Hallie's Comet

by Denise Dietz

  “Boudoir photos?”

  “Nope. Elk. Come to think of it, Joe might prefer one of your paintings.”

  “I don’t paint elks.”

  Gabe laughed. “Elk, Hallie, singular. One elk, two elk, three elk.”

  “Okay, I don’t paint elk.”

  “No, but you paint authentic scenes from turn-of-the-century Cripple Creek.”

  “I wouldn’t take a job away from you, Gabe.”

  “Don’t worry. Elk aren’t my cup of tea.”

  “Holy Moses! I had that very same thought when I saw the Mollie Kathleen. Dark mines aren’t my cup of tea. I don’t even like to drive through New York’s Holland Tunnel.” She shuddered again.

  “Speaking of tea,” Gabe said, “are you thirsty?”

  “I’m fine, thank you,” she replied. “Let’s go meet your friend.”

  Actually, she wasn’t fine. She had honestly expected that her first sight of Cripple Creek would conjure up by-gone images. Lady Scarlet. The little girl. Gabriel. She had anticipated joy, fearful anxiety, even the sorrowful ache she’d experienced when her mom had mentioned Myers Avenue. But she didn’t feel anything except a vague curiosity, just like any ordinary out-of-towner.

  However, that changed when she followed Gabe through the open doors of the casino. Almost immediately she was buffeted by strong winds, as if she’d entered a wind tunnel. A breathy voice chanted, “Come out, come out, wherever you are. Why are you hiding? Let’s play hopscotch. Even better, let’s bedevil the doorman at the Palace till he shoos us away.”

  Then the wind stopped and everything appeared normal, if a picturesque building filled with slot machines and blackjack tables could be considered normal.

  “Where’s the Palace?” Hallie asked, still somewhat dazed.

  “At the end of the street,” Gabe replied. “Why?”

  “She’s hungry, you dumb ox,” said a bearded man with twinkly eyes. “The Palace Hotel has good food at reasonable prices. Right, Hallie?”

  “I’ve never been there.” She chewed her bottom lip, aware that Gabe must have introduced her to his friend while she’d been inside the wind tunnel. What had Gabe said before? His friend’s name was Jack? No. Something with a J. Oh, yes. Joe.

  Ignoring the quizzical stares from both men, she blurted, “Gabe says Cripple Creek is filled with ghosts. Do you have any Elk Creek ghosts, Joe?”

  “Yep. A little girl. She was trapped by the 1896 fire, and now her uncle wants her to stay inside the building while he searches for the rest of the family.”

  “No,” Hallie corrected. “She’s searching for her lost playmates. Your little girl ghost didn’t die in the fire. I think she died much older, but haunts your casino as a child. Maybe she even haunts other saloons.”

  “Hallie has acute perceptions,” said Gabe. “She’s from New York,” he added, as if that explained it. “In fact, she’s done several Cripple Creek paintings for a New York gallery show. Hand over your pictures, honey.”

  Joe studied the Polaroid photos then whistled. “Forget the elk, Quinn. These are great. Have your gallery get in touch with me, Hallie. How about some hot dogs? On the house.”

  “Thanks,” said Gabe, “but we plan to picnic by the side of the road. Before we eat, I’ll let Hallie explore Cripple Creek. It’s her first visit. She’s never seen our ghostly town before.”

  Joe’s brow furrowed. “If she’s never seen Cripple Creek, how did she do her paintings? From old photos?”

  “No, from memory,” Gabe called over his shoulder, belting Hallie’s waist with his fingers and escorting her outside.

  “That was mean,” she said, breathing in the brisk, sunshiny air. “Joe will think I’m some sort of psychic nut.”

  Gabe shook his head. “Joe will spread the word, and soon others will be bidding for your paintings.”

  “Why?”

  “People love to collect the unexplainable. Ghosts, for instance.”

  “I’m not a ghost.”

  “Thank God. I don’t hanker to kiss a ghost, ma’am.” Tilting her chin with his first finger, Gabe pressed his lips against hers.

  Hallie stumbled backwards. They were out in the open, surrounded by tourists. In fact, one carrot-haired little girl who looked like Pippi Longstocking was rudely pointing.

