The Silver Shoes

by Jill G. Hall

  He stepped inside, embraced her, and closed the door with his foot. Pushing her straight back onto the daybed, he gave her a long and luscious kiss.

  “Hello, big boy,” she murmured. “I’m glad to . . .”

  “Shhh.” He kissed her neck and kept going.

  Afterward, Anne smiled. “You don’t waste any time, do you?”

  “Perché dovrei?” He shrugged with a wicked smile.

  “How’d you get here a day early?” she asked.

  “A meeting got canceled, and I thought I’d surprise you.”

  “You sure did.” Maybe he couldn’t wait to propose.

  Despite the noise of the wind, Sergio soon fell back to sleep. Mrs. Landenheim’s Siamese mewed outside the door. Anne knew she never should have started placing scraps there. That scallywag would pester her forever. Anne pulled on a robe, filled a bowl for the cat, and set it out for him. She made a pot of coffee, then crawled back into bed.

  Sergio looked so sweet asleep, his curly hair soft on the pillow. He was the one. She’d known it even on the first night they met at her friend’s gallery opening in New York. When Anne had doubted whether she was a real artist, he had said: If you pick up a paintbrush, therefore, you are an artist. He wasn’t an artist himself but had an interest in the arts and listened attentively whenever she talked about her work. He always viewed her new pieces and gave her positive feedback, boosting her confidence in the process.

  As if reading her thoughts, he opened his eyes, stretched, and smiled, saying, “Show them to me.”

  “I already have! But I’ll do it again.” She jumped up on the bed, opened her robe, and flashed him.

  He laughed. “Not that! Your newest inspirations.”

  She giggled, closed her robe, and leaped off the bed—just catching herself from tripping. She had hoped they’d talk about their relationship, but she wanted him to bring it up first.

  She picked up the photo from the altar and handed it to him. “Careful, it’s fragile.”

  He studied it for a moment. “These do look like the pearls.” He flipped it over and read the back.

  “Aren’t the girls lovely?”

  He nodded and set the photo on the coffee table.

  She picked up Finding Her Way by the handles and presented it to him as if it were a sacred relic.

  “Look at all those pearls. You’ve got a theme going.” His fingers caressed the pearls she’d used instead of grout. One popped off and fell onto the sheets. “Oops, sorry.”

  She scooped it up. “No problem. It happens all the time. Have you been by the shop lately?” She leaned the mosaic against the wall so they could view it.

  “Every week, but it’s still closed.”

  “That is so weird.” The aroma of coffee dripping into the carafe roused her. She poured them each a cup.

  “Here’s Waiting for a Ring.” She placed the assemblage on the coffee table beside him.

  He rolled over and propped himself up on his hand.

  She hoped he’d understand the significance, but he didn’t seem to. “You study it and I’ll fix us breakfast!” In anticipation of his visit, she had even bought groceries.

  “Uh-oh.” He cringed with a laugh.

  “You’ll live.” Last time she tried to cook oatmeal for him, it boiled over and stuck to the pot and stove.

  Whenever she stayed with him, while she wiled away the mornings in bed reading the New York Times, he’d prepare extravagant morning feasts: eggs Benedict, French toast, vegetable frittata. At night he usually took her to the most delicious gourmet restaurants. It was a wonder she hadn’t gained fifty pounds.

  From the fridge she took out the egg carton, but it slipped from her fingers and all but one of the eggs broke on the floor.

  “Need some help?” He glanced her way.

  “No, thanks. I’ve got it.” Scrunching up her nose, she wiped up the mess as the eggs slipped and slid. She threw it all in a baggie and tossed it in the trash.

  She nuked some leftover pizza, put it on a floral antique plate from her stash, and joined him in bed. “Not what I’d planned, but I did heat it up.”

  “Thanks, Martha Stewart.” He took a bite with a smile.

  Anne rolled her eyes.

  They ate their pizza and lolled the afternoon away reading, napping, and chatting. She waited for him to bring up the topic of marriage, but he didn’t.

  In the late afternoon he said, “I know it’s early, but I’m getting hungry. Put on your green dress, baby. Where’s somewhere romantic you’d like to go?”

