The Black Velvet Coat Page 4

  Anne reached out to shake his hand but then pulled the sticky mess back. She tossed the rest of the cone in a trashcan. “Excuse me,” she said, and she raced back into the ice cream shop and grabbed a pile of napkins. Through the window, she could see Brian fix the flag in Pootie’s hair. Anne bit her lip to hold back tears. She wanted to be happy that someone was paying attention to her cousin, but did it have to be Brian?

  Now, thinking back to that day made Anne more determined than ever to stay in San Francisco. She decided her next step would be to put herself out there and do some networking.

  6

  The next afternoon, Anne forced herself to attend the opening at Gallery Noir on Sutter Street. She shook her umbrella, left it at the door, and followed the crowd inside the bright space, where tony dressers chatted and nibbled appetizers around belly-bars.

  San Francisco Color and Light—Anne read the poster description and began to walk the perimeter of the space. Large paintings in a variety of hues from orange to blue hung on the walls: the Golden Gate, Coit Tower, cable cars, etc. She stood in front of the Chinatown painting for a few moments.

  A handsome man in a dark suit stepped next to her and smiled.

  “Hi, I’m Anne McFarland.” She reached out her hand. He shook it, then glanced at her feet and hurried away. In the velvet coat she thought no one would notice her sweatpants and sneakers. She hated to dress up and couldn’t wear heels walking the city’s hills.

  Anne scanned the crowd again. Across the room in an elegant silk tunic, she spotted Lila, the artist, as she touched her long straight hair woven with feathers. Fortunately, it didn’t look like Joan, from their creative support group, had arrived yet. Anne wandered over to Lila and waited her turn for a hug. “How sweet of you to come. I’ve missed you at group.”

  “I know. Been busy.” Anne had quit going not because of the dark church basement or even the $10 fee but because of Joan.

  At one meeting, Anne had excitedly shared about selling three pieces at a farmers’ market, but Joan had responded, “Don’t tell anyone; no one will ever take your work seriously.” Another time, Anne had brought up that she had a gallery offer to display her Mogul series for only a $100 monthly fee. “That’s outrageous!” Joan had cried. “Why would they be motivated to sell your work if you are paying their rent?”

  The other members had nodded in agreement, and Lila had said, “She’s right. You should never have to pay to show your work.” The group seemed to be able to tell her what not to do but never shared what to do in order to make it.

  Raymond Block, the gallery owner, stepped in front of Anne. “Lila, darling! Simply marvelous.” He kissed both her cheeks.

  “Thank you. This is my dear friend, A . . . A . . .”

  “Anne McFarland.” Anne held out her hand to him. “Don’t you remember? I showed you my Mogul series a year ago.”

  Anne itched to reach out and straighten his Andy Warholesque silver-gray wig that was slightly askew. He adjusted his thick glasses illuminating owlish eyes as he shook his head, grabbed Lila’s elbow, and led her away. “You must meet Stephan and Kiki Sodenburg, my biggest clients. They are simply captivated by your work.”

  Feeling as small as a Michigan gnat, Anne watched Lila greet the Sodenburgs. Kiki smoothed down her Cleopatra hair while Stephan shook Lila’s hand. Stout with salt-and-pepper gray hair, he wore a blue sports coat and a red polka-dotted ascot at his neck.

  Anne decided to quickly get a bite to eat and leave. “Fancy some champagne?” A woman with short spiked hair held up a glass.

  Anne accepted it and took a sip.

  “How did you hear about our exhibition?” The woman had a lovely British accent.

  “I know Lila.”

  “Are you an artist too?”

  Anne filled a plate with shrimp, stuffed mushrooms, and cheese and said, “Mostly collage and mixed media.”

  “Wicked! Why don’t you tote some in here for us to see?”

  “I have. Mr. Block didn’t seem to like my style.”

  “Try again.” The woman smiled at her.

  “Thanks.” Anne doubted she would. Just as she nibbled a shrimp, Joan and some other members of the group walked in. Anne escaped into the restroom. Sitting in a stall, she stuffed a roll in her pocket with a little piece of cheese for tomorrow’s breakfast and gobbled the rest down. Then she slipped out of the gallery through a back door.

