A Black Place and a White Place

by Patrice Greenwood

  “O’Keeffe lived at Ghost Ranch for a while, didn’t she?”

  “There, and in Abiquiu,” Nat said. “That book I gave you tells all about it. She stayed at Ghost Ranch in a guest house, then bought a ranch house on the property from the owner, then later she added the Abiquiu house, because it was easier to get supplies in winter. The ranch house is pretty remote.”

  I nodded. Our lunch was served, so we dropped the subject in favor of duck crepes and watercress salad. If Andre had anything to do with our meals, I never knew, but everything was delicious.

  “So, are you and Manny making plans for Paris?” I asked.

  “The Louvre for sure, and Meritage-Frères. Maybe Versailles. Manny wants to stand on top of the Eiffel Tower, of course. That’s all we know so far.”

  “Oh! Meritage-Frères! Bring me some tea?”

  “You bet! I may take a collapsible bag and fill it with tea.”

  I had a fleeting urge to ask if I could stow away in that bag. Paris was on my bucket list, and the famous Parisian tea purveyor would be number one on my agenda whenever I got there.

  Which wouldn’t be soon. I wanted to get the mortgage on the tearoom paid down first, and this year was busy enough.

  We lingered over dessert, and had a pleasant walk back to the tearoom with the wind at our backs. The sun was playing peek-a-boo through clouds that were breaking up a bit now.

  Nat saw me to the back door of the house. “You don’t need me this week?”

  “No, no. Enjoy your freedom.”

  “You, too, dear. Enjoy that book.”

  “I will.”

  I checked in on the kitchen before going upstairs. Hanh had joined Julio, and together they were cranking out scones. They were an efficient team. They’d soon have enough for the whole week.

  “Happy New Year, Hanh,” I said.

  She nodded briskly, sending a ripple down her long, black ponytail. Eyes on her work, she pressed the cutter cleanly straight down through the dough. “Happy New Year.”

  I started to go, then turned back. “Hanh, do you celebrate a different New Year?”

  She paused, looking up at me in mild surprise. “Tet,” she said.

  I remained unenlightened. “Is that anything like Chinese New Year?”

  “Some years it’s the same day. Some years a little different. It’s calculated differently.”

  “Ah,” I said. “I didn’t know about it. Thank you.”

  As I climbed the stairs, I mused about Vietnamese culture, of which I knew pretty much nothing. Hanh was a great cook. Maybe she and Julio could look at doing a Vietnamese menu some time? Or even just a food item or two...

  Kris had deposited some paperwork on my desk, so it was almost an hour before I could slip away to my suite and read for a bit. I’d had enough Lapsang Souchong for one day. I brewed myself a pot of Darjeeling and peeled a clementine, then settled into my wing chair and opened the O’Keeffe biography.

  I was soon engrossed. The author had done her homework, referring to newspaper social columns and personal correspondence of the O’Keeffe family, their friends, and their acquaintances. The portrait that emerged was of a no-nonsense child from a Midwestern family, who had decided early on and for inexplicable reasons that she would be an artist, and had held to that choice, tenuously at first, and before long with single-minded determination.

  In the early twentieth century, art (like most professions) was dominated by men. O’Keeffe’s chances of success were not high, and as her family’s prosperity dwindled, they became ever slimmer. Yet she only grew more focused on her chosen path.

  Having studied and enjoyed the arts myself, I understood her need for uncompromising focus. I would have liked to be a professional musician, but knowing how difficult it would be to earn a living, I had abandoned that dream.

  O’Keeffe, on the other hand, had clung to her dream with an iron will, cutting away everything that did not serve her goal. She adopted an austere lifestyle. She almost always wore black, as if color in her clothing would distract her from the colors that were her tools. She kept nothing extraneous to survival, with the exception of art supplies. She spent her hard-earned pennies on the best materials available for her craft, maintaining her living quarters in almost cloister-like simplicity.

  I thought of Tony’s apartment, barren of personality. He had plenty of depth. He merely chose not to express it in his home.