  I’m overreacting, Hallie thought. Marianne would say that Bert and Ernie introduced the K-word on Sesame Street. K-for-kiss. K-for-kanoodle. No, you featherbrained mooncalf! C-for-canoodle. Canoodle?

  Obsolete-speak again!

  Just the same, she was overreacting. On tiptoe, she gave Gabe a hearty smooch. He responded by gently pressing her face between his palms and deepening the kiss. His tongue began a sensuous tango with her tongue, and the sidewalk people vanished as she sought to prolong the embrace. Then the loud clink of coins brought her to her senses. Somebody inside Elk Creek had won a jackpot. The clinky sound continued while she blurted the first thing that came to mind. “Do you believe in ghosts, Gabe?”

  “When I was a kid I believed in Casper, and I love watching Past, Present and Future perform their Scrooge magic every Christmas.” Releasing her face, he circled her shoulders with his arm. “Would you like to stroll through the Old Homestead? It’s the only parlor house that still exists.”

  “Yes, please. Where is it?”

  “Myers Avenue.”

  “We’re not on Myers?”

  “We’re on Bennett. Myers runs parallel.”

  They walked a block, and this time Hallie did feel the fearful anxiety she had anticipated. She also lost her breath, at least temporarily. She opened her mouth to tell Gabe, but bit back her words. Why ruin what was turning out to be a wonderful day? Her dream man’s hand rested on the sleeve of her red and blue striped turtleneck and her breasts pushed against the shirt’s cotton as if they had a life of their own, as if they hoped for an accidental caress. Furthermore, Gabe had just sold at least one of her canvasses and her gallery show hadn’t even opened yet.

  If honest, she had to admit she’d become infatuated with Gabriel, the man in her painting. But now she preferred the man who walked by her side, guiding her toward the parlor house. A painting couldn’t evoke Gabe Quinn’s intelligence. Or his compassion. Or his sense of humor. A painting couldn’t circle her shoulders and send shivery sensations up and down her spine. A painting couldn’t make her breasts throb and her legs melt. A painting couldn’t cause the chaste maiden to forget all about guarding Vesta’s fire and concentrate, instead, on the fire inside her own belly, a fire that extended to the very core of her sensations. “Tell it like it is,” Marianne would say. “You want this guy.”

  “Here she sets,” Gabe announced, “in all her quiet dignity. The Old Homestead.”

  “It’s much smaller than my parlor house. The one I painted. The Homestretch.”

  “But much more famous. Or should I say infamous? The Old Homestead enjoyed the finest trade, gave the grandest soirees, and achieved the greatest sophistication of any brothel in the Gold Camp. The Homestead’s girls were the scorched toast of the town.”

  “My parlor girls aren’t scorched.”

  “How can you say that? They slept with the miners.”

  “No, Gabe, they entertained the miners.”

  “What’s the difference?”

  “Survival versus sin. Let’s go inside.”

  Hallie entered and glanced around. “Holy Moses! Look at all those objects d’art. I’d love to buy some for my apartment. Sacre bleu, talk about unique!”

  “Unfortunately, my pretty French toast, they’re not for sale.”

  Together, Gabe and Hallie strolled upstairs. Five bedrooms were on display, furnished with patchwork quilts, brass beds and marble-topped dressers. Several mannequins stood guard. They all wore authentic clothes from the late nineteenth century.

  Wandering into one of the bedrooms, Hallie’s gaze touched upon a dressing table, cluttered with bottles and trinkets. She felt a finger tap her shoulder. The finger was very
cold, very stiff. Startled, she whirled about.

  A pasty-faced mannequin with sparse blonde hair said, “Don’t steal anything, you brat.”

  Another mannequin said, “Leave her alone.”

  The first mannequin said, “The last time you visited, my bottle of hair restorer left with you.”

  “Knickers would never take your damnfool bottle,” the second mannequin retorted. “Her curls are so thick I can hardly comb out the tangles.”

  “Scarlet,” the pasty-faced mannequin said, “the child’s a thief.”

  “The child’s an angel!” the mannequin named Scarlet exclaimed.

  “Her papa stole,” said Pasty Face.

  “He stole my heart.”

  “And your money,” Pasty Face said. “Every cent.”

  “He didn’t steal my money. He borrowed it.”

  The first mannequin laughed. “He walked away seven years ago and never came home. I don’t call that borrowing.”