  Hiking up toward her apartment, she heard a cable car clang beside her and considered taking it the rest of the way. But she decided to walk instead—it was a good butt workout anyway. With these hills, she never needed to join a gym. It started to rain, but she had left her umbrella at the gallery.

  “Don’t you look fancy?” A squeaky voice called.

  Anne looked down at the homeless woman huddled in the doorway with a sleeping bag around her shoulders. “No, you’re the fancy one, Mata Hari.”

  The woman wore a gold turban and long black gloves. Last week, on Anne’s way back from a Halloween party, she had felt sorry for the shivering woman and bestowed her the dramatic costume pieces.

  “Why aren’t you at the shelter?” Anne asked.

  “I prefer the fresh air.” The woman’s weather-beaten face made it hard to tell exactly how old she was. Perhaps in better days, with those large eyes, she had been as beautiful as Garbo.

  “Did you eat there at least?”

  “They ran out.” Mata shrugged.

  “Too bad.” Anne’s heart tightened.

  Mata smiled a jack-o-lantern missing-tooth smile and ran her tongue over chapped lips.

  From her pocket Anne pulled the roll with cheese and handed them to Mata. “Here you go. Bon appétit.”

  Back at her apartment, she took the key from her coat pocket and put it on the altar. It sure hadn’t brought her any luck tonight.

  She checked her messages. “Hi, babe. Can’t make it now. Let’s get together tomorrow instead.” This wasn’t the first time Karl had postponed a date. She didn’t want to see him anyway! She really needed to talk to him though. She curled up on the daybed and gazed at the photo transfer tacked to the wall. Sylvia’s dramatic face looked down at her.

  Anne opened the newspaper and skimmed an article about Obama’s plan to get the troops out of Afghanistan and another about the homeless population in San Francisco. She then read an interesting piece about the Cliff House’s disasters: fires, dynamite explosions, and even shipwrecks. It had undergone several transformations over the years. Karl had taken her to brunch there for their six-month anniversary, and the view was to die for. It had been a society hangout in its heyday; she thought she had a postcard of it somewhere in her collection.

  She lugged the basket of cards from under the coffee table and plopped it in front of her. The cards were old and new, from vintage shops or sent by friends. She flipped through the pile: the Empire State Building, the Painted Desert, Monument Valley. Then there it was. She ran her hand over the Cliff House’s photo and caught a whiff of the sea. She could have sworn it was the same smell the key had given off the other day! She rubbed the card once more and then again, but no smells were emitted.

  She studied the postcard; the Cliff House’s wood-and-brick building dangled over a white-capped ocean, the sort of place Sylvia Van Dam might have frequented.

  Anne wondered why she had become so intrigued by her. She turned over the postcard and read the date: March 1963. A scribbled cursive note read, Great view. You would like the seals. It was signed by R. Anne set it on the coffee table and planned to use it for another collage soon.

  7

  Ricardo and Sylvia gazed through the Cliff House’s picture window and watched lazy seals sunbathe on rocks beyond. A thick fog had burned off to make way for a sparkling Pacific with a spectacular view down the coast. Waves crashed on the boulders below. Their date had been for lunch, but he hadn’t even picked her up until half past one, so the crowd had thinned out.

  With a glint in his light brown eyes
, Ricardo asked, “Have you ever had a margarita?”

  Sylvia shook her head and stared at him, unable to breathe, completely in awe to be on a date with Ricardo Lorenzo Lopez. Since the Valentine’s dance, she hadn’t been able to think of anything but him. So a week later when he called, she actually had the power to accept his invitation.

  She had asked, “How did you get my number?”

  And he had replied, “I have my ways.”

  Ever since that call, she’d been nervous and unable to sleep, weighing the pros of cons of going out with him. She knew Paul wouldn’t approve but thought maybe Ella would just be glad she had accepted a date. Sylvia had guessed wrong.

  Ella’s face glowered when she opened the door and saw Ricardo standing there in his dark sports coat. “Deliveries in back,” she had said.

  He stuck out his hand. “Hola, I’m Ricardo Lorenzo Lopez.”

