The Black Velvet Coat

by Jill G. Hall

  “I hope not. He deserves the best.”

  “Yes, he does.” Sylvia yawned.

  “You must be beat.” Ella helped pull off Sylvia’s boots. “Now take a bath and crawl in for a little nap before supper.” She gave her another hug and closed the door on her way out.

  The turquoise jewelry boxes sat on the dresser as always. Sylvia slipped off the bed and opened each one. In the dim light, the shiny baubles sparkled, but, curiously, she had no desire to pick them up.

  She inspected herself in the full-length mirror. Her formerly rail-like body had filled almost into an hourglass figure, and her pale skin now had a rosy glow. She touched her short hair that had started to grow out. Should she keep it red, or go back to being a blonde?

  She wandered over to the jewels again. They had represented so many hours of turmoil. Shopping had been her one true passion, but she didn’t feel that spark of desire anymore. What did her future hold? Now that she had seen how others lived and felt grateful to God for her own fortune, she wanted to do something more with her life. But what could that be?

  She hoped part of that would be marriage to someone wonderful, maybe even to Paul. She pondered the dreams and wondered if they could be true. Could Betty Lou have made all of that stuff up? No, because she knew about the Scrabble tiles.

  Did Paul maybe really love her? That relaxed feeling Sylvia had around him couldn’t have been love. But then, she had thought her feelings for Ricardo had been. If it had been true love, things would have turned out differently.

  Sylvia ran her bath, climbed in, and closed her eyes, thinking more about Paul. Had there been signs that he loved her? She remembered how he gently slid the gardenia corsage on her wrist before the Valentine’s dance and how careful he had been not to hold her too close while they danced. And when the band played “Heaven,” she caught him as he gazed at her with a pained expression on his face. It all came rushing back to her now, and she realized it might be true. Maybe he really did love her. It was a different kind of love, filled with admiration and consideration.

  But what did she feel about him? She inhaled and exhaled, and a calm spread through her body. Her feelings for him were like a restful pond; an occasional ripple might occur, but soon it smoothed out. With Ricardo, it had been just the opposite. Her emotions for him had been like a wild ocean full of crashing waves and undertow. With him, she had found it hard to breathe. That couldn’t have been love.

  The serenity she felt with Paul might be love—not dullness, but a feeling of safety and completeness. Wouldn’t it be wonderful to spend life in that tranquility? But could she imagine kissing him? She summoned his muscled arms and tennis legs to her mind. Come to think of it, he resembled a blonde Rock Hudson. How amazing she hadn’t noticed that before!

  She examined her narrow feet and long limbs. Her breasts peeked up out of the water, and she wondered what it would be like to have him touch her, like in her dream. She giggled. Maybe she could love him in that way.

  49

  Aunt Tootie pushed gray strands from her face and drained the water in the sink. “I’m beat. It’s nearly midnight.”

  Anne dried the last plate and stacked it in the sideboard. “Me too.”

  “Thanks for your help.” Tootie moved to her rocker in the living room. “Let’s visit awhile.”

  Anne plopped on the couch across from her. “Our Pootie’s married. I can’t even believe it.”

  Her aunt nodded and closed her eyes. “At least the weather held.”

  Anne looked out the window and watched a squirrel scamper up a tree. The dusting of snow that had fallen that morning had begun to melt. The candlelight service had been lovely, and Pootie’s stomach didn’t show in her mother’s loose-fitting gown. But Anne felt like a doofus.

  In her velvet coat and Ferragamos, she thought she’d look like a model. But instead, her mother had said, “You can’t wear that coat. It’s bad luck to wear black at a wedding.” During the ceremony, Anne nearly shivered to death and dropped the bouquet three times. Her mother had Shirley Temple–curled her hair and pinned the huge snowflake headdress on top. Then, as she applied Anne’s makeup, she said, “Just think, when you move back home, I can do this for you all the time.” Anne hadn’t announced yet that she was planning to move home. “Look how radiant.” When her mother handed her the mirror, Anne had nearly fainted. Her mother had added a ton of rouge to Anne’s cheeks and drawn in Joan Crawford eyebrows.