  I was the opposite. My tearoom was most definitely expressive. It was meant to be; I had put a lot of effort into making it a beautiful, comfortable haven. My private quarters were less elaborate, but no one could accuse me of austerity.

  Realizing my thoughts had wandered, I set the book aside. My teapot was empty, and dusk had fallen outside. A deep blue glow flooded the view through my window. I stood, stretched, and put on the kettle, then stepped out into the hall just in time to see Kris donning her long, black coat.

  “Corporate report’s on your desk,” she said. “Just sign it and stick it in the envelope. No hurry.”

  “Thanks,” I said. “See you tomorrow. Have a good night.”

  She quirked an eyebrow at me, then headed downstairs. I listened to her receding steps. No other sounds arose from below; Julio and Hanh would have left by mid-afternoon.

  I turned on the hall chandelier and strolled over to gaze at O’Keeffe’s White Shell with Red, hanging outside my suite. The subject was deceptively simple, but the curving lines and gently shaded colors of the shell were mesmerizing, drawing the eye inward, away from the brilliant red background. I knew the image so well I could have closed my eyes and continued to roam it.

  The next print over, Black Cross New Mexico, was a complete contrast. This was perhaps my least favorite of the group. The cross was not just dominant, it overwhelmed the painting, extending beyond its edges, an in-your-face image from decades before that had become a popular style. I wondered why my mother had bought it, rather than one of O’Keeffe’s many lovely flower paintings, of which there were none in this group.

  Perhaps I’d add a flower or two. The posters—or rather, reproductions of them—were still available. I went into my office and fired up a browser, setting aside the paperwork Kris had left for me. Yes, the O’Keeffe Museum had lots of posters for sale. I rather liked Hollyhock Pink with Pedernal, which appeared to be the closest to a “flower” painting that had been used for the Chamber Music posters. I could add that, but I’d want to find another poster I liked to balance it.

  Not right now, though. Whatever splurging I would do this month would be on the trip. I surfed to the Ghost Ranch website to escape the temptation to buy posters, and looked at pictures of lodging instead.

  Nat was right, it looked a little rustic. I checked the Abiquiu Inn’s site, took one look at the prices, and immediately returned to the Ghost Ranch site. Modest was OK.

  Across the hall, my phone rang. I scurried to my suite and caught it on the second ring.

  “Hi, Tony!”

  “Hey, babe. You eat dinner yet?”

  “No, I’ve been reading.”

  “Want to go out?”

  “Sure!”

  “Be right over.”

  The kettle began to sing. No need for a pot, but I decided to make a quick mug of something to take off the chill. Ginger tea sounded good. While it steeped, I closed the curtains and changed into a plush velour top and warm slacks. I was halfway through the tea when I heard Tony’s motorcycle out back.

  I met him at the back door. Without discussion he got into my car. I wasn’t fond of riding on the back of his bike under the best conditions, and winter nights were definitely out.

  “Where to?” I asked as I slid into the driver’s seat.

  “Del Charro?”

  “OK.” I started the engine, cranked up the heater, and headed south. Del Charro wasn’t trendy, but it was a favorite with the locals and was close enough to the plaza that it was almost always busy.

  “That guy isn’t still playing there, is h
e?” Tony asked.

  “That guy you arrested? I don’t know. Didn’t he go to jail?”

  The guy in question was married to a woman who had murdered her sister (my high school classmate) in December. Her charming, musical husband had been sleeping with said sister. A couple of other classmates had also become casualties as the murderer tried to contain the mess she’d made. Tony and I had heard the roving husband playing oldies at Del Charro before his role in the drama—a passive one, but he’d known his wife was guilty—had become evident.

  “Not yet,” Tony said. “These things take time. And I didn’t actually arrest him; we have interceptors for that.”

  I turned a corner, keeping an eye out for clueless out-of-towner pedestrians. “What’s an interceptor?”

  “A guy bigger and stronger than me, who can take down a silverback gorilla if he has to.”

  “Oh. Armed to the teeth, I take it?”

  “And then some.”

  “Hm.”

