Hallie's Comet

by Denise Dietz

  “Nonsense. It would be a wedding gift.”

  “Your father can give us a video cam, two video cams, but stores filled with photographic equipment? The answer is no. Did you hear me, Jenn? No!”

  Uncrossing her arms, she removed her engagement ring. An overhead light captured the diamond’s glitter as she extended her hand toward him, the ring dangling from her fingertips.

  “Choose,” she said. “Me or your professional obsession.”

  “You can’t be serious.”

  “I’ve never been more serious in my life.”

  “Don’t you love me?”

  “I loved Gabriel Q, not the man who shoots centerfolds.”

  He noted her use of the past tense, loved. When had her love turned sour? During the many operations to reconstruct his knee? During his rehabilitation and the agonizing months of physical therapy? Yes, his wound was patriotic and Jenn was bravely performing her patriotic duty by entering into a loveless marriage.

  Or was she?

  With sudden insight, he realized that Jenn didn’t expect him to accept her daddy’s offer. She knew he’d never agree, and his refusal gave her the perfect out, the perfect opportunity to break their engagement.

  Simply put, Jennifer Bernadette Dominger Greengart couldn’t deal with imperfection. Take her art collection, paintings by Hallie O’Brien, ballerinas who were never out of sync, who never stubbed their toes on a land mine or pierced their legs with shrapnel.

  Had he loved Jenn? Or had he loved the reflective pride in her eyes when they attended various social functions given by the American Newspaper Guild and Press Photographers Association? At those events his buddies always called him a lucky son of a gun and compared Jenn to every famous model who had ever graced a runway or decorated a magazine cover.

  Why hadn’t he sensed Jenn’s reluctance to wed a defective man? Because it had never occurred to him, that’s why. The important parts of his body worked. He couldn’t run, and if the weather threatened he needed a cane, but he’d known Jenn since high school, when he had played wide receiver and she had cheered from the sidelines. Two years of college photography courses and three years of military photography had provided a technically sound background and his career had been exemplary. Jenn said she preferred to wait until he settled down, then they’d get married. Now he was settled. Now be wanted a wife and children. Now she wanted a man with perfect legs.

  “Well, Gabe? I’m waiting.”

  “Keep the ring, sweetheart,” he said. “You deserve a reward for your years of devotion, especially the last couple of years.”

  “Are you saying we should call off our engagement?”

  She sounded too eager. Momentarily, he was tempted to capitulate and gage her reaction, but insincerity had never been his strong suit. He had trouble bluffing at a poker game.

  “Here’s the deal, Jenn. Pose for one of my boudoir photos and I’ll call off our engagement.”

  “Go to hell! I wouldn’t pose for you if you were the—”

  “Last photographer on earth?” Feeling strangely disburdened, he watched her flounce from the studio, the ring still dangling from her fingertips.

  Her final flounce. Gabe brought his attention back to the darkroom. He studied the photo he’d shot when Jenn had jostled his arm, and decided that it was thought-provoking even if it did consist of predominantly inanimate objects. He hadn’t had time to focus, but his garage sale couch, shaped like an upside down L, was clearly etched against a folding screen whose hand-painted design included fierce Chinese dragons. The studio lights had caused shadows to produce interesting patterns.

  Now Gabe scrutinized those patterns the same way someone else might examine clouds and change them into a billowy mass of sheep. However, his photo shadows were incongruous. For no apparent reason they formed a woman and a child. Both figures were seated on the antique couch. Although their faces were opaque, the woman’s hair was skewered into a topknot while the child’s long unruly curls looked as if they’d been combed with an eggbeater.

  Lord, he was letting his imagination run wild. Maybe the broken engagement had affected him more than he wanted to admit. Maybe he was hungry. Maybe—

  The phone’s ring interrupted his justifications. Was Jenn calling to apologize? Should he accept her apology? Gabe reached for the darkroom’s extension.

  “Hi, Scarecrow,” said the familiar voice of his younger brother, Joshua.

  The scarecrow nickname had been fondly bestowed upon Gabe when he had given up his crutches and his forward motion had been uncertain, his legs rubbery, like the famous Wizard of Oz character.

