Brian seemed disturbed by her words. “But Sybil, if Clara—”
She interrupted at once, as confident as ever. “Oh, I know about all that. Don’t worry. I’ll handle it. We can count on you, Brian?”
“Of course. And you’d never keep Ma away. She’s dying to meet Jed’s younger daughter.”
“I know you want to get home,” Sybil said a little too smoothly. “Thank you for driving me to Flagstaff. It helped save my energy for the talk. I hope I haven’t made you late.”
She was dismissing him, and he knew it.
“Ma will wait dinner,” he said. “It’s fine that your talk went so well. You really cut into the opposition today. Let me know when you get the Phoenix thing lined up.”
He was on his way to the door, when Marilla improvised suddenly. “Brian, I told Lindsay you’d take her out in one of the jeeps sometime. Into the back country, I mean. Then I can go too, can’t I?”
He looked a little surprised but nodded cheerfully enough. “Oh, sure. I’ll be glad to. Any time.”
He went off to where he’d parked his car, and Marilla accompanied him to the door. For the first time, Sybil and I were alone.
For a moment she stood looking after him, nodding as though in satisfaction. “I’m glad he’s over that girl.”
If she expected me to ask, “What girl?” I was silent. It meant nothing to me.
“Well, Lindsay?” she went on, and the veneer of cordiality she’d worn fell away with the challenge of her words.
“Thanks for letting me come,” I said mildly.
“It was Rick’s idea—not mine. He’s been making plans. We don’t have to pretend with each other, do we?”
“I don’t know about any plans.”
“Oh, he has them for you, but I don’t think you should get carried away. Not to the point of staying here for long, Lindsay.”
“I haven’t any intention of staying long.”
“That’s wise of you. Come and sit down for a minute, since we have this chance alone. Why did you come? It wasn’t just because you wanted a rest, was it?”
She had changed, I thought in dismay. And for the worse. What had been rather spiteful and unformed efforts to dominate me in the past had now crystallized and grown a great deal stronger. She had always been able to put me down with a look and a few words, and she was trying to do the same thing again, though for some more threatening purpose. But I was no longer a child to be bullied. In the old days I’d needed to summon Vermilion in order to stand up to her, but I didn’t need any imaginary support now, and I answered her quietly.
“I came because of Jed, Sybil. I want to know what really happened to him.”
Her laughter had the sound of ice in it, and she was not really amused. “How stupid we were, Lindsay. All that hero worship for a father who never gave a damn about either one of us. Though of course you haven’t had the advantage I’ve had in the last few years of watching him closely and recognizing just what he was like. He wasn’t worth your coming here, if he really is your reason. What on earth could you possibly do?”
By an effort, I kept my voice low and even. “I don’t know yet. That’s what I’m here to find out.”
She switched her direction without warning. “Has Rick told you about your mother? Your real mother?”
This time her attack startled me, but I still managed an outward calm. “If there’s something to tell, I suppose he will, eventually.”
The old word she had loved to use echoed in my mind as it had not done for years—“bastard”—and it took an effort of will to keep from dropping my eyes. Somehow I was able to stare her down, and I think she recognized that her old domination of me was over.
“You may not like what you learn,” she told me, and let the matter go.
A young Mexican woman came into the room just then, and Sybil spoke to her. “Consuela, will you get Miss Phillips whatever she’d like to drink, please.” And to me, “Do go out on the terrace and make yourself comfortable, Lindsay. The air cools off at sunset. I’ll change and be with you soon.”
Sybil waited while I spoke to Consuela, and then went away. I watched her go with a tiny feeling of satisfaction. I’d stood up to my sister, and for once she hadn’t been able to beat me down. Nevertheless, the threat of some intent I didn’t understand stayed with me, and I knew I wouldn’t dare allow a chink of weakness to become visible. This time, any attack she made on me wouldn’t be for her own passing satisfaction but because of something that went a great deal deeper. What had happened between us just now was no light crossing of words. This time Sybil had some far more serious intent, though I had no idea as yet what it was.
