The Green Lace Corset

by Jill G. Hall

  “I doubt that.”

  “Many are stuck in traditional genres, like painting, ceramics, or sculpture, and are trying to break out. I’ve been able to help them there. I’ve connected them with Fay, and she’s even putting some of their pieces in Gallery Noir’s next group show.”

  “When’s the reception?”

  “I’m not sure. I’ll let you know. I also applied for that artist-in-residence program.”

  “Splendido. I’m sure you’re a shoe-in. Get it?”

  “That’s enough with the shoe jokes for one call.”

  “Tell me more about your trip.”

  “I can’t believe how beautiful it is there. And the sky! The sky is to die for. Brilliant blue, with fluffy clouds. And the stars. Did you know Flagstaff was the first International Dark Sky Community, with regulations limiting lights so you can see the stars? I saw the Milky Way every night. And all that other nature, and arts and culture. Wouldn’t it be great to go there together someday?” She put her hand to her chest. She couldn’t believe she’d just said that.

  “I’d really love that.” His dark brown eyes softened. “Discover any found treasures?”

  She glanced at the corset, still hanging on the back of the closet. Like magic, it sparkled in the overhead light, and she swore the scent of sage filled the room. She wanted to show it to Sergio, but he might think she was being suggestive. They were broken up this time for good.

  Oh, what the heck. She turned her phone toward the closet and pointed it at the corset. “Only this.”

  He raised his voice. “Oh là là! I can’t wait to see it on you.”

  How could she flirt with him like this? Anne flipped the phone back to her face. “Sergio, I’m sorry—I didn’t mean to tease you like that. We’re broken up. We have to be broken up.”

  He sighed. “I know. Can we get together, though? I’m coming out really soon on business. I want to see you in person.”

  She hesitated. “I guess so. Check in with me then. But I won’t wear the corset.”

  He laughed. “Are you sure?”

  “Bye.” Once she hung up, she silenced her ringer. After talking to him, she missed him all the more. It would be wonderful to see him in person, but she really needed to move on.

  How would she ever meet someone new? Some of her friends had had luck with sites like Zoosk, Match.com, and even Tinder, but she didn’t see herself as the online-dating type. What she wanted was a serious relationship and to find her real soul mate. She’d thought Sergio was hers, but, sadly, he wasn’t.

  Anne needed to get back to her art. “Alexa, play Enya.”

  Enya’s ethereal voice filled the apartment. Anne closed her eyes, breathed in and out, and felt her heart open as she returned to her mosaic. She centered an old-fashioned ceramic farm girl in an antique tray and placed an Irish setter beside her. She put a chipped, blue-and-white Wedgwood plate in a paper bag on a cutting board and smashed it with a hammer. She dumped out the shards and used the smooth-rimmed edges along the tray’s border.

  From the baggie of found objects, she selected a key, an old watch, and a gold sun charm and placed them around the girl. She added gray, blue, and green stones from the Painted Desert Museum, and multicolored seed beads for grout.

  She thought wistfully about her conversation with Sergio again. She needed some serious mojo to help her move on. The horseshoe dry, she shook the loose seed beads off it, made sure to hang it the correct way, and nailed it to the wall in the relationship corner of her apartment, which also happened to be her bathroom. She kissed her pointer finger and touched the heart on the horseshoe. She’d take it down to use as a sample at the museum when she got the other horseshoes and was ready to introduce the lesson. But for now, she’d let the chi flow toward a new man.

  Back in the kitchenette, she brushed loose beads off the tray piece and grinned as the ceramic girl emerged. Anne called it A Time to Cast Away Stones, after Ecclesiastes. With it, she was casting Sergio away and, she hoped, gathering another lover soon.

  As if on cue, Howard, her old friend from her valet-parking days, sent her a text: Rhinestone Ruby’s tonight?

  That would be the perfect place to meet a new man.

  8

  A burly man in a long leather coat studied them as they exited the train. Cliff tugged his hat low over his eyes, took Sally Sue’s arm in his, and drew her in the opposite direction. Her instincts told her to scream, kick him in the shins, and run away, but she feared he’d pull out his gun and shoot her.