  “Ella Elizabeth Connelly Curtis.” She accepted his hand and pumped it several times. Sylvia had never been so embarrassed but didn’t know if it was for Ella or Ricardo.

  Now Sylvia didn’t care what anyone thought and didn’t even want to look at the coastal view. She just wished to stare at this man. He was so unlike anyone she’d ever met. How God could make one man so handsome, tall, dark, and . . .

  “That’s what we drink in Acapulco. Two margaritas with salt, por favor.” He snapped his fingers at a passing waiter.

  Sylvia flinched at Ricardo’s rudeness but realized it must have been a Mexican custom, like a flamenco dancer snapping castanets. She wanted to know more about his exotic customs but was too shy to ask.

  She crossed her legs under the small table, and their knees bumped. Her face grew hot. She pulled her long legs back and smoothed down her dress. It was one of her favorites, a sophisticated look—a form-fitted bodice with a flared skirt in a red-rose print.

  With shaky hands, she opened her purse, extracted a pack of Lucky Strikes, and tapped out a cigarette. She leaned over for him to light it but quickly sat up straight when she realized he was looking at her cleavage. It made her tingle inside to know he thought of her in that way.

  “I’m surprised you came with me.” He took the cigarette from her mouth, put it into his own and lit it, then handed it back to her.

  She tried not to think about his sexy lips touching something going into her own mouth and inhaled her Lucky. “Really? Why?”

  He shrugged. “Isn’t Paul Palmer tu novio?”

  She adored it when he spoke Spanish even if she didn’t understand all the words. “My what?”

  “Your sweetheart.” Teasing, Ricardo puckered his lips at her and made a smacking sound.

  She laughed. “No, he’s just a family friend.”

  “I saw you dance with him at the club. And the way he looked at you?” Ricardo raised an eyebrow.

  “We’re just friends.”

  “You sure?”

  Sylvia nodded and watched another couple being escorted to a nearby table by the hostess. Her high bouffant reminded Sylvia of her mother’s, and she ran a hand up the back of her own hairdo. She returned her attention back to Ricardo. “I was stunned when you called.”

  “Por qué?”

  “Heard you have a girlfriend in Acapulco.” Sylvia puffed her cigarette and blew smoke to the side, trying to appear nonchalant.

  “I did. Not anymore.” He shook his head, tapped a cigarette out of her pack, and lit it.

  “What happened?”

  “Que lástima,” he said with a passing shadow on his face.

  Sylvia felt sorry for him.

  “She was too young. Her parents told me to wait a few years.”

  “Are you going to?”

  “I thought maybe.” He paused, leaned forward, and took her hand. “Then I saw you.”

  She pulled her hand back from his electric heat and looked down, not able to return his gaze. The ring on his little finger, a thin gold band with a diamond chip, caught her eye. She wanted to pinch the stone and trace her fingers around it. Instead she puffed her cigarette and stubbed it out in the ashtray.

  The waiter began to pick up after the lunch crowd, and plates clattered and glasses clinked.

  “Sylvia, how long have you lived in San Francisco?”

  “My whole life.”

  “I’ve heard your parents are dead.” He flicked ashes into the ashtray.

  “Yes, several years ago.” She felt a knot in the pit of her stomach. That was the last thing she wanted to talk about.

  “Do you live in that big house all alone?”

  She shook her head. “No, Ella and her husband, Milo, are there with me.”

  He paused. “And who takes care of all the details?”

  She frowned, confused.

  He rubbed two fingers together.

  “You mean with the bank?”

  He nodded. “Who makes sure you have enough?”

  This must be another Mexican custom. She was raised never to talk about death or money in polite company. “Paul Palmer.”

  “Really?”

  She nodded. “His firm manages my parents’ estate.” Again she tried to change the subject. “Why did you move to San Francisco?”

  Ricardo looked out at the ocean. “Business.”

  “What business are you in?”

  He hesitated then said, “Import. Export.”

  “Interesting. What type?”

  His eyes shifted. “Um, materials.”

  “Oh, materials. Like fabric?”

  “Sí.” He nodded and shrugged.

  Sylvia visualized him talking to prospective clients with colorful handwoven Mexican textiles draped over his arm. “I bet you’re very successful.”