Let me in, Vermilion whispered. You need me now.
I didn’t need her. I was my own woman and I would fight my own battles from now on.
When Consuela brought my cinzano, I didn’t carry it out to the terrace but took the stemmed glass and walked slowly around the room. There was so much to see. So much that might tell me, not only about Arizona, but perhaps about Sybil and Rick as well. I needed to know.
As I moved about, studying the room, a frieze of heads caught my eyes. They were of carved wood brightly painted, and all alike—perhaps twenty of them mounted along a high shelf that stretched across the opening to the entry hall. The repetition of staring black eyes and slightly sneering red mouths was hypnotic, and I could hardly take my eyes from them.
Marilla came running in from the front door, and she turned around to see what held my attention.
“Oh, those. They’re Hopi. Dad bought them from an old man in the Pueblo village of Oraibi up north. Dad says they aren’t typical. The old man just does that same funny head over and over. And then he paints them all alike. Grandpa Jed used to talk to those heads when he was here. He knew some Hopi words, and he said they talked back to him, but I never heard them.”
The familiar stab of pain came so easily at mention of my father. But reminders of him would come often out here. I had better learn how to meet them, and close my ear to Sybil’s derogatory words. There was nothing she could say about Jed that I hadn’t told myself, yet none of this changed what I felt I owed him.
As I sipped my drink, I examined a collection of handsome Indian pottery, all earthen tones, with decorations of blue and henna. A combination that would be interesting in a dress. On the wall above hung the framed painting of an Indian woman. The figure was full length, and she wore a blue dress with a lighter overskirt on which flowers had been appliquéd. Her legs were encased in long white leggings with moccasin feet. In one hand, she held up a basket heaped with what seemed to be blue grain while, from the other, five ears of blue corn were suspended.
But it was her face that had most interested the artist—as it interested me. She had great dark eyes, with a slashing of black brows above. Her cheeks and chin were softly contoured, the lips full and parted breathlessly, as though she listened to something just out of sight. A beating of ceremonial drums, perhaps? Her black hair was brushed down the sides from a central part, but there were no traditional braids from the old days—as I’d seen in pictures of Indians. She wore it in a short, straight bob that seemed modern in concept.
Again, Marilla was just behind me. “That picture is called The Blue Corn Maiden. Grandpa Jed loaned it to my father. He was always doing that. People gave him things, but he moved around so much that he never had any place to keep them, so he sort of parked them with friends. And sometimes he brought us presents. I have two kachina dolls that are from him, and some other things too. Once he gave Brian a real Hopi drum.”
“Are there Indians in Sedona?” I asked.
“Not now. But the Yavapai tribe believes that a valley in the vicinity of Soldier’s Wash, right here in Sedona, is the place where the world began. Of course there’s Hopi on Black Mesa, where the reservation is, but that’s a long way off. Dad says the Hopi are like a small island with a sea of Navajo all around.”
I knew very little about the Indians
of the Southwest, and I moved on to study a woven wall hanging with a crested bluegray bird darting across it. Everywhere I looked I saw marvelous color combinations, great design symbols, new textures. But at the moment I was more interested in the people I was meeting here than in inspiration for design.
“Tell me about Brian,” I said.
“What do you want to know?”
“You said he was writing a book.”
“I guess he is. But what he likes best is to be outdoors and not inside houses. Even when he’s working, he sets his typewriter out on the patio when it’s not too cold or windy. Mostly he climbs around in the dry washes and all along Oak Creek looking for whatever he can find.”
“What sort of things does he find?”
“Oh—plants and rocks and bugs. His mother, Mrs. Orva Montgomery, used to be an art teacher in our school. She’s retired and now that she’s a widow she runs the jeep tours that her husband used to run. She still gives private art lessons, too. Mom used to let me go to her—but I don’t know if I will anymore.” Marilla hesitated and her voice dropped. “I don’t know if I really want to paint.”