  A sign attached to the front of a rusted-out boxcar facing her said FLAGSTAFF. A cold wind hit her. Under a cloudy sky, nearby pine trees were covered with snow, and to the north, white-peaked mountains rose high above. She wondered what it would feel like to be way up there. A hawk flew overhead. She wished she was free like it was.

  They crossed a wide road away from the tracks, and she stumbled into a puddle of melting snow. The muddy ground sopped her skirt’s hem and soaked her favorite shoes clear through to the toes. Cliff led her down a street filled with ramshackle buildings that looked like they’d been put up really fast. Most were wooden, but others were even made of tent canvas. They passed the white-painted church with the tall steeple she’d seen from afar.

  At McMillan’s Mercantile, a pair of dungarees, bolts of fabric, and tools were expertly arranged in the window. Sally Sue’s spirits soared when she spotted Cliff’s WANTED poster, with its $500 reward, displayed prominently on the glass in front of the items. She felt certain someone would capture him soon. But then Cliff tilted his head toward the poster and grinned at her and she realized nobody would ever recognize him, because in the drawing only his eyes were visible, peeking out from between his hat and his kerchief.

  As they walked farther down the street, at Berry’s Saloon, a man flew out of the swinging doors into the mire right in front of her. She yelped as her heart jumped. Another man dove on top of him, pounding on the other man’s back. Cliff drew her out of the way just in time, or she might have been caught in the melee.

  A crowd of folks rushed out of the saloon, cheering on the fighters.

  “Go for his gut, Charlie!”

  “Kick ’im in the head!”

  “Get him!”

  The man in the leather coat sauntered over to the crowd, raised his pistol, and shot it into the air. “Okay, boys, that’s enough,” he bellowed. He slid the gun back into his holster, gripped each man by an ear, and headed them down the street. “I told you I’m putting order in this town.”

  “S-s-sorry, Sheriff, but he was mockin’ me,” whined the smaller of the two.

  “He wouldn’t let me dance with that dame,” the scrawny one hiccupped.

  “No excuses, you young whippersnappers. I’m keepin’ you till you’ve slept it off.”

  As the sheriff escorted the two men down the street to the jail, the crowd hooted and hollered. Big-hatted, long-mustached, kerchief-wearing, gun-toting cowboys. Other men, in plaid flannel shirts. Three women in risqué, wildflower-colored getups laughed. Kohl-eyed and red-lipped, without bonnets, they had tendrils of hair piled high atop their heads.

  A redhead in a green silk outfit gave a shrill whistle. “Go get ’em, Sheriff.”

  He threw the men inside the jail, locked the door, and waved to the crowd.

  Cliff escorted Sally Sue across the street to a hotel. The poster hung in a window there too.

  “Set here.” He pushed her down into a rocker on the porch and went inside.

  Her stomach felt as if it had been turned inside out. She had to get away from him.

  The sheriff dragged a chair from his office beside the jail, sat in the chair, put his rifle on his lap, and lit a cigar. He reminded Sally Sue of her father, taller than most men, strongly built and fine-looking.

  Her father had also had a forceful voice when he’d needed it. “Wife, leave the girl alone,” he’d say. “She’s not hurting anyone.”

  It was darn cold. She pulled her shawl tightly ar
ound her shoulders. But her father had also been soft-spoken, like the last time she’d seen him: “My sweet Sal, don’t cry. I’ll be back in no time.” And he was right—he never returned and was back no time.

  She glanced at the hotel door and hurried down the steps to alert the sheriff.

  “Hey, darling! Where’re you off to?” Cliff’s voice called from behind her.

  Her shoulders slumped, and she turned around. “Just stretching my legs is all.”

  A man holding a broom stood in the hotel doorway, staring at her.

  Cliff took her arm and escorted her back to the rocker. “Rest here awhile. I’ll be right back. This here’s Mr. Bjork, the hotel’s proprietor.” He tilted his head at the man with the broom and walked up the street.

  She sat down.

  Mr. Bjork leaned on the broom. “Your husband says he’s thinking of settling here. Would be a prudent decision.”

  She watched as Cliff entered a shop. She stood up and pointed at the poster. “Help me! He’s not really my husband but this bank robber.”

  The man chuckled. “Mr. Cliff told me you might say that. He asked me to keep an eye on you. Said you were dealing with some kind of condition.”