  “Hi, Beast,” Gabe said with a grin. Josh had used his own mirrored image to create the Prince in Beauty and the Beast. Jenn had posed for Beauty, Gabe recalled, his grin fading. “What’s new, baby brother?”

  “Nothing much,” Josh said. “I’ve been working on the illustrations for Jack and the Beanstalk, but I can’t decide whether to make the giant black or white. My damn dog got captured by the pound again, he keeps digging new holes under the fence, and the love of my life plans to visit Colorado.”

  “Make the giant white, Beast, and sell the dog. Wait a minute! The love of your life? Hallie O’Brien?”

  “None other.”

  “Hey, that’s great. Ever since last year’s art seminar, you’ve refused to consider any woman’s subtle, sometimes even unsubtle—”

  “Her visit’s professional, not personal. Hallie was very up-front about that. She’s practically engaged to somebody named Ivan, a friend of her brother’s.”

  “Define practically engaged.”

  “No ring. No wedding date. She prefers to wait.”

  Gabe thought about Jenn and resentment began to sprout like a seed from a packet of Gall And Wormwood plants. “No big deal,” he said. “Ms. O’Brien’s too old for you.”

  “What? I’m twenty-six. Hallie’s twenty-seven. And isn’t that the pot calling the kettle black? You’re racing toward the big four-oh. Aren’t you and Jenn going to tie the knot soon?”

  “Nope. The knot’s been severed.”

  “You’re kidding. When?”

  “Yesterday afternoon.”

  “I’m sorry, Gabe.”

  “Thanks, but I feel relieved.”

  “Bull!” There was a long pause then Josh said, “Well, I guess that answers my next question.”

  “What question?”

  “Where Hallie will stay. My house has one tiny bedroom and Napkin dominates the couch.”

  “Sell the damn dog.”

  “I can’t. He’s my best critic. Besides, I owe Napkin my life. He finally forced me to quit smoking by chewing up all my cigarette packs. I paid good money to this guy who swore he could help any poor slob stop smoking and lose weight through hypnosis, but it didn’t work.”

  “It didn’t work on you or your fat mutt?”

  “Me. Napkin wouldn’t go under. He slobbered, rotated his fat furry rump like a fan dancer, licked his jowls, and hungrily eyed the hypnotherapist’s swinging watch, which he probably thought was a silver-plated cookie.”

  Gabe laughed. “Why can’t Ms. O’Brien stay at a hotel, Beast? Or a Bed and Breakfast?”

  “Because she wants to set up her easel and paint. I thought of Jenn because her house has so many spare rooms. Hold the phone! Why can’t Hallie stay with you? I hadn’t considered that, but you have a nice house with a studio and—”

  “One bedroom! Where the bloody hell would I sleep?”

  “On the sofa.”

  “You’ve can’t be serious.”

  “Okay, here’s another idea. Hallie can use my bedroom, I’ll vacuum dog hairs from my sofa, and you can board Napkin.”

  “Josh, do you have any idea what a St. Bernard with a voracious appetite would do to my studio? At the very least he’d eat my film, and I don’t have a fenced yard so I’d have to walk your slobber-jawed mutt. Correction. He’d walk me. I’d rather board your damn artist.”

  “Th
anks, Scarecrow.”

  Trapped! Gabe admired his brother’s grit.

  Josh said, “May I ask one more favor?”

  “If I say no will you threaten me with Napkin again?”

  “Hallie’s flight lands around three something, I’ve got it written down. I have to sit by the phone, a conference call, and I can’t postpone the call because it involves my agent, Beanstalk’s author, and the publisher. Do you have any photo sessions scheduled for tomorrow?”

  “No. The last few months I’ve been booked solid, so I decided to take next week off. I was planning to surprise Jenn, drive up to Cripple Creek, treat her to a show at the Imperial Hotel. I’ve already bought tickets and made the reservations. I’m free, Beast, very.”

  “Would you meet the plane, Gabe? Please? She’ll be landing in Denver.”

  Gabe stifled a sigh. “What does your Ms. O’Brien look like?”

  Josh didn’t stifle his sigh. “She’s beautiful.”