“Why not? I like to paint too, though mostly I do peculiar ladies with long necks and skinny bodies to show off the dresses I design.”
Before she could respond, a car door slammed, and Rick came into the house.
Marilla hurled herself toward her father and this time she didn’t stop short, as she’d done with Sybil. He caught her up and swung her around, planted a kiss on her cheek and set her down.
The excitement of telling her news set her chattering. “Somebody threw an egg at Mom while she was making her speech! It got all over the front of her suit. And Brian said there was a note left on the windshield of her car. But I don’t know what it said.”
“Then maybe I’d better wait until your mother tells me about it,” Rick said. “Scoot now. You know she won’t like it if you’re not out of jeans by dinnertime—and neither will I.” He patted her bottom, and she ran off, laughing.
“What’s all this about egg throwing?” he asked me.
“I don’t know any more than Marilla told you. Sybil didn’t seem to think it was important. Rick, I do like your house. It fits into the landscape.”
He looked tired, and perhaps even more somber than he’d seemed on the drive from Phoenix, though he made an effort and smiled at me.
“I worked with the architect on it all the way. I wanted something low and spacious, with windows looking out at the rocks.”
In his voice I heard his fondness for this place, this house. For Sybil it would be a prize possession, but for Rick it was more.
He went on. “Tomorrow, if you feel like it, I’d like to show you our Sedona shop. Clara wants to meet you.”
I remember his daughter’s disquieting words. “Marilla seems to think that Mrs. Hale is upset about my coming here.”
“Oh, that.”’ Rick brushed the matter aside. “What Clara is miffed about has nothing to do with you. She’ll get over it.”
“Sybil doesn’t want me here either,” I said. “We were never close as sisters, as you know perfectly well. I wouldn’t have come here if I’d known how strongly she feels.”
He rubbed his forehead with one finger, and it was a gesture of weariness. “You had to come to Sedona because you’re Jed’s daughter. You had to come eventually, didn’t you?”
“Tomorrow I’ll tell you why. Then you can decide whether or not I ought to stay for a while.”
“All right, I’ll wait. Now if you’ll excuse me, I’ll shower and change for dinner. Have you everything you want?”
I nodded and he reached out to touch my shoulder lightly. It was a gesture of reassurance, but I was not reassured. It was as though he knew something I didn’t—something that still lay ahead of me—and he didn’t want me to be frightened. But his touch carried understanding as well, so perhaps he hadn’t changed altogether. He knew that coming here had not been easy for me, whatever it was that had brought me. I wanted to thank him, but I couldn’t put anything so nebulous into words. Nor did I want him to raise his guard against me again, as he might if I said the wrong thing.
I watched him disappear toward the bedroom area and sipped my drink thoughtfully. It wasn’t my foolish first-love feeling for him as a young girl that mattered now, but the stronger, far more troubling emotions that stirred in me as a woman. I wondered if I would be strong enough to keep them from surfacing. Because Rick must never guess. Nor Sybil. And I must question myself, too. Had I been attracted so deeply again simply because he was Sybil’s husband? Must I always envy what she possessed?
The great beamed room with its collected treasures began to seem oppressive, and I took Sybil’s suggestion and carried my drink onto the half moon of terra-cotta tiles that formed the terrace. The sun had set, and against the sky huge rock shapes blackened in the fading light, resembling spiny-backed monsters crouching too close for comfort. At each end of the terrace a mushroom lamp had come on, so that I was encased in a small area of light that held off the encroaching darkness. There were no lights up there among the rocks, though on either hand lighted windows showed in a scattering of houses, none of them very close. The night seemed utterly quiet and lonely.