  “My papa died digging for gold, you hatchet-faced harlot,” Hallie cried. “A bear et him.” She fisted her hands. “Take it back or you’ll be puking up teeth!”

  TWELVE

  “Honey?” Staring down at the tense figure standing by his side, Gabe saw that her eyes were out of focus and her hands were clenched into fists. Frightened, he grasped her elbow and steered her down the stairs, then outside, into the brilliant sunlight. “Hallie, wake up!”

  “A bear et him,” she repeated. “If you shoot the bear and cut open his stomach, you’ll find my papa—”

  “Hallie O’Brien!”

  “—just like Jonah and Red Riding Hood.”

  Gabe felt totally at a loss. How could he reach her? People had slowed or stopped, gawking at the angry woman who sounded like a child.

  Hallie turned toward them. “Staring at somebody, spitting, looking back after they pass, calling out loudly, or laughing at somebody as they go by, are all evidence of ill-breeding.”

  Facing Gabe, she said, “A gentleman walking with a lady should accommodate his step and pace to hers. For the gent to be some distance ahead presents a bad appearance.”

  Gabe decided to play along. “That’s right, Hallie.”

  “Knickers. My name, as you very well know, is Knickers.”

  “Sorry, little one. I’ll accommodate my step and pace to yours while we walk to my car. Okay?”

  “Carriage, silly. Trains have cars.” She yawned, blushed, covered her mouth with her hand, yawned again. Then she swept imaginary hair over one shoulder. “Yes,” she said. “We’ll walk to your carriage, Gabriel. Gentlemen must take their seat with their backs to the horses, care being observed that gowns and shawls are not shut in the door when it’s closed. Last week you shut my petticoat in the door,” she chided.

  Leading Hallie away from the Old Homestead, Gabe heard a woman say, “I bet that was a performance. Ain’t she cute?”

  Cute? Not hardly. “We’ve almost reached the car … the carriage,” he said, “but you look exhausted. Do you want to ride piggy-back?”

  “What did you say?”

  Stopping short, Gabe glanced down. Hallie’s eyes were alert, focused. “You’ve been yawning,” he said, “so I thought you might like to ride—”

  “Piggy-back? When did we leave the parlor house? Oh my gosh, I tranced again, didn’t I? Why is this happening to me?”

  “To us,” he said.

  “No, Gabe, me. You don’t lose your sensibilities.”

  “Yes I do,” he teased, “every time we kiss. But I promise we’ll solve this puzzle, Hallie. For starters, we now know the little girl’s name.”

  * * *

  “Her name is Knickers? Are you sure, Gabe?”

  “That’s enough, Hallie. We’ll discuss this after we eat.”

  “But you wouldn’t let me talk about it in the car, and—”

  “Later.”

  Fuming, she watched Gabe spread an orange and blue Denver Broncos blanket across the grassy ground. Then he hunkered down and yanked open a cooler.

  “Look, honey,” he said, “live lobsters. Big ones.”

  “You’re kidding, right?”

  “Yup. I packed turkey sandwiches, cheese, fruit, soda and beer.”

  “A beer sounds great.”

  “I don’t think so.”

  “Why not?”

  “The altitude. A beer would go straight to your head.”

  “Really! How can you drink it?”

  “Altitude doesn’t affect me. I’m a native Coloradan.”

  “So am I.”

  “What happened to New Yorker, born and bred?”

  Momentarily, she fell silent. Then she said, “I was joking, paying you back for the lobster.”

  No, you weren’t, Gabe thought, but decided to let it pass. He wanted her to eat and relax, especially relax. Her whole body was drawn tighter than an arrow through a bowstring.

  He’d chosen their picnic site with care. High above Cripple Creek, the secluded glen was surrounded by dense brush and a profusion of wild flowers that scented the atmosphere with a rich, spicy cologne, as if Nature had created a department store cosmetics counter and sprayed the air with sample perfume. Should people below happened to glance up, they’d merely see Aspen trees shimmering with orange-gold splendor.

  Sitting on her heels, Hallie nibbled at a wedge of cheese. Then she avidly consumed the cheese, a sandwich, and three purple grapes.

  “I was hungry,” she understated with a smile. “Hungry as a bear.”

  The perfect opening. Should he mention the bear-et-Papa bit?