  “Top of the Mark. Best place in the city to view the sunset, eat tapas, and drink martinis.”

  “Let’s get this party started! Wear your rhinestone shoes, and we’ll take the cable car up the hill.” Sergio made his way into the bathroom and turned on the shower.

  Anne twirled around the room. Tonight’s the night!

  29

  Anne put her hair in an updo, donned the sexy silver shoes, and did a quick rumba—or what she thought was a rumba. She couldn’t help it, every time she put on the glittery shoes, she felt like dancing. Glancing in the mirror, she hoped she looked pretty enough to propose to.

  Freshly shaven, Sergio came out of the bathroom, ponytailed hair still damp, tight jeans and white dress shirt on.

  “Looking hot.” She smiled at him.

  He checked her out. “You, too.”

  The green dress, a favorite secondhand-shop find, was the one she’d worn on the night she met him. She had been embarrassed because everyone else in the New York gallery had worn black. Sergio had admired her dress and said she appealed to him precisely because she didn’t fit in with that crowd.

  He threw on a sports jacket, and Anne donned her velvet coat. They trekked down the stairs and stepped outside. The sky had filled with dark clouds. Bouncing on a gust of wind, a seagull squealed above them. Sergio took Anne’s hand as they crossed the street, walked half a block, and waited for a cable car on the corner. One soon stopped, packed to the brim.

  The conductor raised two fingers and yelled, “Two, room for two. Jump on, rear to rear and cheek to cheek.”

  Sergio helped Anne climb aboard and jumped on. They sardined themselves into the back and held onto a pole. As the car rose up California Street, buildings passed by: the Painted Ladies, the local Laundromat, Nob Hill Hardware. They hopped off at the top of the rise in front of the Mark Hopkins Hotel. A tony couple got out of a limo, and a bellman piled their luggage from the trunk onto a cart. Anne and Sergio followed the couple into the lobby and took the elevator up to the nineteenth floor. At the Top of the Mark, the line for a table snaked all the way back to the elevator.

  “The view is worth waiting for. Can you hold off for a while to eat?” Anne asked. It would be the perfect place for a proposal.

  “Even though that breakfast pizza was very filling, I don’t think so. I’m hungry now.”

  Anne tried not to be too disappointed as they rode the elevator back down.

  They hiked around the corner just in time to catch the sunset. She snuggled up close to him, his body shielding her from the wind, while clouds reflected over the bay, bursting like pink-and-violet-paint-filled balloons.

  As the blush shades faded, she turned, kissed him, and raised her eyebrows expectantly. Hey, handsome, propose already.

  Sergio said, “Where to now? I’m starving!”

  She paused with a sigh. “Let’s go to the Fairmont’s Tonga Room across the street? It might be a little touristy, but it’s been recently restored and got good write-ups.” Yes, dimly lit and romantic!

  They crossed the street and entered the Fairmont’s side door. Down a hallway, they found the tiki-laden entrance, where a group of tourists waited behind a plastic vine used to rope them off.

  “How long is the wait?” Sergio asked the hostess at the podium.

  “I can take you now. Follow me.” Her dark hair was swept up in a vintage movie-star style with a Polynesian sari wrapped tightly arou
nd her frame.

  Anne and Sergio followed her across the wooden dance floor and through the Hurricane Bar, which resembled a pirate ship. The bar was crowded, but there were plenty of empty tables in the restaurant—never a good sign.

  They were seated next to an Olympic-sized pool. Plastic bromeliads and ferns were draped on pillars. A palm-fronded bandstand stood on one end. Anne studied the room. Uh-oh. It was more tacky than kitschy. Would Sergio hate it?

  She gazed at the pool. “I should have brought my fishing pole.” On second thought, maybe she shouldn’t have brought that up.

  Sergio laughed and reached for her hands. “You are fantastico.”

  “You, too.” Here it comes.

  He looked into her eyes and said, “Will you—”

  A loud whooshing noise was followed by a blast of wet air on her shoulders. She screamed, then giggled as a cascade of water fell at the far end of the pool. Lights flashed and thunder boomed. A cheesy recording of African jungle drums played.

  “This place is more like Disneyland than Disneyland.” Sergio grimaced.