  It was a good thing she hadn’t invited Sergio for sure. When she had told him about her sudden change of plans, he hinted to be invited to join her there, but she resisted the notion.

  He had said in a soft voice, “We must not be meant to be together right now.”

  Anne now sighed. “Brian’s a great guy.”

  Tootie rocked back and forth. “It just all happened so fast.”

  “That’s true.” Anne wondered if Tootie knew about the baby.

  “At least I know she’ll be settled close by.”

  “That must be a comfort to you.” For a moment, Anne considered confiding her plans to move back. But anything she told her aunt would get right back to her mom.

  “You know, I almost got away.” Tootie smiled with a faraway look in her eyes.

  “What do you mean?”

  “Yep. Got as far as Traverse City, all the way across the state, but I chickened out, turned around, and came back.”

  “You’d never told me that.”

  “I never even told Pootie. Always been curious how my life might have turned out.” Tootie reached for an Avon lotion sample from the end table, squeezed some out, and rubbed it into her hands.

  “You’ve had a good one though.”

  “Don’t get me wrong. I don’t regret my choice.” Tootie picked up a photo of her brother from the table. “Your father got away from this Podunk town like he always swore he would. All the way to Iraq.” She shook her head. “He always wanted more.”

  “He did? I’d never heard that before either.”

  “Your mom got so mad when he signed up.”

  “She did?”

  “Yep, and you are so much like him.” Tootie nodded and looked at the photo.

  “I am?”

  “First of all, you got his hair, wavy like a lion’s mane.”

  Anne touched her hair. “What else?”

  “Your laugh. Big as day.”

  Anne smiled. “Really?”

  “You can be stubborn too.”

  “Am not!”

  “Are too.” Tootie paused, stared at the picture, and wiped away a tear. “Died for his country.”

  Anne nodded.

  “I’m so proud of him.” Tootie looked straight at Anne. “Proud of you too.”

  “Even though I haven’t made it as an artist?”

  “Doesn’t matter. You are still following your dream. Just keep at it. He did too, even though it killed him.” Tootie kissed the photo then put it down.

  Anne felt tears flick her eyelashes.

  “I’m just glad your dream isn’t as dangerous.”

  “My mom too, I bet.”

  “Yep, you’re different from all the rest of us, all right. Just like him.” Tootie sighed.

  Anne remembered that parent-teacher conference long ago when she first realized she was different. She had been coloring at her desk while her mom met with Mrs. Couts, the kindergarten teacher.

  “Anne’s different, all right. I’ve seen this before. A child without a father will have a hard time coping. Probably will her whole life.”

  Anne had hung her head. She looked at her socks: one lime green and the other lemon yellow. That morning, she hadn’t been able to decide which pair to wear, so she wore one on each foot.

  Mrs. Couts had flipped over a piece of paper and put her pointy finger on the page. “See, here are you two, and this must be her father.” Anne hadn’t been able to see way up there but had known it must have been her rainbow picture. She’d used every color in the crayon bo
x and put her dad way high in a “better place” and also in a crate in the ground. She hadn’t known if he could be in two places at once but figured if God was everywhere, her father should be able to be too.

  “I suggest you remarry as soon as you can so she’ll grow up with a man around,” the teacher had continued. Her usually chatty mom hadn’t say a word and had just nodded. Maybe that was why, for a time, she had gone out with that Dr. Jones, the dentist with the crooked teeth who smelled of onions. After a few months, he’d quit coming around, and her mom never saw another man after that, at least not to Anne’s knowledge.

  Her mother had held her hand tight as they walked the two blocks home that day. Even though Mrs. Couts hadn’t seemed to like the picture much, her mother still stuck it on the refrigerator, where it stayed for a year.

  Now Tootie opened a drawer in the end table and pulled something out. “Here. Your mother asked me to give these to you. She was too emotional to do so herself.”

  Anne reached across the coffee table, took the dog tags, and ran her fingers over the raised letter and numbers.

