“That neither of us can afford.”
“Well, we can check out the men—”
“The nice ones are ugly. The cute ones aren’t nice. If they’re cute and nice, they’re gay. If they’re cute and nice and straight, they’re married. Or they’re divorced and every penny they earn goes to the ex—”
She bursts out laughing. “So what? You have other plans? Scrub the toilet? Bleach your mustache? Jesus God, you’re the oldest twenty-five-year-old I’ve ever met. Come on, go with me. It’s Friday night, honey. Or maybe we should go dancin’ at Cowgirl….”
I groan. “Absolutely not.”
I turn the book upside down on my stomach and look at the ceiling. Rita interprets the slightest hesitation as a sign of weakness, and she closes in for the kill.
“Then it’s settled. Dream Weavers it is. You can wear my new silk shirt.” She’s already heading down the hall, her mission accomplished. “That teal color’s gonna look so good on you….”
I knew this would happen. Rita’s flirting her brains out with two guys—they look like the kind who hit all the Friday night openings so they won’t have to buy drinks.
I can’t stand to watch her desperation, so I pick up a glass of wine from a passing tray, grab a brochure, and wander off through the gallery’s rooms. Dream Weavers is housed in a rambling old adobe that’s been gutted, but in a pleasing way. The structure itself is intact—the floors wear the burnished glow of very old wood, the pure white walls show off the curves and shadows of bancos and nichos and foot-thick doorways, and the ceiling rests on sturdy, age-darkened vigas. Everything extraneous has been deleted, creating the perfect space for a gallery.
And the display is dazzling. There are weavings—scarves, shawls, ruanas, coats in rayon chenille the colors of desert and ocean and sunset. There are kimonos and wraps, handpainted and stamped and stenciled with petroglyphs and nature motifs and fossils. Long silk scarves with hundreds of narrow pleats that conceal spectrums of unsuspected color. Sweaters with architectural motifs and geographic patterns that dissolve into one another, and quilts made with sheer silks and organza and beads and ribbon.
In spite of the artsy bullshit of the brochure, most of the work on display is oddly fascinating to me. I’ve never been that interested in clothes—probably fortunate, since I’ve never had the money to buy anything more than the basics—but I can imagine wearing these things.
When I look at my watch, it’s 7:00. I can’t believe I’ve been here for an hour. I retrace my steps, looking for Rita, but without success. I could walk home, but the soles of my boots are worn thin, and walking any distance in them isn’t comfortable. Instead I duck under the velvet rope into a back room, where the light is dim and the air is cool and noise from the front is muffled.
I flip idly through racks of shawls and dusters and sweaters—nice things, more utilitarian than spectacular. Suddenly I’m tired and hungry and pissed off that I can’t find my roommate. I make a quick loop of the room and head back, past half a dozen glass-fronted nichos, lit by soft spotlights.
In the next to last case, a blaze of color stops me. The vest. The one my mother wore for her portrait.
“Hey, I spent all afternoon cleaning these cases. Do you mind not fogging up the glass?” I wheel around, hitting a little frog figurine that holds a tray of business cards. I manage to retrieve it before it goes over the edge.
“Sorry. I was looking for someone.”
“Well, I don’t think he’s in there. Good save, though.” The face is almost childlike, small and delicate. Her smile reveals a chipped front tooth and dimples. “I was kidding about breathing on the glass. Relax. I’m not so crazy about these soirees myself.” A thatch of sandy hair falls just above huge dark eyes. She holds out a small, blunt-fingered hand with nails bitten down to the quick. “Elaine Cumming.” I rearrange my purse and shake her hand.
“Do you work here?”
“You’d best believe it. Twenty-four/seven. I own it. Half of it, rather. See anything you can’t live without?”
“On my income, the only thing I can’t live without is food.”
She laughs, a surprisingly hearty laugh for such a fawnlike creature. “I hear you. Of course there’s always layaway.”
My eyes go back to the vest. “Do you know the artist who did this?”