  “It’s a combination of the Tiki Room and Pirates of the Caribbean.”

  They read the names off the drink menu aloud.

  “Tonga Kong!” Sergio raised his arms like King Kong.

  “Fog Cutter.” She swam her arms in front of her. “Hurry Kane.” She raised and swirled them above her head.

  A tattooed Hawaiian-shirted waiter asked, “What’ll you have?”

  “I’ll have a Mai Tai,” she said. Why not?

  “A Sapporo for me. Waters, too.”

  The waiter nodded and moved away.

  They studied their menus.

  “What looks good to you, Big Foot?”

  She loved it when he called her that. He’d called her that since the first night they met when he noticed how big her feet were. “You’re the foodie. Why don’t you choose?”

  “Okay.” Tracing the columns with his finger, he perused the entire menu.

  The waiter set down their drinks and started to leave.

  Sergio called out, and the waiter turned back. “We’re ready to order. We’ll have pot stickers, the Royal Pu Pu Platter, and coconut-encrusted shrimp.”

  “Coming right up.” The waiter moved over to a table at the other side of the room.

  Anne removed the paper umbrella from her drink and took a sip. “Ew. It’s all rum and no juice.”

  Sergio gulped some of his beer and nearly spit it out. “It’s warm!” He looked for some water.

  “The food is supposed to be good, though.”

  “Let’s hope so.”

  After two more cycles of thunderstorms, it wasn’t funny anymore. After twenty-five minutes, the waiter tossed their food on their table and left.

  “What a mess! I can’t eat this.”

  “It’ll taste fine.” She stabbed into a piece of smothered-in-sauce crab, and tried to chew it. It took some effort to swallow the conglomeration. She put down her fork. “Real poo-poo is more like it.” Tears of disappointment stung her eyes.

  “Let’s go.” Sergio tried to get the waiter’s attention, but unable to do so, he stood and threw some cash on top of their food.

  Outside in the hallway he asked, “Have any more of that pizza at home?”

  “No. The restaurant upstairs is supposed to be great, but a bit pricey.”

  They rode the elevator up to the lobby and entered the elegant Laurel Court, a marble-pillared room with lovely hand-painted trompe l’oeil murals of tall junipers and European architecture. However, a sign said that it was closed for a private party.

  The noisy bar beside it, stuffed with formally dressed patrons likely ditching the ballroom’s fundraiser, didn’t have any seats available.

  Sergio and Anne shimmied up to the bar. He ordered potato skins, shrimp skewers, and olives to go. Her heels hurt her feet as they walked down the hill toward her place. At Grace Cathedral, Anne spotted Mata Hari curled up in a side doorway.

  The homeless woman sat up when they approached. “Who’s the hottie?”

  Anne smiled. “My boyfriend, Sergio.”

  “The New Yorker. I’ve heard about you.” Mata Hari grinned her toothless smile and eyed the food.

  Sergio handed her a potato skin. “All good, I’m sure. Anne’s told me all about you, too.”

  Mata Hari sniffed it. “Are you being good to Missy?”

  “Of course.” He nodded.

  “Got any cash to spare?”

  “Sure.” He pulled out his wallet and handed her a few bills.

  Mata Hari hid the money between her saggy breasts and curled back up. “He’s a keeper, darling! Run along. I’ve got to get my beauty rest.” She pulled a satin sleeping mask over her eyes.

  “Sweet dreams,” Anne’s voice sang as they continued down the hill.

  “So sad.” Sergio shook his head.

  “The homeless population here has gotten out of control. Pretty soon all of the artists will be homeless, too. This city has become so expensive.”

  “Speaking of that, have you signed your lease yet?”

  “No, I thought we’d better talk first.”

  He nodded but didn’t say a word.

  Upstairs, they ate and listened to music and went to bed early. The subject never came back up.

  The next morning, with Sergio beside her, Anne pulled Tweety out of the parking garage and cruised to Golden Gate Park. Before the crowds arrived, they rode the elevator up to the de Young’s observation deck. It would be the perfect place for a proposal. But foggy weather made the usually spectacular view invisible. They took in the museum and afterward walked the gardens.

