Evennight Books/Book View Café
Cedar Crest, New Mexico
This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, organizations, and events portrayed in this novel are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.
A BLACK PLACE AND A WHITE PLACE
Copyright © 2019 by Patrice Greenwood
All rights reserved
An Evennight Book
Published by Book View Café Publishing Cooperative
P.O. Box 1624
Cedar Crest, NM 87008
www.bookviewcafe.com
Cover photo: Pati Nagle
Map illustrations: Chris Krohn and Patrice Greenwood
ISBN: 978-1-61138-875-6
First Edition December 2019
http://bookviewcafe.com
Digital version: 20200102pgn
for Marsha
dear friend and faithful tea buddy
(Itʹs your turn.)
Acknowledgments
My thanks to my wonderful publication team for their help with this novel: Sherwood Smith and Chris Krohn; to my dear friends and patient consultants Ken and Marilyn Dusenberry; and to my colleagues in Book View Café.
And as always, thanks to Mary Alice Higbie and the staff of the St. James Tearoom, a world-class tearoom not to be missed.
“Such a beautiful, untouched lonely-feeling place—part of what I call the Far Away.”
—Georgia O'Keeffe, on the Black Place
1
Are you sure you want to do macarons for February?” I asked Julio. “They’re so labor-intensive.”
Julio refilled his coffee mug from a stainless steel thermos. “Macarons are a signal to our clientele that we’re a top-shelf establishment. Any coffee shop can make cookies. Macarons show that we mean business.”
I lifted the cozy from my teapot and replenished my tea. “We’re bound to be busy around Valentine’s, though. Wouldn’t another month be easier?”
“This is the tearoom’s first Valentine’s,” Julio replied, his dark eyes holding my gaze. “Don’t you want to make people long to come back next year? Try them.”
He pushed a small plate toward me. It held a half-dozen miniature macarons: some a blushing pink, some a pale, creamy yellow.
“Raspberry and champagne?” I guessed.
“Raspberry-rose and elderflower.”
“Oh, my.”
I took a creamy macaron and bit into it. The texture was perfect—classic crispy outside and chewy interior—and I knew from experience that it wasn’t easy to get right. Sugar and almond were overlaid with the ethereal floral sweetness of elderflower. I gave in to a sigh of pleasure.
“They’re heavenly, Julio.” I tried a pink macaron: a bright burst of raspberry up front, followed by the gentler rose flavor. I finished it in two bites, taking time to savor the flavors and decide that they were well-balanced. “Divine. But two florals? Some people don’t like them.”
“There will be a chocolate macaron as well, with two choices of filling—hazelnut or dark ganache.” He smiled slyly. “You don’t really want to have Valentines without them, do you?”
“How could I? You win.”
Julio grinned. “Thanks.”
“Are you going to need a part-timer for February?”
“Maybe. But not because of the macarons. Kris said Valentine’s week is booking up already. You may have another sold-out month on your hands.”
“Well, at least we’ll be able to catch our breath this month.”
I finished the elderflower macaron and sipped my tea, resisting the temptation to take another. The fire crackled gently in the little kiva fireplace near the break table where Julio and I sat with our notebooks and calendars. We were alone in the kitchen at 7:30 a.m., having our January “first Monday” planning session, which had evolved out of necessity throughout the previous year.
On the first Monday of each month, we reviewed the new menu and discussed strategy not only for the current month, but for the weeks ahead, trying to anticipate any special problems that might arise. It was a rare and pleasant opportunity for me and my chef to chat at length, without the rest of the staff present and therefore without interruptions.
The day was overcast and quiet. Just a few days past New Year’s, Santa Fe was recovering from the holidays. While there were still plenty of tourists enjoying skiing and shopping and dining, their numbers were noticeably reduced. The tearoom was well-booked, but not sold out, for the coming week. Julio had created a perfect January menu with an emphasis on cheeses, greens, and fresh fruits—a delightful respite from the heavy holiday fare of the previous month. The fact that we were able to look ahead to February was due to the lighter demands of our bookings for January, so far.
“Anything else up your sleeve for Valentine’s?” I asked.
“Nothing you don’t know about. Edible rose petals are already ordered.”
“OK. Have you thought about March at all?”
“Just playing with ideas at this point. Do you want to do a St. Patrick’s Day theme?”
“Not for the whole month,” I said, suppressing a shudder at the idea of a month’s worth of corned beef. “Maybe a special event. A harp concert, or something.”
Julio nodded. “I think I could put you in touch with some Celtic harpists. Or maybe Ramon can get you a concert harpist.”
“Both of those sound good. Let’s see what develops.”
My teacup was empty again. I refilled it, then glanced up at the sound of a car arriving out back. Julio looked over his shoulder toward the window.
“Sounds like Kris.”
He was right. A minute later my office manager came in through the kitchen door, bundled to the neck in a black wool coat, black scarf, black boots—her usual “Goth professional” look. Her black hair was uncovered; she rarely wore hats, even on the coldest days. She came over to the table to greet us.
“Happy New Year, Kris!” I said.
“Happy ... New Year. Nice ring,” she said, catching my gaze. “Got something to tell us?”