  I found a parking place fairly close to Del Charro, and we walked there at a brisk pace in the chilly night. There was no sign of the philandering husband, or of any musician, when we entered the bar. Canned music was playing. We sat at a table in the back where Tony could command a view of the door, and ordered burgers and beer.

  “How’s work?” I asked.

  “Not bad. Still cleaning up after the holidays.”

  “Do you get MLK day off?”

  “Officially.”

  “But you might work?”

  He shrugged. “Got something better in mind?”

  “Well, maybe. I’ve been thinking of taking a little trip. Just a couple of nights, kind of a stay-cation. I could use a break, and this month is slow.”

  “Where to?”

  “I was thinking, Ghost Ranch?” I said, still unsure about the idea.

  The waiter brought our beers at that moment. Tony took a swig of his. I watched, waiting for his reaction to my suggestion.

  “Rio Arriba,” he said, and took another pull before setting down his pint. “OK.”

  “OK,” I repeated, half surprised, still working on the non-sequitur. Rio Arriba County must be what he meant. Was Abiquiu in Rio Arriba?

  “Not much to do up there,” Tony added.

  “Actually, there is,” I said. “I looked up their website. There are lots of activities, talks, concerts, a couple of museums, hiking trails. I’m sort of interested in the Georgia O’Keeffe landscapes tour.”

  “’Cause of your mom’s pictures?”

  “Well, yeah.”

  I was also interested in the tour of O’Keeffe’s home and studio in Abiquiu. There was a combination tour that included both that and the landscapes, but I thought five hours might be a bit much for Tony.

  “Is it a hike?” he asked.

  “No, a bus ride. Or there’s a trail ride version.”

  Tony’s face lit with interest. “Horseback?”

  I nodded, my mouth full of beer.

  “That beats a bus.”

  “It costs more.”

  “That’s OK. You can ride a horse?”

  “Yes.”

  I hadn’t been on horseback since I was a kid, but I figured the ride would be designed for tourists, and therefore minimally exciting. Bored horses, plodding along a well-worn trail, only perking up when the string turned back toward the barn.

  “Where’d you learn?” Tony asked.

  “Summer camp. You?”

  “My uncle had a ranch. I used to help him out over summer vacation. My first paying job.”

  “Really? Punching cattle?”

  “Riding fence, mostly. I helped with the cattle some, but it wasn’t that fun.”

  I sipped my beer, picturing Tony as a vaquero. “Does your uncle still have the ranch?”

  “Nah, he sold out and retired.”

  I had the feeling I shouldn’t pursue the subject. Tony’s family had some bad memories associated with selling property.

  “So, horseback tour,” I said. “I’ll reserve the tickets, and book us a room at Ghost Ranch. Should we stay three nights? Friday-Saturday-Sunday?”

  “Sure.”

  Wow. This was starting to sound like an actual vacation.

  “I’m interested in touring Georgia O’Keeffe’s house and studio in Abiquiu, too,” I added. “Would you like to join me?”

  His eyebrow twitched, then he deliberately smiled. “Make you a deal. I’ll go on that tour with you if you’ll go on a hike with me.”

  “Deal. The studio tour will be my treat. I hope you won’t be bored.”

  “Not possible. I’ll be with you.”

  My heart gave a flutter of delight. Tony was not prone to verbal gallantry. He watched me with amusement as he took another swig of beer.

  Our burgers arrived, mine loaded with mushrooms and bleu cheese, Tony’s with bacon and green chile. We chatted as we ate, sketching out the details of the trip. We had never spent so much time together, away from work, as we would on this trip. The more we envisioned it, the more I looked forward to it.

  By the time we finished our meal, we had the whole trip roughed out: quick dinner in town when we both got off work on Friday night, then drive up to Ghost Ranch and check in. Hike Saturday morning, followed by studio tour. Saturday night there was a concert—a musician from Taos Pueblo who looked interesting. Landscape trail ride on Sunday, maybe another hike, fancy dinner at the Abiquiu Inn Sunday night, then drive home after breakfast on Monday, leaving the rest of that day for doing laundry and whatever else. I drove us back to the tearoom, feeling a buzz of excitement.

