She pauses, and now I grip her arm. “What did she say?”
“She said if she wanted her portrait on black velvet, she’d go to the corner gas station and pay somebody five dollars.”
My mouth falls open again. “She said that?”
“Oh, that’s not half of what she says. You just wait.” Rosalía shakes her head. “Anyways, I showed her your sketch of Sofia. Valeria sent it to me. It’s so good. You really captured her personality in the eyes, and—”
“And?”
“And she said if you came by this afternoon, she’d give you a minute of her time. Very dismissive.”
“This afternoon?” I feel faint. A fifteen-thousand-dollar job combined with the Arthaus award… I wouldn’t need anybody’s help.
“I said noon, but she said two.” Rosalía shrugs like it’s no big deal, something I do every day. “She goes to the First Presbyterian church and then she has lunch.”
“I can be there at two.” I’m mentally flying through my portfolio. “What can I show her? All my pieces are abstracts…”
“Just show her what you’ve done. It’ll be great.” Rosalía squeezes my arm. “And I told her your name was Angela Carmen. It sounds less Mexican.”
“It’s not going to change my face, Rose.”
“Nonsense!” She does a little wave. “You could easily pass for whatever you want.”
“An American?” Which happens to be what I am.
“Whatever it takes.”
Shaking my head, I give her a squeeze. “Thank you. I’ll just show up and be myself.”
“That’s the best any of us can do.”
From the back of the Lyft, I look up at the mansion. Is it possible I’m wrong? Double-checking the text Rosalía sent, I verify it’s the correct address.
“This is it?” I ask, wishing for some mistake. It can’t be…
The driver points to the dashboard map, and I know it’s right. Reaching for the door handle, I carefully step out onto the sidewalk.
“Thank you.” I say as the car pulls away.
What’s going to happen now? I didn’t know Rosalía worked for Deacon’s aunt. I’ve never been to this house. I’ve never even dared step foot through the doors—as much as Deacon wanted me to.
How small is the world exactly? Sofia would know—because of Disney. Beto would be furious. Straightening my shoulders, I clutch the handles of my portfolio and walk with purpose to the front door. It doesn’t matter. It’s a job.
How I wish I had that burner phone on me. For all I know, my brother’s tracking my calls.
“Welcome, Angela.” A statuesque older woman opens the door. “My name is Winona Clarke. You may call me Mrs. Clarke.”
“How do you do, Mrs. Clarke.”
“If you’ll come this way.” She leads me through a house that reminds me of an old hunting lodge.
It’s paneled in dark wood, and the floors are covered in Persian rugs and animal hides. The furniture is either leather and brass or wood and tapestry, and everything smells like old money and furniture polish. I imagine that’s Rosalía’s contribution to the home.
Looking down over the foyer is a life-sized portrait of a man with thick white hair and a conquering expression. A white beard covers his jaws, and he holds a tan cowboy hat. He’s very Texas in his bolo tie and slacks with oil derricks rising in the background. It’s a stately painting, formal and ancient, but looking closer, I see a resemblance.
It’s Deacon’s grandfather.
The one who supposedly shot mine down.
How strange is life?
“Father always had a flair for the dramatic.” Deacon’s aunt Winnie walks ahead of me, and I watch her, wondering what his life was like as a boy here in this stately mansion.
We’ve never talked about it.
Winnie is tall and slim with really good hair for an older woman, straight and thick, even though it’s white. She’s elegantly dressed in navy slacks and a filmy, long-sleeved ivory blouse. She has this air about her, a calm confidence like she owns everything. She reminds me of Emmylou Harris.
“What did you have in mind… For your portrait?” I’m not really sure how this works.
“Obviously, it should match what’s been done before.” Winnie leads me down the oversized hall to a sitting room. “Father was in the oil business. Brandt was into horses. I’ve only ever taken care of our family affairs, which was more work than both of theirs combined.”
She sits in an elegant chair with wooden arms and deep blue fabric. I sit across from her on a leather sofa that sinks deep, putting me lower than her. A white cat with black front legs pops out from under it and rubs against me.
“A backdrop isn’t necessary.” I scoot forward, giving the cat a quick scrub with my fingers as I do my best to sit taller. “Many old portraits are simply figures in a room or standing beside a chair in contrapposto. Think of Michelangelo’s David, Mona Lisa, or even Whistler’s Mother—”
“I’d prefer not Whistler’s Mother.” She scowls at me. “I’m not that old.”
“Of course not.” I swallow a laugh at my unintentional gaff.
“Boots, shoo.” She waves the cat away and stands. “We do have many options here at the house. It would make sense, considering it has always been my purview.”
“I would suggest a seated pose… Or you could hold an object. Although, you’d want to be comfortable.”
“You’d want me to sit the entire time?”
“Or I could work from a photo.” Hell, I think I’d prefer that.
“I’d expect you to work on it here, so I could oversee your progress.”
“I can work here.” Any reason to be out of Beto’s house.
She studies me with blue eyes so similar to Deacon’s, minus the love. “Tell me about your background. What is your training?”
“I’m a senior at the Roshay studio—”
“Farrell Roshay?” Her eyebrows rise.
“Yes. I’ve been there two years now.”
“How can you afford that?”
“I’m sorry?” Is that her business?
“The Roshay Academy is the most elite art school in Texas. How can you afford it? Are you on a scholarship?”
“No.” I bite back the answer I’d like to give her. I do want this job. “My uncle pays for it.”
“And what is his profession?”
“He owns a car dealership.”
“Used cars, I imagine.” I don’t answer that, and she shifts in her chair. “Did you bring samples of your work? Let me see them.”
“Of course.” I lift the black portfolio case from the floor beside me.
It’s a cheap black pleather case I bought at Michaels. I wish it were nicer, but I suppose it’s more about what’s inside that counts. Isn’t that what everybody says? Somehow I think Winona Clarke missed the memo.
“I see.” She turns the plastic pages, quickly bypassing my landscapes. “Who is this?”
She pauses on a sketch I did last year. My throat tightens as I look down on the drawing I hastily slid into one of the back transparent sleeves.