“I did know her. Isabel Colinas. Unfortunately she passed away a number of years ago. She was a fabulous artist. And a very nice lady.”
“Was she from around here?”
“Not originally. I think she was from up in Colorado, but I wouldn’t swear to it. We bought this place ten years ago, my partner, Suzanne, and I. So we only worked with her for a year or so before she…” She looks from me to the vest. “Isn’t it exquisite?”
“It’s beaded, isn’t it?”
“No.” She shakes her head. “She used this technique of knotting metallic threads so that it does look almost like beading, but it isn’t. It’s just incredibly fine needlework. And look at the design. She did it pretty much freehand. If you’d like to see it up close and personal, I can get the keys…”
“No, that’s all right. I’m sure it’s not in my price range. Just out of curiosity, do you have anything else by her?”
“No. Getting this piece was a lucky accident. When an artist dies, it’s very good for business. Too bad we can’t learn to appreciate them when they’re still around.”
“Well…” My voice trails off. “Thanks. I guess I should get going.” She falls in step with me, and we both duck back under the velvet rope.
“Don’t rush off in the heat of the night. Have you had a glass of wine?”
“Yes, I did. Thanks.”
“Well, have another one. What’s your name, by the way?” She slings the end of a gorgeous cerise, gold, and green scarf back over her shoulder like a dishtowel.
“Avery James.”
A leather-clad couple glides past and she says, “Hi, Mary. Hi, Sid.” They nod graciously, like nobles acknowledging the greeting of their tenant farmer. “What do you do?”
“I work for Dos Hombres Catering.”
“Really?” She gives me an appraising glance. “Do you cook?”
“In my dreams. Mostly I take bookings, do site surveys, work parties, and kiss ass.”
“Do you like it?”
I shrug. “I’d like to cook. But you have to pay your dues.”
She sighs. “Ain’t it the truth? It’s tough in Santa Fe. Just to survive takes so much time and energy. Have you had anything to eat?”
“Um, actually…no. I—”
She takes my arm and maneuvers me over to the hors d’oeuvre buffet. “Might as well, it’s free.”
“Do I look malnourished?”
Again the big laugh. “Only slightly.”
“Elaine, excuse me for interrupting, but Petra Crispin’s here. From Fiber Arts Magazine. She wants to ask us a couple of questions about the show.” A tall, dark-haired woman smiles at me. “I’m Suzanne Rose and I just need to borrow her for a minute.”
Elaine winks at me. “Back in a flash.”
I turn my attention to the buffet. Not a terribly imaginative presentation. Using serapes and quilts and scarves to decorate was undoubtedly meant to be in keeping with the ambiance of the gallery, but the food is lost against the mishmash of colors and styles. The serving pieces are pretty basic. Dead white platters, lots of cutesy little bowls and pitchers. Dale may be obnoxious as hell, but he’s a former ad agency food stylist, and the man is a genius at plating food.
I take a polenta cake with sautéed mushrooms and pop it in my mouth. Polenta’s a little soggy…
“Are you hungry, or just scouting the competition?”
Paul DeGraf.
He’s got the monochromatic look down pat. Tonight it’s black, from the knit pullover shirt that hugs his body and black jeans that look like he hasn’t sat down in them yet, to the soles of his black cowboy boots. On his wrist is a narrow band of silver inlaid
with turquoise and coral and white shell.
I wash the polenta down with room temperature white wine. “Both. Although I have to say I don’t think the competition is very competitive.”
“I agree.”
There’s an awkward silence while I try to decide where this is going. “I’ve been meaning to call you,” I say finally.
“Then why haven’t you?” He insists on looking right into my eyes.
“It’s just been so busy. This is my first night off in weeks.” I pick up a small plate and study the buffet. “And, quite honestly…it just feels weird.”
He says, “If you were to pretend we’ve never met, would you be more inclined to tell me about yourself?”
“So you’re having trouble sleeping?”
“I doubt that you could put me to sleep—” He smiles charmingly.
“I wouldn’t bet the adobe on it. Anyway, you already know most of that first-conversation stuff—my name, what I do for a living, where I work. You even know who my mother is. Was.”