  “Want to come up?” I asked Tony as we got out of the car.

  He gave me a skeptical look. “Not to stay. You’re open tomorrow.”

  “Yes. Want to come up?”

  He grinned.

  2

  I was now officially impatient for the holiday weekend, but there was one obligation (besides work) that I had to discharge beforehand. I had promised Tony’s sister, Angela, a tête-à-tête tea before her college classes resumed. Therefore, the Wednesday before the holiday, I welcomed her into the Violet alcove, my favorite spot in the tearoom for a cozy tea with a friend.

  I offered to relieve her of her coat and hang it out in the hall, but she shook her head. “I’d rather keep it, if you don’t mind,” she said, draping it over her knees as she sat in one of the two violet wing chairs. “I got cold, walking from where I parked,” Angela added.

  “Not at all,” I said, and stepped to the fireplace to add a log. I could hear the party next door, in Dahlia, settling in for their tea.

  Angela was a few years younger than Tony, earnestly working to finish her degree in nursing so she could get a job and help support her grandmother. I liked her a lot, and looked forward to spending an hour or so getting to know her better. She had dressed up for tea, in a charming black long-sleeved dress covered with tiny yellow daisies and a little black cocktail hat with a wisp of veil.

  “I adore that hat!” I said as returned to my chair. Between us stood a low table where the teapot already waited under a cozy. I picked it up and poured for Angela.

  “It’s Abuela’s,” she said, rosy with pleasure. “She used to be an amazing clothes horse.”

  “Oh, really? I’d love to see some photos, if you have them.”

  “Mama’s got a couple of old albums. I’ll dig them out before Sunday dinner. You’re coming, right?”

  “Right.”

  Sunday dinner was a ritual in the Aragón family. One attended or risked matriarchal disapproval, a rule to which I, as Tony’s fiancée, was now subject. A miss required an unquestionable excuse, such as dealing with dead bodies, or being invited to dine at the Governor’s mansion.

  Rosa brought in our tea tray, and presented it with a glance at Angela and a knowing smile. I had followed Julio’s advice and taken Rosa into my confidence about the engagement. Sure enough, Rosa had spared me the task of telling the rest of the staff. She knew Angela was Ton
y’s sister.

  Over steaming cups of Margaret’s Hope, Angela and I chatted our way through the full, three-tiered tray of afternoon tea savories, scones, and sweets. At first we talked about light things: the holidays, Angela’s upcoming classes, the weather. Then, as happens when a conversation goes on long enough, our subjects got deeper. By the time we reached the sweets, I felt brave enough to ask the question I’d been holding.

  “Angela, do you think your father would have approved of Tony’s and my engagement?”

  It was a calculated question, which was a little unfair to Angela. I hoped to read in her response whether she herself approved, because I knew she was too polite to tell me if she didn’t.

  She gazed at the fire, thinking. “I’m not sure. It was always hard to predict how he’d react. You’d think for sure he’d feel one way, and then it would turn out the opposite.” She sipped her tea. “You know, I was only nine when he died, so...”

  “I’m sorry. That was thoughtless of me.”

  “No, no. I don’t mind.” She set down her cup and took a pear and brie sandwich—one of Julio’s inspirations—from the tray. “He never thought much of Tony’s girlfriends, but I think he would like you. You’re not like any of the others.”

  I bit my tongue. That could mean a lot of different things. Were Tony’s other girlfriends all Hispanic? Were they sexy cheerleader types? Or was it just that they came from his high school, not mine?

  “You think about things, and you make Tony think,” Angela added. “Before he met you, he was Mr. Act-First-Think-Later.”

  “Really? I doubt I was the cause of such a change.”

  “I think you were. And Mama agrees. She said so, to me.”

  I swallowed. “Oh?”

  “That time we all came to tea, last fall? When we got home, she told me you were the first woman she’d met who might be able to wake Tony up.”

  “Wake him up?”

  Angela nodded. “That’s what she said. And then she turned around and told him he better not be rude to you.”