  “What?”

  “Said you’d been suffering a nervous collapse.”

  “That’s not true.” She jumped up and started down the steps again, waving her arms toward the jail.

  The man took his broom handle and pulled her back onto the porch. “I promised Mr. Cliff I’d take care of you while he checked out the town. Come on back. I don’t want to take out my gun.”

  Afraid of what Cliff might do to this man, she acquiesced.

  “There’s a good girl.” Mr. Bjork patted her shoulder.

  “Won’t you at least go get the sheriff and tell him what I told you?” she pleaded.

  “Sheriff Mack? He was a Texas Ranger. Knows how to deal with all kinds a’ rascality: cow rustlers, horse thieves, scallywags, stagecoach robbers, desperadoes, and other human transgressors. If Mr. Cliff really was a bandit, the sheriff would have spotted him right away.”

  Sheriff Mack looked up the street toward them, as if he knew they were talking about him. For an experienced lawman like that, it would be only a matter of time before he recognized Cliff, rustled him up, and arrested him, or maybe even killed him. After all, the poster did say “dead or alive.”

  An Indian with a red-and-black woven blanket around his shoulders rode by on a pinto. A woman in a gingham dress and a large straw hat walked by, holding her identical twin boys’ hands.

  “Morning,” she said to Sally Sue, and kept going.

  “Like I was saying, this here Flagstaff New Town’s booming, especially since fire last year ravaged Old Town, out near the sawmill,” Mr. Bjork continued.

  “That’s horrible. What happened?” Sally Sue asked.

  He looked toward the saloon. “Word is, one of them dance hall girls kicked over a lantern. Old Town burned to the ground. Yep, thirty buildings destroyed in thirty minutes. They rebuilt some homes, but the businesses relocated here, to New Town, closer to the railroad stop. I know the depot is just a bunch of old boxcars now, but someday we’ll erect a real one. We’re the largest city between Albuquerque and the West Coast. Santa Fe Railroad Company sells lots here for twenty-five dollars each. We now have a post office, seven saloons, three restaurants, two general stores, two laundries, a newsstand, a boot shop, a livery, a brewery, and this here hotel.”

  He pointed kitty-corner across the street to the wooden structure. “And the McMillans have a fine building there. They even live upstairs. Fine folks, they are. And look at that limestone building farther down the street, past the church. Brannen’s. Isn’t it grand?”

  “May I have a drink of water, please?” she asked Mr. Bjork, to get him to stop yapping.

  “Sure thing. How about some lemonade? I’ll be just a moment. Don’t do anything foolish.”

  This mud-forsaken place didn’t even compare to Kansas City, with its mighty three-story constructions, commerce, and population. Flagstaff folks moved at a slower pace, just moseyed along in the dirt. In Kansas City, the hustle-bustle of jam-packed streets, horse-drawn carriages, and streetcars kept a lively pace. They were even getting ready to switch from horsepower to electric streetcars.

  She stood up to run down to Sheriff Mack, but a woman hurried up the steps toward Sally Sue. “Herbs for sale.”

  Sally Sue shook her head.

  The woman’s skin was the color of cocoa. Between that and her raven hair, if she hadn’t been dressed in a yellow frock with a calico bonnet, Sally Sue would have thought she was a squaw, or maybe a Mexican.

  The peculiar women grasped Sally Sue’s hand. “I’ve something to tell you.”

  Sally Sue’s impulse told her to pull away, but the woman’s hand felt warm and comforting. Her deep-set eyes seemed to reflect that she understood what Sally Sue was going through.

  “Find the honey in every heart.” The woman’s voice sounded as smooth as that liquid itself.

  Spellbound, Sally Sue replied, “But what if the person is evil?”

  “Evil? No one is entirely evil. Actions can be deceiving. Look further, for the goodness within.” The woman’s hand fiddled for something in her basket; then, finding it, she handed a silk pouch to Sally Sue.

  It fit perfectly in the palm of her hand. “What is it?”

  “Just a little sweet tea to help you see. No sugar needed.”

  “But I haven’t any money to pay you.”

  “A smile will do.”

  Sally Sue’s lips felt rusted into a frown. With difficulty, she forced the edges up. The woman smiled back and patted Sally Sue’s hand. “That’s better, now.”

