum?”

  “My Saturday kids are adorable, even though they’re sometimes a little rambunctious. A lot of my adults are more accomplished artists than I’ll ever be.”