  “Como no!” He shrugged again.

  Sylvia gazed at him and wished he’d tell her more. But he remained silent. The waiter set the drinks on the table.

  “We’ll each have the sole.” He pointed to the menu and handed it to the waiter.

  “Certainly.” He nodded and left.

  Sylvia peeled off her gloves, tasted the margarita, and lightly smacked her lips. “Mmm. Sweet. Like lemonade.”

  Ricardo took a gulp. “Bueno. Sí.” He stared at her, and there was a lull in the conversation.

  Ella had told her to flirt and act interested if you wanted a man to like you. Sylvia pointed to Seal Rock. “Look, he has a mustache just like you!”

  They watched a seal slide into the water. Ricardo smoothed his thin mustache then cracked a smile. The sun shone through the plate glass window accentuating the slight scar, just a nick on his cheek, a curved tiny bolt of lightning. She wanted to caress it and ask how he got it, but instead she toyed with the pearls around her neck and peered at the jagged boulders below.

  “It’s sure a long way down.”

  “You should see the Acapulco cliffs. They’re much taller than this. I dive there.”

  “What?” Her eyes widened.

  “Cliff diving. My friend dared me to jump into the narrow cove.” Ricardo looked deep into her eyes. “Every time before diving, my heart beats really hard.” He tapped a fist on his chest several times in rhythm, “Bum, bum. Bum, bum. Bum, bum.”

  She imagined his lean body standing erect on the cliff in a tight bathing suit, beads of water glistening on his tanned skin like glitter, wet hair shiny in the sun. She took a quick sip of her drink and gulped it down.

  Ricardo continued, “I look down and wait for the wave to come in. If I don’t dive at just the right moment . . .” He paused and looked at her with one eyebrow raised.

  Sylvia held her breath.

  “Then I straighten up with my arms together above my head, push off, pointing my toes.” He arched his back. “Aim out away from the cliff, close my eyes, and pretend I’m flying. Hitting the water always surprises me. I think I might stay in the air forever.”

  She imagined his straight nimble body gliding into a choppy sea. “How did you ever have the courage?”

  “Muy fácil.” He shrugged. />
  Sylvia licked salt off the rim of her glass.

  “You missed something.” He leaned over and brushed her upper lip.

  “Oh!”

  “It’s mole,” he said in a soft voice.

  She pushed his hand away. “That’s not a mole. It’s my beauty mark!” At least that’s what Ella always called it.

  “Sí, it’s true. You are very beautiful.” He licked his lips.

  She couldn’t believe he had called her “beautiful.”

  “Mexican mole is a special kind of chocolate.” He raised an eyebrow. “I’d like to kiss that tiny chocolate drop right off you.”

  She swallowed and tried to smile. It would feel wonderful to have him do that. Those lips would be warm against hers.

  His eyes drifted behind her. She turned around to follow his gaze and saw two men being seated at a nearby table.

  Ricardo grabbed her arm and whispered, “Don’t look.”

  She pulled back. “What’s wrong?”

  He squinted at the window, then pulled sunglasses from his top pocket and slipped them on. “It’s too bright. Aren’t you hot?”

  “I’m fine.”

  The men behind her ordered scotch on the rocks.

  Ricardo’s gaze moved behind her again.

  “Do you know them?” she asked.

  “Quiet.” He looked down and licked salt from the edge of his glass. “No.”

  She wanted to draw his attention back to her. “You missed something too.” She reached over and fingered his mustache. Salt sprinkled onto his black sport coat like snow.

  He pulled back, brushed it off, and scowled. “Ay, déjame! You messed up my shirt.”

  “Sorry.” She cringed with embarrassment.

  His eyes sailed to the table behind her again. “I’ll need to have it cleaned.” Even though he looked immaculate, he gazed down and continued to brush it off.

  Sylvia sipped her margarita. The ice had melted, and the salt was gone. The tangy taste had disappeared into a tepid slush.

  Ricardo waved the waiter over. “Move us. The sun’s too hot.”

  “Sorry, Sir. We’re setting up for dinner. I could lower the shade for you.”