Dear Winona,
I miss you so much, my dearest friend. Rogers is gone again. Each time his trips seem to last longer and longer. Brandt started kindergarten, and I find myself alone so much. I used to cry every day.
It’s not like spending summers with you in Harristown. How I long for homemade peach ice cream and swimming in the lake, picking peaches off the trees and walking through the meadows…
I scan over her descriptions down to a name that causes my breath to still.
Manuel gave me chocolate with chili pepper yesterday. Isn’t that exotic? He brought me lilacs and yellow roses. You should see how beautiful they are together, and the scent…
Manuel. Shit. Here it is. I skim through her descriptions of flowers and dresses and air conditioning until I get to the critical part.
You have to help me, my dear, dear friend. I’m sorry to put you in this position, but I have to stay with you at least until the child is born and we know. What would I do if I were alone here, and everyone saw what I’d done. Rogers would be humiliated.
I can make the journey in a month, and you can help me if the worst happens…
My chest is tight as I finish the letter. It sounds like she came here to have her baby. Doing quick math in my head, if my father was in kindergarten, he was only five or six. Aunt Winnie is seven years younger than he is.
Was this baby Manuel Treviño’s? I feel strongly the answer is yes, since I don’t know of any other aunts or uncles. If that’s the case, what happened to the baby? Where is it?
Looking at the clock, it’s after one, and I need to rebook my hotel room. I can’t go back to Plano today. I have to find out what happened.
12
Angel
“That’s not my best angle.” Winnie is beside me looking at the pictures I’ve taken using her digital camera.
She’s wearing a fitted, dark green V-neck dress, and her hair is gathered in a loose bun at the nape of her neck. Her makeup is subtle, emphasizing her blue eyes, and she has a light stain of plum on her lips.
I think she’s stunning, and I flick the buttons on the back, changing the filters and dropping subtle yellows and pinks over the image. “My mother would have loved this camera.”
“Your mother was a photographer?” Her voice is sharp. “You drew her with a camera.”
“She was an artist. We lived in Mexico, at the foot of the Sierra Madre, and she would take pictures and blow them up and add paint to them. It was a unique style, similar to Georgia O’Keefe.”
Winnie’s eyes narrow. “Why did you leave Mexico?”
I shrug, looking around. “When she died, I came to live with my family.”
“I see.” She straightens, walking away from me and going to the fireplace. “How about this?”
Placing a hand on the mantle, she looks towards the windows. I raise the camera and take her photo from several different angles.
“Not bad… I have one last idea. See what you think.” I lead her to the chair she was sitting in yesterday and have her turn in the same direction, facing the windows. “Shoulders back. Now let’s have this guy in your lap.”
Reaching down, I pick up the white cat I noticed yesterday with the black legs and ring-striped tail.
“What?” She laughs. “Boots?”
“I think it adds a whimsical element that shows personality.”
Her blue eyes narrow, but she cooperates. Again, I take several shots from different angles. When we’re done, I take them all to the laptop computer she provided and plug in the camera.
“You’re very professional.” She says it like she expected me to be unprofessional, but I let it pass.
“These are my favorites.” I bring up four images and she sits in the chair in front of the computer.
“The deal was I would choose my favorite.”
“I’m just helping find ones with good highlights. See in this one, your expression is more dramatic, the contrast of shadow and light—”
“I’ll look at all of the images and tell you the one I like. You can wait in the hall for me to call you.”
Hesitating a moment, I bite back all the things I really want to say to her right now. Clearing my throat, I nod. “I’ll take a look at those art supplies.”
“Oh, yes. They’re just in the sitting room. Through that door.” She gestures to a door beside a bookcase.
It leads to a smaller room filled with natural light shining through a wall of windows. “This would be the perfect place for me to paint.”
She doesn’t answer, and I see a plastic bag sitting on a desk. Going to it, I notice a fifty-dollar bill is also on the table beside it. Ignoring it, I pull out the tubes of oil paint. Turning them over, I study the labels. I’m more familiar with acrylics, but I’ve been studying tips and techniques for working with oil.
Looking around this small but elegant room, I scan the titles of the leather-bound books on the shelf, Giant, True Grit, Texas Ranger…
Everything in this house is massive and old. In addition to the two life-sized portraits in the grand hall, enormous paintings of cowboys and cattle drives hang in prominent locations throughout. I kind of love them for their color and energy and wild spirit.
Winnie calls from the other room. “I’ve chosen one, Angela.”
“Coming!” Grabbing the bag, I start for the door when a ping in my chest stops me.
I remember Rosalía told me Deacon’s aunt likes to leave cash lying around to see if they will steal it. My jaw tightens, and I snatch up the fifty, carrying it straight to where she’s sitting at the laptop.
“Let me see what you chose. Oh, I think you dropped some money.” I place the bill on the desk beside her computer, and she narrows her eyes at it.
Taking the bill, she stands. “I’ll have Peter set up the easel in that room if you prefer it.”
“Thank you. I’ll get started as soon as we sign the contract.”
“It was a verbal agreement.”
“I prefer to have it in writing.”
Again her eyes narrow, and she goes to the door. I turn to the computer and see the photo on the screen. It’s the pose I arranged with her cat—my favorite pose, and it feels like a little victory.
The canvas is bigger than I am, but I’m not intimidated. I close my eyes, take a deep breath, and think of Spirit. The energy of that piece allows me to shake off the negativity of my subject and let the images to flow through me.
Lifting the charcoal pencil, I begin. Some artists like to use a grid to work out life sized portraits, but I’m more comfortable using a sketch. Winnie wants it to match the more classical style of the original two works, but I saw her reaction to the portrait of my mother.
That piece is anchored by the eyes and the face, and the rest is more spiritual, emotional. I start with Winnie’s eyes, glancing at the photo but also allowing my memory to guide me. As the face takes shape, they seem to take on life. My stomach warms, and I feel as if I’m looking into the eyes of my love.
Perhaps there was a time when this woman wasn’t such a bitter old pill. It’s hard to imagine. Still, this shared feature makes me wonder if it could ever have been possible. Moving on, I start on her cheeks, the sweep of her hair.