  “Symbolizes bravery. It’s yours now. You’ve earned it too.”

  50

  Ella knocked on Sylvia’s bedroom door. “Mr. Paul will be here soon. Are you ready yet?”

  “Almost.” Sylvia’s hands started to shake, but then she thought of his kind face, and her body calmed. In the last two weeks, he had come over almost every evening but had so far shown no indication that he especially cared for her. They sat in the library while he listened patiently to her travel adventures, and sometimes they played Scrabble. Since she’d told him she’d shot Ricardo, he’d somehow grown pensive. But her feelings for him grew stronger and stronger with every visit, and she was surprised and delighted when he suggested they go out on a dinner date.

  Since she’d been back, jeans and boots had become her standard wardrobe. But tonight, she wanted to be alluring, and she examined herself in the full-length mirror. Would he think she looked attractive? She swung her head back and forth dramatically. “If I’ve only one life, let me live it as a blonde.” She’d even had her hair rinsed back to her natural color.

  Lucy stood on the bed with a bark.

  “Do you like it?”

  Sylvia returned to her reflection in the mirror. She touched the stiff bouffant. The loads of hairspray used to keep it in place emitted a tart odor that she hoped would dissipate in the night air.

  Her pale pink chiffon A-line flowed in a soft swirl just above the knees. She wished she hadn’t pawned the pearls in Flagstaff. The ones Paul had given her. It would have been nice to wear them tonight. Not because she wanted to rub her fingers over them to calm herself, but because they were from him.

  Now she applied a little rouge but didn’t need much. No thick pancake to mask her emotions tonight. With eyeliner and lipstick on, she felt ready.

  “He’s here!” Ella knocked and opened the door. Lucy shot out of the room to greet Paul.

  Ella shook her head at Lucy then looked Sylvia over. “My baby girl has sure grown up.”

  “Do you really think so?” Sylvia ran her hand over the bouffant again.

  “Mr. Paul won’t know what to do.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “He’s always been sweet on you.”

  “He has not!”

  “Has so.” Ella sat on the edge of the bed. “The real question is, how do you feel about him?”

  Sylvia felt her face turn red and touched her cheeks.

  “Then we’ll just need to wait until he pops the question.”

  “But he hasn’t even kissed me yet.”

  “That’s okay. There’s plenty of time for that. Hurry now. You don’t want to keep him waiting.” Ella took Sylvia’s elbow and led her down the hall. At the top of the stairs, Sylvia let go and rushed down toward him. She paused on the landing. “Good evening.”

  He put Lucy down, turned around, and his smile widened. “You’re dazzling!”

  Sylvia smiled and strolled down the rest of the stairs, and he handed her a bouquet.

  “Thank you, kind sir.” She smelled them.

  “Real roses!” Ella grinned at Sylvia. “I’ll get these in water right away.” She took them and hurried toward the kitchen.

  Sylvia and Paul stared at each other, not sure what to do next. She’d never seen him look more dashing: gray suit pressed, baby blue tie that matched his eyes knotted below his smooth chin.

  “Shall we have a cocktail before we go?”

  He looked at his watch. “No, we should go. Our reservations are for seven.”

  “Aren’t we going to the club?”

  “I thought it might be nice to go to a restaurant.” He helped her into her mink. “Just the two of us.”

  As he steered the Lincoln out of the driveway, she admired the way his strong hands grasped the wheel. She leaned over, switched on the radio, and turned the knob until she found a favorite. “‘Great Balls of Fire!’ Oh. I love this one.” She leaned back and sang along.

  Paul winced. “I don’t. Switch it to something more relaxing.”

  She played with the dial again. Elvis crooned, “Wise men say that fools rush in.”

  “Is this okay?”

  “Perfect.” He sang a few words: “That fools rush in . . .” Paul’s deep voice blended well with Elvis’s. And Sylvia soon joined in with pleasure.

  Caesar’s wasn’t very crowded yet, and they were seated at a private booth. After the wine was delivered, opened, and poured, Paul clinked his wine glass with hers, and they each took a sip. He then pushed a narrow box across the table not unlike the one Ricardo had given her with the emeralds in it.