Over his shoulder I see Elaine break away from a knot of people admiring an elaborately patterned quilt and start toward us. A few feet away she slows abruptly. A shadow crosses her face—not even a shadow, really just a flicker of something, and then it’s gone and she joins us.
“Hello, Paul.”
“Elaine.” When he bends to kiss her cheek, she doesn’t lean toward him.
“Well. It’s been a while. How are you?”
“Busy,” he says.
She smiles. “Still bringing things up from Mexico?”
There’s a pause that’s just slightly wrong, like a picture hanging crooked on the wall. Before he can say anything, a large red-haired woman swathed in a multicolored cape waves frantically from across the room. “Elaine, where’s the catalog?”
She rolls her eyes at me. “I’m sorry. Obviously I’m going to have to actually work tonight. It was nice to meet you, Avery. I hope you’ll come back sometime. Bye, Paul.” She whips the scarf back over her shoulder and walks away.
He pushes his shirtsleeve up to look at his watch. “I’d like very much to sit down and have a real conversation with you. Have you had dinner?”
He’s just zeroed in on my greatest weakness. “Well…”
“Let me buy you dinner. We can go to Café des Amis over in Burro Alley. It’s quiet, and we can talk.”
I hesitate. “My roommate’s here someplace. I should tell her I’m leaving.”
“Go ahead. I’ll meet you outside.”
Café des Amis is a restaurant where the plates as well as the walls have paintings on them—landscapes, portraits, still lifes. It has a low ceiling, white walls, dark wood floor, white lace curtains at all the windows, white paper over the white tablecloths. A small fountain in the middle of the floor gurgles over fake stones, lit from below. A little girl of about ten years old is carefully placing flatware on empty tables, lining up the end of each piece along the edge of the white paper.
When we come through the door, a short, dark woman plants herself in front of us chattering in French and kissing Paul on both cheeks. Then he’s talking French to her. Suddenly a bear of a man in chef’s whites strides out of the kitchen and he kisses Paul on both cheeks and claps his shoulder. Then Paul introduces me and they both beam at me till I feel like I’m standing naked in a spotlight on a dark stage.
The woman, whose name is Claudette, shakes my hand and says she is happy to make my acquaintance. The guy, Etienne, bends over my hand, barely brushing his lips against it and murmuring, “Enchanté, mademoiselle.”
Finally we get to sit down.
While I study Paul, he studies the menu. Or appears to. He probably comes here so often that he knows it by heart. A slight frown of concentration wrinkles his wide forehead. His face is long, narrow jawed, the skin smooth and dark. When he looks up and catches my stare, he smiles. I look quickly at my own menu. It’s all in French with no helpful hints.
“Do you know what you’d like?” he says.
A glance tells me that I don’t have the faintest idea what most of the dishes are, so I tell him to order for me.
He was right about one thing—it’s quiet. Most of the tables are occupied by couples. The older ones look married and most of them aren’t talking because they’ve already heard everything their spouse has to say—probably several times. The younger ones look like they’re madly in love, and they just sit there staring at each other in the flickering candlelight till their eyes glaze over, because they’re saving their energy for after dinner.
The first thing that happens is Madame brings one of those standing wine coolers and a bottle of Champagne. I can tell by the look on Paul’s face that he didn’t expect it.
“From Etienne and me.” She smiles as the cork pops gently.
“Are you French?” I ask him after we touch our tall, fluted glasses together.
“I went to school in Paris. My father was French. My mother was American.”
“Indian?”
He looks puzzled.
“I sort of thought you looked part Indian.”
This makes him laugh. “No. I’m Jewish. Same general idea, though. Just different tribes.”
I take a sip of the pale straw-colored wine, savoring the fizz. I’ve only had real Champagne once or twice, but that was enough to know I love it—not just the citrus taste, but the way it fills your head with toasty bubbles. It’s like holding bumblebees in your mouth.
“So how did you end up in Santa Fe?” I ask him.