  “How do you feel now?” he asked, instead.

  “Sleepy.”

  “Stay awake!”

  “Not trance sleepy, Gabe. Ordinary sleepy. Can we talk about what happened at the Old Homestead?”

  “Where do your parents come from?”

  “What does that have to do with … oh. This might be a generational thing?”

  “Maybe,” he replied.

  “My dad was born in Brooklyn. His folks emigrated from Ireland. My mom’s a second-generation New Yorker.”

  “And your great-grandparents? On your mother’s side?”

  “My great-grandfather came from Texas. I’m not sure about Granny Bea. She was something else, my great-grandmother. Just like your father, she fought for civil rights, only she waged her battle long before organized protests were established. Her name was Beatrice but they called her Bea. She had a brief fling as a singer, even performed a solo in one of Zigfeld’s shows. Then she challenged the theatre’s segregation policy and that was the end of her show biz career.”

  “You said you couldn’t sing. Right?”

  Hallie nodded, her curls bobbing. “My mom can carry a tune, but I can’t carry a note. My dad has a marvelous voice, very vibratory, an Irish Elvis. Aren’t we contemplating my mother’s side of the family?”

  “Yes. The 1890s. Did your great-grandmother have sisters? Brothers?”

  “I don’t know. Granny Bea was adopted.” Hallie moved closer to Gabe, who was sitting with his back propped against the trunk of a tree. “I don’t feel sad or anxious, and yet I have a feeling I’ve been here before.”

  “With me or Gabriel?”

  “Gabriel. Does that make you angry?”

  “No, not really. But I would prefer a flesh and blood rival.”

  “You have no rival, Gabe, cross my heart.”

  “Good idea,” he said, drawing her body into his lap. “I think your heart’s over here, maybe higher. Where do you put your hand when you salute the flag?”

  “Where do you put yours?” she countered.

  He tugged her shirt free from the waistband of her jeans, unsnapped her bra, and pressed his hand against her left breast. “I pledge allegiance to your heart,” he murmured, circling her swollen nipple with his thumb.

  “I’m losing my breath again,” she gasped, “and don’t blame it on the altitude. Please kiss me, Gabe.”

  “That won’t restore you
r breath.”

  “I don’t care. Who needs breath?”

  “Not me. Let’s lose our breath together.”

  The tree trunk provided support as Gabe propped Hallie against his drawn-up knees, cradled her chin with both hands, and slowly, deliberately, traced her mouth with the tip of his tongue until he felt the soft, moist, inner edges of her lips yield.

  Digging her nails into Gabe’s shoulders, Hallie felt his fingers unzip, then gently thrust through her open fly. Panting, she rocked back and forth, silently urging his fingers to increase their pressure. A whimper escaped through her parted lips.

  Would Gabe never unzip his jeans and ease her throbbing ache with something harder, stronger, thicker than a finger? Her body began to quiver with bursts of uncontrollable pleasure. Totally unnerved, she loosened her hold on Gabe’s shoulders and let her heavy head fall backwards.

  Time stood still. Nothing moved. She saw the tree tops. Not one branch stirred, not one leaf rustled. She saw birds suspended in the sky. Not one wing flapped in flight. She felt Gabe withdraw his fingers.

  Leaves rustled. Birds circled the clouds.

  “What’s wrong?” She dug her nails into his shoulders again.

  “Beast.”

  Confused, she stared into his eyes. “As in soothe the savage?” Then she remembered. “Oh, your brother.”

  “Beast loves you, Hallie.”

  Staggering to her feet, she fumbled at her bra hooks and re-zipped her jeans. “Josh has built up this fairy-tale image of Sleeping Hallie or Cinder Hallie, and he wants to fight dragons or scale castle walls until he can kiss her awake. Or have her try on a Jimmy Choo glass slipper. But you’re the only one who can kiss me awake, Gabe, and even if you don’t have a Jimmy Choo open toed platform pump handy, I can imagine what your hands would feel like caressing my foot. Don’t you love me a little?” she asked plaintively.

  “I think I love you a lot.”

  “Enough to fight dragons?”

  “Yes.”

  “Enough to fight a flesh and blood rival?”

  “I won’t fight my brother.” Rising, he began to collect the picnic items. “But I will reason with him, explain how I feel.”