  “What’s the occasion?”

  “You’re home.” Paul smiled at her.

  “Yes, I am.” Not wanting anything shiny tonight, she rubbed her fingers over the velvet case.

  “Open it.”

  With trepidation, she lifted the lid, and tears filled her eyes. They were her pearls. The ones she’d sold in Flagstaff. “Oh, Paul. How did you ever get these back?”

  “It wasn’t easy.” He shook his head.

  She thought of that geezer from the pawnshop. “I can’t even imagine. Really, how?”

  He grinned. “Your friend Betty Lou helped.”

  “If anyone could wrangle them back, it would have been Betty Lou. I’ll need to send her another special thank-you note.” Sylvia took them from the box, turned around, and leaned back while Paul clasped them for her. She returned upright and ran her hands over the smooth beads. “You are really so sweet. I’m so glad you got them back.”

  He smiled. “And I’m so glad you are back too.”

  She ordered veal scaloppini instead of her favorite spaghetti because she didn’t want to spill any on her dress.

  “Miss Van Dam?” She looked up from her plate at two men staring at her—the same ones who had rung the bell this afternoon! She had practically forgotten all about it. She had just returned from the beauty shop when the doorbells chimed and had tried to ignore them, but the long Westminster melody tolled again, and she remembered Milo had taken Ella to the market. Sylvia pulled a robe on over her slip, padded to the bedroom across the hall, and peeked down out the curtains.

  A lone Plymouth sat on the circular drive, and on the front stoop, two men stood in dark suits, hats in hand. Could they be salesmen? She didn’t see any display cases. She swallowed. Could it be the police? Even though Paul felt their interest in her had blown over, she had kept a low profile.

  The large man knocked, and the short one pushed the bell again. Bum, bum, bum, bum. Bum, bum, bum, bum. She was tempted to answer it, but Paul had advised her not to talk to anyone unless he was there. Besides, she couldn’t go down in her robe. She wasn’t decent. They rang the bell again and looked up at the window. She stepped away from the window and waited until she heard the car drive off, then exhaled.

  “Come with us.” The big man with a pockmarked face now reached out his
arm to escort her.

  Paul stood with a worried line between his eyes. “Who are you? What’s this all about?” he demanded.

  “Sorry, Mr. Palmer, but we need to ask Miss Van Dam a few questions.”

  “Right now?”

  “The chief wants it done right away.” The policeman put his hand out as if to escort her.

  “Can’t this be done at her home?” Paul asked.

  “No. The chief wants her at the station.”

  Even though her body started to shake, like a fawn learning to stand, Sylvia rose and touched Paul’s arm. “It’s okay.” At the station, Ella and Milo wouldn’t see her with these men.

  “At least let me drive Miss Van Dam in my car. You can follow us.”

  The large one paused for a moment then nodded. “All right, sir.”

  Paul collected her mink stole and held it out as she slipped trembling arms through the sleeves. The maître d’, waiters, and other diners gaped at them. Before Paul led her swiftly down the restaurant steps, she whispered to him, “Everything’s going to be all right, isn’t it?”

  But Paul didn’t say a word.

  51

  They were alone in the small room. A bare bulb hung from the low ceiling, reflecting off walls painted the color of fading seaweed.

  “I’m scared,” Sylvia whispered with wide eyes.

  Paul leaned over and put his hand on hers. “Now, remember, keep calm and think of your future.”

  “I know, but . . .”

  The large detective, his brown suit wrinkled, entered the room and put a Coke in front of her. “You must be thirsty.”

  “Yes, thank you.” She nodded and hid her shaky hands under the wooden table.

  The detective sat across from them. His puffy eyes had dark circles under them. He sighed, scratched his pockmarked face, and slid a piece of paper in front of her with a date on it. “Were you with Mr. Lopez the night in question?” He pointed at the paper.

  She nodded.

  “Speak up.”

  “Yes,” she managed to eke out as she glanced over at the large window. Were the chief and others observing her through it like in the movies?