  “All women are beautiful, Beast. Some are beautiful on the inside. Some, like Jenn, spend big bucks fixing what they consider defects. But, when you come right down to it, every woman is—”

  “Beautiful. Yes, I know. Hallie has brown hair, dark eyes, winged brows, thick lashes, and a figure that would make Cinderella’s stepsisters gnash their teeth with envy.”

  “Will she recognize me? Or should I bring a sign?”

  “Bring a sign.” Josh paused and Gabe could practically hear his brother’s face flush. “You see, I never told her about you.”

  “Why?”

  “I was trying to impress her.”

  “And you couldn’t do that by mentioning your big brother?”

  “Not if his name if Gabriel Q.”

  “I think you overestimate my fame.”

  “I think you underestimate it.”

  “Okay, Beast. I’ll meet your Hallie O’Brien. But you owe me, big-time.”

  “Thanks, Gabe. For starters, I’ll cover tomorrow night’s dinner tab. Any restaurant you choose, the sky’s the limit.”

  SIX

  Peering through her small window, Hallie tried to focus on the sky. Her composure was gone and her patience was nearing the end of her limit. While she wasn’t normally a violent person, she wanted to pummel the elderly woman who sat next to her, the woman who wouldn’t stop talking about fatal aviation disasters.

  “My name’s Amelia Capshaw,” the elderly lady had stated during take-off, after sliding into her comfy first class seat and struggling with her seat belt. “I was born in nineteen hundred and thirty two, named for Amelia Earhart. You’ve heard of her, haven’t you?”

  “Yes, ma’am. She was the first woman pilot to solo—”

  “When were you born, my dear? No. Don’t tell me. Let me guess. Nineteen hundred and sixty nine, right?”

  “No, ma’am. I was born in—”

  “What a co-inky-dinky! An air collision between a passenger jet and a light plane near Indianapolis killed eighty-three people that very same year.”

  “Please excuse me, restroom.” Squeezing past Amelia’s plump knees, Hallie had staggered to the back of the plane, entered the claustrophobic-sized bathroom, washed her hands, and studied her reflection. Marianne had trimmed her brown hair, then streaked it with a few blonde highlights, and despite the smudged circles of fatigue, her dark-brown-almost-black eyes were bright with anticipation.

  After contemplating her entire wardrobe, she had chosen a white silk blouse with a short black skirt and an old, beloved matching jacket with shoulder pads that reminded her of a football player. Well, maybe not that big. Her expression, however, probably mirrored a fierce competitor. Forget death. Forget destruction. She was determined to solve her Cripple Creek mystery and reach the end zone, even if it meant tackling several ghosts along the way.

  Upon her return, she broke a fingernail fastening her seatbelt. Then, through her thick scrim of lashes, she saw that Amelia Capshaw looked like nothing less than a human wind-up toy.

  Sure enough, the irksome woman began by talking about Orville Wright’s broken propeller blade, which had caused his plane to drop 150 feet, injuring Wright and killing his passenger. Then the pesky Amelia recounted, in detail, the wreck of the 1925 dirigible, Shenandoah, followed by the 1937 Hindenburg fire. Before Hallie could object, Amelia swiftly enumerated the 1975 Kennedy Airport jet crash, the 1978 San Diego midair collision, and the U.S. amateur boxing team’s demise.

  “I’ll never forget the date, my dear. March fourteenth, nineteen hundred and eighty. It happened over Poland.”

  She finished, at least temporarily, with the movie Alive, including a detailed account of the plane crash. This time a soccer team, rather than a boxing team, was the object of her demented glee.

  “They ate dead people,” she said, “and they didn’t cook ‘em first. I wonder if we’re going to be fed. I’m hungry. They feed first classers, you know. Except the last time I flew the food didn’t agree with me and I whoopsed all over the young lady next to me. Are you hungry, my dear?”

  “No, ma’am, not anymore.”

  “Delta crashed at the Dallas Fort Worth Airport, killing one hundred and thirty-three people. The Delta pilot tried to land in a violent thunderstorm. Oh my goodness gracious.” Amelia leaned sideways and stared out through Hallie’s window. “Do I see thunder and lightning?”

  “I don’t think so.”