“My mother lived here. After she divorced her second husband. When she died, I came to settle the estate.” His shoulders lift just slightly. “By the time I was finished with all the legal business, I was in love with the place. I only went back to Paris long enough to pack up my apartment. That was twelve years ago.”
The bread is pale yellow and chewy, and there’s a fruity green olive oil for dipping and a small dish of olives in a chile-spiked marinade. I almost forget that the true purpose of this outing is something other than having a great meal, till he says, “Why do you wear contact lenses?” He leans back, one arm draped over the chair next to him.
I swallow too quickly and the fizz goes up into my sinuses. “Because most people find my eyes…distracting.”
“What’s wrong with being distracting?”
“It’s not my style. I like to blend in.”
The intensity of his stare makes me fidgety. “There are so many things I want to know—it’s hard not to bombard you with questions.”
I smile queasily. “Well…you’re buying. Go for it.”
“Where did you live before Santa Fe?”
“Albuquerque.”
“What did you do there?”
“Worked as a waitress.”
“Where did you work? I know quite a few of the restaurants there.”
The thought of Paul DeGraf on a stool at the counter of Sneaky Pete’s Diner makes me smile. “No place you’ve ever been, I promise. I was working and going to school.”
“The University of New Mexico?”
“Yes.”
“What did you study?”
“Whatever I felt like.”
“What was your major field?”
“Didn’t have one. Didn’t graduate.”
Claudette is standing beside us with bowls of a pale green soup. “Potage de courgettes,” she announces, setting them on the table.
I pick up my spoon. The soup is like cool silk on my tongue, fresh and peppery.
“It’s unbelievable,” he says suddenly. “How much you look like her. Where did you grow up?”
“Colorado. A little town called Alamitos.”
“I know the place. Near Wolf Creek. Did you ever ski there?”
“No. They weren’t into skiing at the Randall Carson Foundling Home.”
He seems embarrassed. “You grew up in a—what was that like?”
“Carson? Basically, I think of it as survival training.”
He frowns. “It was that bad?”
“Of course. Why would you think being in an institution would be anything else?”
“Were you…abused or—” He looks startled when I laugh.
“Nothing like that. At least not by the staff. I didn’t get along with the other kids. I was always getting in fights. ‘Does not integrate well with peer group’ was how they put it.”
“Why? I mean, what did you fight about?”
“Oh, typical kid stuff. They made fun of me because I was little, because I had weird eyes. Because I was dumb.”
“Dumb?”
“I had trouble with reading. Till my friend tutored me.”
“So you did have friends.”
“Friend. Singular. When I was thirteen she got—she left. Then the cook, who was the only other person I liked, died.” I shrug. “I had enough to eat and clothes to wear and a rudimentary education. It was just lonely, I guess. And strange. Not knowing who I was. Who my parents were.”
“I see.”
“No offense, but I doubt if you do.”
A young busboy picks up our soup plates, and Madame reappears immediately with our entrées. Set in the middle of each huge white plate is a skinless chicken breast, sliced crosswise into five pieces and napped with a pale green sauce. Tiny perfect carrots and small ovals of zucchini nestle around it. Like the soup, everything is slightly chilled.
“It’s light,” he says, watching me cut a bite. “I thought because of the heat…If you’re still hungry after this, they have a wonderful tarte tatin.”
The chicken has been poached in white wine, with herbs. Mostly tarragon, I think, and it’s meltingly tender. More herbs flavor the sauce—tarragon, parsley, thyme. There’s something else, too.
“Walnuts?” I look at him.
He smiles. “Very good. Yes. Ground walnuts and a little walnut oil in the sauce. Do you like it?”
“I love it.” For a minute I wonder if Kirk and Dale would be interested in this recipe, then common sense kicks in. Why would I want to give them anything this good?
DeGraf eats European style, and it fascinates me, the way he uses the knife in his right hand to cut small pieces and position them on the fork in his left hand. The only other person I’ve ever seen who ate like that was a German girl in my student housing in Albuquerque.
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