I felt myself blush a little, and sipped my tea to hide it. “Yes, Tony and I are engaged.” The words, which I hadn’t yet said very often, still made me feel a bit breathless.
Kris’s attention wandered to the macarons. “Congrats. Or should I say, ‘Best wishes’?”
“I think even Miss Manners would admit it’s no longer necessary to refrain from congratulating a bride,” I said. “Thank you.”
Kris picked up the plate of macarons. “These for February?”
“Yes,” Julio said.
“I’ll let you know what I think.”
She carried them out to the hall, on her way to her office upstairs. This was abrupt even for Kris. She had a Goth’s cynicism, but she was generally polite. Her boots clicked briskly on the wood floor in the hall, then were muffled by the carpet on the stairs.
Maybe my engagement had reminded her of her recent loss. Though it seemed long ago, it was only a couple of months since Gabriel’s death. Kris had made it clear to me that she hadn’t expected that to be a long-term relationship, but neither had she expected it to be cut short.
I looked at Julio, who was watching me.
“I didn’t know whether to say anything,” he said. “Congratulations.”
“Thanks.” I sipped my tea. “I guess I should make an announcement to the staff.”
“Just tell Rosa and everyone will know within twenty-four hours.” Julio poured the last of his coffee into his mug. “Have you set a date?”
“September. We won’t have it here, but if you’re interested I’d love to have you cater.”
“I’m interested. Where
will it be?”
“I’m not sure yet. I’m thinking outdoors.”
“But not in your garden.”
“I don’t want to end up working the event.”
“Good point. Well, if it’s on top of Baldy, it’ll be a challenge, but I’ll do my best.”
I chuckled, glancing toward the window. Outside, though not visible from the kitchen, was Santa Fe Baldy, the mountain to which he’d referred, part of the Sangre de Cristos. “Thanks. I’ll try to be less ambitious than that.”
We discussed a few more details about January, then I carried my tea tray upstairs while Julio began making scones. I paused in my suite to rinse the pot and my teacup before taking them across the hall to the “office” side.
The samovar the staff had given me for Christmas was hot; I had fired it up when I made my first pot of tea. I took a caddy of Lapsang Souchong out of the chest and set some brewing. The smoky flavor of it was a wake-me-up punch that I usually saved for hectic days, but it was Kris’s favorite tea.
While it was steeping, I gazed at the framed O’Keeffe poster on the wall outside Kris’s office, one of six Santa Fe Chamber Music posters that I had recently unearthed from storage and hung in the upstairs hall. They had belonged to my mother, and had been objects of my childhood fascination. All of them featured artwork by Georgia O’Keeffe.
On a whim, I had chosen to hang the most Goth-like image, Black Place III, outside Kris’s office. So far, she hadn’t commented.
I never tired of gazing at it: soft, lumpy black and gray hills with touches of sandstone red and pink, white shapes that might be more hills or might be clouds, and a jagged stripe down the middle that could be a river or lightning or a crack opening up in the very earth. Or perhaps just an abstraction. One could probably write a dissertation on the subject.
No doubt someone already had. O’Keeffe was New Mexico’s most famous artist, her name still a household word decades after her death. She’d spent her final days in Santa Fe, but her definitive New Mexico home was at Abiquiu.
The tea timer went off. I removed the infuser from the pot, then got out a second cup and saucer and carried it all into Kris’s office on the tray.
“Cup of tea?” I said, trying for a tone of gentle brightness.
She glanced at me, gave a short nod, and returned her attention to her computer. I filled her cup and set it at her elbow, noting that the plate of macarons sat untouched nearby, then settled into a guest chair with my own tea.
“How was New Year’s?” I asked.
“Fab. We had a black-and-white banquet.”
“Oh, yes—but I thought it was going to be a ball?”
“Couldn’t get a room big enough. They were all booked up by August. We’ll have to start planning earlier this year.” Her fingers punched rapidly at her keyboard for a few seconds, then she hit the return button and leaned back, looking at me. “Just as well. A ball would have been a bit much right now.”
I nodded in sympathy, then sipped my tea. Kris’s gaze followed my hands.
“So when did he pop the question?”
“Christmas Eve,” I said.
“Were you expecting it?”
“I don’t think he was expecting it. It sort of—developed out of our conversation.”
Her expression grew skeptical, then she took a pink macaron from the plate. “Well, good luck. You know, cops and marriage....”
“I know. Believe me, Tony knows too. He wants this to work.”
“I’m sure he does.”
She popped the macaron whole into her mouth and crunched it while she typed some more. I doubted she would notice the delicate flavors of the sweet, eating it like that. I watched her, troubled by what seemed to be an undercurrent of anger in her manner. My earlier theory—that she might be sad or envious of my engagement—didn’t seem to fit, so I discarded it. What could be bothering her?
“What are you working on this morning?” I asked.
“W4s and 1099s. Once those are done, I’ll start the taxes.”
And here I’d thought January would be a slow month. When I’d set up the business last spring, and hired Kris, the first thing she’d advised was that I incorporate. That meant annual reports to be filed, and corporate taxes—matters of mystery to me. I was deeply grateful to have Kris on my team to handle such things. I only wished I could help her into a better mood.