  “Yes indeedy, thunder and lightning,” Amelia said, her voice smug. Then she continued to chatter away, like a portentous magpie, narrating every terrible accident she could remember. For an old lady, her memory was extremely accurate, especially when it came to the number of people killed.

  She halted momentarily to nibble pretzels. At the same time, she slurped a Scotch and Diet Pepsi.

  Peering at Colorado’s seemingly peaceful sky, Hallie clutched her tapestry handbag and seriously considered bopping the pesky magpie. It was tempting.

  Amelia said, “Alaska. Nineteen hundred and seventy one. One of the worst single plane disasters…” Her voice trailed off as she shut her eyes and began to snooze.

  We’re approaching Denver, Hallie thought wryly, and my prophet of doom finally decides to take a nap, bless her heart.

  The sudden silence was almost mind-boggling. Hallie dug through her handbag and removed several Polaroid snapshots. They depicted her paintings:

  Archangel.

  The Homestretch.

  Sinatra’s Melody.

  The Terminal Express.

  Belly Up To The Bar, Boys.

  A Hot Time In The Old Town.

  And her favorite, Hallie’s Comet.

  Neil would deliver all seven paintings to the gallery, but she fully intended to be back for her new exhibit’s opening night. The return date on her birthday ticket was one week from today, which should give her plenty of time. How long did it take to research an old mining town? Especially when, according to Josh, Cripple Creek was almost within spitting distance of Woodland Park.

  Along with her two suitcases, she had brought a portable easel, her pinewood paint box, and three primed canvases.

  She knew that her creative compulsion still burned like a raging forest fire.

  Last night Marianne had cooked dinner for the entire O’Brien clan. Even Neil had turned off his computer and joined the party. Josie was still amused by her daughter’s “paranormal pictorials.” Hallie’s father, the epitome of the absent-minded professor, had insisted that most musicians nurtured a paradoxical muse so why not painters? Marianne continued to hold the belief that Hallie had perused Josie’s history books, while practical Neil had loaned his sister his old Polaroid.

  “Take some pictures of your paintings,” he had suggested, “and compare them to Cripple Creek landmarks. By the way, Ivan says to tell you he has fourth-row tickets for that new Broadway musical, the one the critics are raving about. And,” Neil had added, nudging her with an elbow, “he just hired a young receptionist with legs up to her chin. She’s a bit giggly for
my taste, and probably Ivan’s, but she idolizes him. Every morning she brings him a skim-milk latte and two fresh bran muffins. If the legs don’t get him, the bran muffins will, so you might consider sending him a couple of postcards.”

  “I’ll only be gone a week, Neil.”

  “Call him. Or email. You can do that, can’t you?”

  After hugs and kisses, Hallie had returned to her apartment, carefully aimed Neil’s Polaroid, stuffed the results inside her handbag, and packed. Subduing the impulse to start a new painting, she had tried, without much success, to sleep. Unless a change of scenery curtailed her “paradoxical muse,” tonight she’d itch to curl her fingers around a paintbrush.

  “One of the worst commercial disasters took place in nineteen hundred and fifty-six when Trans-World and United crashed into the Grand Canyon,” Amelia continued, as if she’d never dozed off. “Ike was our President. I voted for him, would have voted for him twice. You’re so young, my dear. Have you ever heard of Dwight D. Eisenhower?”

  “Yes, ma’am. My mother’s a history—”

  “When Lyndon Johnson was President…I didn’t vote for him…there was a midair collision over Danbury.”

  Approximately thirty-seven minutes later, Hallie sped down the exit ramp, her beige suede boots stepping on toes, her voice murmuring, “Sorry, excuse me, sorry, excuse me.” For all she knew, Amelia was still detailing disasters.

  Speaking of disasters, the area surrounding the luggage pickup looked like a beehive about to burst. Why were there so many people at DIA on a Monday afternoon?

  Looking around, she saw Denver Broncos team members greeting multiple fans. If she knew squat about golf, she knew more than she wanted to know about football. When it came to the NFL, Marianne was a fanatic. Apparently, the Broncos had played a Sunday night away-game. Apparently, they’d won. How would she ever find Joshua Quinn in this sea of happy, expectant faces?