  Faded by a dreary sun, the sky seemed to be covered in a matte wash. Geraniums in brilliant jewel tones lined the walkway while juniper branches twisted in the wind. Her skirt kept lifting like an umbrella, and she kept pushing it down to her boots.

  Finally, Sergio led her to a concrete bench next to a secluded pond where giant lilies floated. Anne huddled inside the black coat and fingered the key in her pocket.

  He looked into her eyes and sighed. “You know I’m crazy about you. I call you all the time. I laugh at your silly antics. When we’re together, I can’t keep my hands off you.”

  “That’s lust, not love.”

  “Is that all you think this is?” He crossed his arms.

  “No.” She shook her head.

  “And when we aren’t together, I miss you. Please come live with me.” He took her hand.

  She needed to stick to her decision. “But I can’t move to New York yet.”

  “Why not?” He dropped her hand.

  She hesitated and swallowed back tears. “You don’t love me enough.”

  “What do you mean? I love you!” His words drifted in the air and flew away.

  “I love you, too, but I need a commitment before I give up everything I have here and move all that way.” Tears welled up in her eyes.

  “But we are committed.”

  “Don’t you want to marry me?” Anne grabbed a Kleenex from her backpack and dried the tears streaming down her face.

  “Of course, probably, someday.”

  Anne swallowed. “That’s not a for-sure, then. When will you know?”

  “It’s hard to say. We should live together awhile to make sure.”

  “Aren’t you sure by now?” She blew her nose.

  “Sort of. But I need to be one hundred percent certain. An engagement to be married is a forever commitment, no matter what.” He paused.

  “Is it because I’m a slob? Are you worried I’ll make a mess of your place?”

  “I have a maid, and besides, you promised to keep your things in their place.”

  “Is it my cooking skills?”

  He smiled. “That doesn’t matter. I love to cook.”

  “Then what is it?”

  He shrugged.

  “I don’t need to get married now, just to know we’re planning to.”

  “I�
��m sorry, Anne. I guess I’m just not ready.”

  She dried her tears and wadded up the tissue.

  He looked away. “Since we want different things, maybe we should break up.”

  She twisted the Kleenex in her hand. “Break up? But I love you, and you love me, too. If that’s true, why don’t you want to marry me?”

  He looked down. “I’m not sure. I guess because marriage is more than just loving someone.” He pulled out his phone and pressed a button. “I should go home today.”

  “But you still have two more days with me.” A rock sat in her stomach.

  “There’s a flight in three hours. Let’s swing by your place so I can get my luggage. I’ll get a ride from there.”

  As they walked back toward the car, she reached for his hand, but he pulled it away. “Let’s talk more about this,” she implored him.

  “There’s nothing more to talk about now. I need some space.”

  Maybe she shouldn’t have given him an ultimatum. The thought of losing him forever made her feel as if she might suffocate behind a flickering screen of sadness.

  30

  By the time Clair arrived in the small beach town, her heart felt as blue and fragile as a robin’s egg. She stepped off the train, and the fresh salt smell of the Atlantic cleared her senses. She searched for Mr. Nelson, their caretaker, surprised that her father hadn’t alerted him to pick her up.

  The warm Indian summer weather was inviting, and she toted her valise down the long dirt road toward the cottage. Blooming hydrangeas decorated the gray wood shingle walls. She found the key under the flowerpot and let herself in the pale-green back door.

  Unlacing her shoes, she slipped them off and dropped them on the mudroom’s hardwood floor. She raced down to the beach, where a gentle wind blew in the gray-blue sky. The rippling sea sparkled, reminding her of the shoes in the window and Winnie’s trampled cap. Clair cringed inside. Her friend might be sitting in jail right now.

  Clair strolled along the shore, savoring the soft sand between her toes, gingerly avoiding the golden seaweed with its scalloped lacy edges and orange bulbs. It took her mind back to the summer before her mama died. What ever happened to that good-looking Mr. Benny? Clair hadn’t thought of him in years. He had teased her, pretending he planned to munch down on one of the seaweed bulbs like a carrot, but instead exploding one in his big palm with a loud pop. She’d tried to smash one, too, but at six she wasn’t strong enough.