But then, maybe she enjoyed this mood. Maybe it was a Goth thing.
I finished my tea and stood. “Well, I’ll stop distracting you. You know where to find me if you need me.”
Kris nodded, eyes on the screen, hand reaching for another macaron that I suspected she’d neither see nor taste. I carried the tea tray out and set it beside the samovar, refilled my cup, and covered the pot with a cozy. Since it was a Lapsang Souchong day, I fetched a little jar of sour cherry preserves from my suite and set it on the tray, then added a spoonful to my cup. The sweet and sour tones were a perfect complement to the smoky tea, turning it into a cup of luxury.
At my desk, I poked through the perennial heap of message slips, and turned on my computer to tackle the backlog of email. Half of it was so out of date I didn’t even bother responding. To personal messages, I replied personally, if only with a brief note to the effect of “sorry I missed this.”
It took me a couple of hours to whittle the inbox down to a reasonable size. I was just about to get up for more tea when I heard a “shave-and-a-haircut” knock on the open door frame of my office.
Nat was standing there, holding a fat paperback book and wearing a furry hat over her winter coat. She grinned at me.
“I’m kidnapping you for lunch,” she announced.
“Oh, thank you!” I got up, gleefully abandoning the correspondence. “Let me get my purse and a coat.”
I poked my head into Kris’s office. “You want to come to lunch?”
She shook her head. “No, thanks.”
Nat followed me out to the hall and handed me her book at the door to my suite. “It’s a biography of Georgia O’Keeffe. I just finished it. Thought you’d enjoy it.” She gestured to the art posters on the walls.
“Thanks! I’ll just be a minute.”
I put the book in my wing chair, promising myself an hour of reading time later. Mondays were supposedly part of my weekends, but I usually wound up working. I grabbed my coat, scarf, and purse, and rejoined Nat in the hall.
She was admiring the print of From the Faraway Nearby. “I remember when Geneva was collecting these. She was so excited! She was a huge fan of O’Keeffe.”
I nodded. I remembered it too, though I’d been little. Back then, all I knew about O’Keeffe was that she lived up north past Española, and she was a famous painter, and nobody ever saw her.
Hunger nudged me toward the stairs. “Where are we going?”
“Santacafé,” Nat said, following me down. “My treat. I made us a reservation.”
“Wonderful! I haven’t been there in ages.”
“I know Julio’s roommate works there.”
“Ex-roommate. Julio’s got a new ... place.”
“Oh?” Nat said as we reached the ground floor.
Not wanting to talk about Julio where he might hear, I waited until we were outside to continue. Nat walked past her car, and I followed her down my snow-patched driveway. The restaurant was just a few blocks away.
“Julio has a new roommate,” I told Nat as we reached the street and turned north. “He moved in November. I thought you knew.”
“I was a bit preoccupied in November,” Nat said. “Is his friend still at Santacafé?”
“I think so.”
My ears were getting chilled by a cold breeze. I wrapped my scarf over my head and strode out. We didn’t talk much more until we were inside the old, low-ceilinged adobe building and seated at a tiny table by a fireplace in a back room.
“How’s the year going for you so far?” Nat asked as we shed our coats and settled in.
“Great. I
goofed off all weekend.”
“With Tony?”
“He was working, but we had dinner together.”
Actually, Tony had been spending nights with me, though he said he’d sleep at his apartment during the week. My staff couldn’t resist knowing glances if they encountered him leaving in the morning, and Tony was a private person.
One more reason why we’d have to find a place to live apart from the tearoom. My suite was too small for both of us, and there were other considerations.
“We went to Ten Thousand Waves,” I said. “Thank you for the gift card. It was lovely.”
“Oh, good! But I meant for you to get a massage.”
“It was better than a massage.”
Nat chuckled. “You two should spend a weekend there. This month, while business is slow.”
I shook my head. “The lodging is pretty pricey, and I’m sure it’s booked up with skiers.”
“Well, some other place, then. You haven’t had a vacation since you opened the tearoom.”
“I know. Yes, you’re right.”
A waiter appeared and kept us busy for a few minutes, reciting specials and taking our order. When she was gone, Nat returned to the subject.
“I’d be happy to fill in for you at the tearoom for a couple of days. And I’ll spring for a room if that will help.”
“No, no. You’ve been so generous. We can afford a room. There are less expensive places.”
Our coffees arrived, giving me a moment to think about where to stage a getaway. I did like the idea. Tony and I could use some quality time away from work. The trick would be whether he could take time off.
“Holiday weekend coming up,” Nat said, as if reading my thoughts.
That could making getting a hotel room more difficult. But it might be more convenient for Tony.
“Have you ever stayed at Ghost Ranch?” I asked.
“Years ago,” Nat said. “I used to go up there on retreats with my yoga group. It’s a little rustic. The Abiquiu Inn is nicer.”
I’d always been intrigued by the name, Ghost Ranch. On family car trips we’d driven past the entrance—a big gate with a cow’s skull painted on it—but we’d never stopped. The landscapes up there were amazing, and I knew that Georgia O’Keeffe had painted a lot of them.
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