  Sally Sue’s smile softened and became genuine. Her heart felt full and open. A trickle of hope poured through. She glanced at the hotel and across at the mercantile and whispered, “I need help.”

  “Elvira. I told you to stay away.” Mr. Bjork came out of the hotel and swept his broom toward the woman, as if she were a piece of dirt.

  “I’m not hurtin’ anybody, Mr. Bjork.” She blinked at him, dashed down the stairs, and started up the road out of town.

  “Don’t go talking to that evil one.” He handed Sally Sue her lemonade. “Here comes your husband now.”

  Cliff started down the street toward the hotel.

  The redhead came out of the saloon and stood on the porch. “Yoo-hoo!” she called to him in a Southern drawl.

  He changed direction and walked toward the woman, who fluttered her eyes at him and put her hands on the black lace on her hips.

  Was that what Sally Sue’s ma had meant by a harlot, the kind of woman Sally Sue’s father had left them for? Sally Sue glared at Cliff, sat, and crossed her arms. Did men do offensive things with them, like the Bible said? Sally Sue should have been appalled, but instead she was mesmerized.

  She imagined what it would feel like to be dressed in something so sinful and parade in front of men, the feel of lace on her chest and thighs, the smoothness of the satin. The green one, her favorite, was a low-cut corset with a skirt and a giant bustle in back. What would Mama say if she knew Sally Sue had these thoughts? What would Johnny Jones and his mother back home think if she sauntered into the church hall for a dance dressed in that? She smiled. Would he ask her to dance? Certainly, Pastor Grimes would grab a coat, cover her up, and whisk her home to Mama.

  It was no fun being a persona non grata on account of her father. Like the time Johnny Jones had sat next to her at that church potluck. He had been so charming. But when his mother arrived, she had given him the evil eye and spoiled all the joy. Johnny had gotten up and moved next to her.

  Sally Sue had never even been kissed. Charlie Flanders had tried to once. But as soon as he’d gotten close, with his smelly, hay-like beard, she had pulled away. He’d ended up marrying Gladys Goodings, anyway. Last time Sally Sue had seen them in church, the poor girl’s cheeks had been rubbed red raw.

>   Sally Sue stood. While Cliff was occupied, she should get down there to the sheriff and tell him who the outlaw really was. But Cliff turned around, stared at her, and patted his holster again. Did he have eyes in the back of his head and peepholes in his hat? How was she ever going to get away from him?

  9

  Let’s go,” Cliff called, and waved at Sally Sue as he walked down the street. She deposited the pouch in her basket and joined him reluctantly. What other choice did she have?

  As Cliff opened the door at McMillan’s Mercantile, a butterscotch tabby sprang out, zigzagged around Sally Sue’s ankles, purred loudly, and skittered away. It reminded her of the Rowlings’ cat next door at home. Sally Sue had tried to get her ma to let her have one too, but she said they were dirty.

  Sally Sue’s and Cliff’s shoes tracked mud into the mercantile. The wooden floors were already dirty, so it didn’t matter much. Burning pine scent filled the air from the potbellied stove. The shop had shelving on every wall, and the floors were crammed with boxes, barrels, crates, and tables holding crockery and dishes. A bed, a rocker, and even a casket sat in a corner.

  A tall woman with blond braids pinned on top of her head sorted buttons. “I’ll be with you in a moment.”

  The twins Sally Sue had seen earlier knelt at the candy displayed in wooden cartons beneath the counter.

  Their mother in the gingham dress said, “Decide, boys. There are customers waiting.”

  One of the boys finally yelled, “I’ll have a peppermint.” He paused. “Please.”

  “Please. I want a licorice,” his brother said.

  The woman behind the counter handed them each their candy with a smile, and their mother gave her two cents.

  “Thank you, Mrs. McMillan!” the boys yelled, as they stuck the candy in their mouths and ran out the door behind their mother.

  Cliff and Sally Sue stepped up to the counter.

  “Can I help you?” Mrs. McMillan looked at Cliff.

  He glanced at the WANTED poster displayed on the wall behind the counter and gave the woman a big, phony smile. “Sure can. First off, we’d like some of that cheese and crackers you’ve got there.”