I sat in a folding chair and placed my thin-stemmed glass on the small table beside me. Sybil’s words with their barbed challenge had roused questions about the mother I’d never known. A mother who had been unwilling to face whatever difficulties a baby might have brought into her life. It wasn’t often that I brooded about this any more. The fact that she had existed was something I’d seldom faced in the course of my life. Yet this mother, whoever she was, belonged to an Arizona I was seeing for the first time. Her family had probably lived here, perhaps still lived here. That was something I was less than ever ready to face after the veiled warning in Sybil’s words.
An early evening breeze refreshed me after the warm day, and I raised my face to its touch. Far off in the hills an animal cried out—a sound curiously between a bark and a note that was almost human. A coyote, I supposed. Jed had written about night sounds out in the back country. A mountain wilderness crowded close around small Sedona. It was a wealthy little town, yet wealth meant nothing out there where emptiness ruled. In New York the voice of the city was always awake. It hummed stridently all night long, and you could hear it even in high-rise apartment buildings. There could be loneliness there too, of a different sort. Here the night was too quiet.
A nearby sound, reassuringly normal, reached me from the house—door chimes. I heard Consuela hurrying to answer. A moment later she appeared on the terrace with an envelope in her hand.
“For you, miss,” she said. “A boy just brought it to the door.”
I thanked her and she went away. The letters that spelled my name had been blocked in with a black felt-tipped pen, and I knew at once where this message came from. I’d seen the same block letters on the sheet of notebook paper that had brought me here.
Opening the envelope, I took out a similar sheet. The words were only a few:
I knew you would come. Be careful of your sister. She has something to hide. Be patient.
I had brought my handbag with me and it contained the note I had received in New York. Now I took it out and compared the two. The writers were identical. I must show these to Rick, and yet reluctance still held me. How could I make accusations against my sister, when I didn’t know whether these notes were a hoax? If they weren’t, what damage might they cause in my sister’s life, or in Rick’s? Or to Marilla? Someone was watching—someone who knew I’d arrived. I must be wary, yet I must find out who had watched me, summoned me, who concealed motives I couldn’t yet understand.
I put both notes in my bag just as Rick came through the living room to the terrace. He had changed to gray slacks and a light jacket, his dark hair damp from the shower. It seemed to me that he was more rested, more cheerful than a little while ago. As always, I liked to look at him. Just to look
seemed enough for now.
“I feel a lot better,” he said. “There have been problems, and there still are. But I don’t want to worry you with them. And I don’t want you to worry about Clara Hale. She can’t hold your relationship to Jed against you, once she gets to know you. I do want you to meet her tomorrow.”
“So that’s it—my relationship to Jed? What did she have against my father?”
“It isn’t something she likes to talk about.”
Rick knew, I thought, and he didn’t mean to discuss it with me.
Sybil appeared at one of the glass doors with two martinis in her hands, and Rick went to take one of the glasses. He didn’t kiss her in greeting, and his manner seemed reserved as he drew a chair near my table for her, and she sat down, all but ignoring him.
She had changed to a flowing gown in a print of pale green with red poppies—a couturier creation, obviously—that enhanced a figure that was no longer too thin. I would have said that she looked perfectly cool and serene, and beautifully in control of her world. But when she placed an envelope on the table before her, she knocked over her glass, cracking the delicate Baccarat crystal.
Consuela was summoned, the broken glass removed, the spill mopped up, and a second glass brought—while through it all Sybil controlled an obvious tendency to tremble. Not in weakness, I suddenly realized, but because she was shaken by some inner rage. I wondered what would happen if she ever let go and blew up. That, however, was never her way. She had always preferred the quiet stiletto to the roaring gun.
“According to Marilla, someone threw an egg at you during the meeting this afternoon,” Rick said when everything was calm again.
“That wasn’t important,” she told him. “This is what I want you to see.” She removed a sheet from the envelope and held it out to him. “Brian found this tucked under my windshield wiper when we were ready to drive home this afternoon.”
As Rick took the sheet, I noted that it was cheap paper, though not torn from a school notebook. Rick read the single sentence aloud: “‘Get out of Sedona if you know what’s good for you.’”
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