Hallie's Comet Page 3

  “Madonna, Tina, Jeff and I,” Marianne corrected. “Is Carrie’s litter box clean and is your homework done?”

  “Yeah. Except for Tina. She’s writing a book report,” Barbra replied, ignoring the litter box query.

  “Your Aunt Hallie and I are talking grown-up stuff, so you can watch TV in my bedroom. Carrie Underwood, too,” she added, sounding like the Good Witch in The Wizard of Oz. “Tina can join you when she finishes her book report.”

  “Yippee. Thanks, Mama.”

  “Don’t touch anything except the remote and don’t let Madonna teach Jeff another bad word.” Marianne turned her lovely face toward Hallie. “I’ll put Shania down for her nap.”

  “Aunt Hallie,” Barbra said. “I made you some chocolate-chip cookies. They got a little burnt on the bottom, but they’re gooey on top.”

  “Thanks, sweetie. I’ll take a bunch home with me so I can have a midnight snack while I’m painting.”

  “You paint at midnight? Cool! When I’m grown I’m gonna stay up past twelve every night.”

  “That’s what I vowed when I was seven,” Marianne mumbled.

  Hallie watched Marianne and Shania and Barbra (and Carrie the Cat) leave the room. When Marianne returned, Hallie said, “I’ve been rambling on and on about my problems. What’s new with you?”

  “Dreams happen. Since Shania’s miraculous emergence, Neil lets me skip his social gatherings.”

  “It wasn’t miraculous,” Hallie mumbled, playing Marianne’s embarrassed zebra again.

  “Yes, it was.” Strolling over to the fireplace, Marianne reached up past the mantel and ran her finger along the frame of A Midsummer’s Night Dream, one of Hallie’s New York City Ballet paintings.

  She was searching for stray dust bunnies, Hallie thought, but there weren’t any. Despite five kids and four cats (Kelly, Ruben, Clay and Carrie), Marianne’s house was as clean as the proverbial whistle.

  “Have I told you how much I liked your bit about auditioning for Marianne’s American Idol with ‘Baby, the Rain Must Fall’?” Marianne continued. “Or was it ‘Rain, the Baby Must Fall’? In any case, you handled Shania’s birth like a pro. You even predicted her gender by singing ‘My Girl.’”

  “You’re goofy.”

  “I’m grateful.”

  “If you skip social events, when do you ever get a chance to see my brother? Look, Marianne, I can baby-sit.”

  “No way! You’re busy. Don’t you have a gallery opening soon?”

  “Yes. But I’m all prepared. Six new canvasses, seven if you count my dream man. I’ve painted one a week since Shania was born. I’ve even titled some of them. Hallie’s Comet, The Homestretch, and I’ve seriously considered calling my third canvas Sinatra’s Melody.”

  “How come?”

  “Private joke.”

  “I love private jokes,” Marianne said, sliding gracefully into an overstuffed armchair.

  “That’s why the lady is a tramp,” Hallie sang off-key. “Remember? It was one of Frank Sinatra’s biggest hits.”

  “I don’t get it.”

  Leaning forward, Hallie scrutinized the knee-patch on her faded jeans. “My painted lady has dark hair and her face is sienna. My little girl has cafe au lait skin, more milk than coffee, and red curls, the color of overripe strawberries. Yet, there’s a definite resemblance between the two of them. I think the child might be Lady Scarlet’s daughter, which would explain why Scarlet took up the profession, so to speak.”

  “Hallie, you tiptoe round a subject like Sylvester stalking Tweety Bird.”

  “I do not.”

  “Yes, you do. Who’s Lady Scarlet?”

  “A parlor girl from the late eighteen-nineties or early nineteen-hundreds.”

  “Oh, I get it. That’s why the lady is a tramp. Cute.” Rising from her chair, Marianne searched through a stack of magazines and catalogues fanned across the coffee table, and selected Victoria’s Secret. Opening to a page at random, she said, “Does your painted lady resemble any of these models?”

  “Not even close.” Conjuring up a naked Brad Pitt, Hallie didn’t bother asking why her sister-in-law subscribed to an underwear catalogue. “The child wears a blue wool dress, black stockings and high-button shoes. Lady Scarlet wears a drab brown skirt and a white blouse, secured at the neckline by a cameo brooch.”

  “Then how do you know she’s a parlor girl?”

  “Lady Scarlet and the child are both primly seated on the edge of a horsehair fainting couch and—”

  “Wait a sec, Hallie. What’s a fainting couch?”

  “A sofa shaped like an upside down L. I looked it up in my antique furniture book.”

  “That still doesn’t prove anything.”

  Hallie felt her cheeks bake. “Lady Scarlet and the child are both seated beneath an ornately framed picture of a buxom nude woman.”

  “You painted a nude?”

  “No. I painted a painting of a nude. And that same couch and picture appear in my second canvas. I think the room is the downstairs sitting room. The furnishings also include plush chairs, an étagère with a petticoat mirror on the bottom, and an old-fashioned piano.”

  “The Homestretch.” At Hallie’s startled stare, Marianne smiled. “I’m not a mind reader. You said one of your paintings was called The Homestretch. Is that a private joke, too?”

  Hallie shook her curls. “It’s the name of the parlor house.”

  “How do you know?”

  “I just do. The same way I know Lady Scarlet’s name.”

  “Describe the other rooms.”

  “Sit down and stop licking your lips, Marianne. There aren’t that many details. From the inside, The Homestretch looks like an ordinary boarding house. Upstairs are several tiny bedrooms and a viewing room with a hallway window where men can select their, um, dates. The ground floor has two parlors, one a sitting room, plus a dining room and kitchen.”

  “What about the outside?”

  “In front are gardens and shrubbery. The back has a covered walkway that leads to the bathrooms. I guess in those days they were called privies. Since my parlor house didn’t include walls, I could see through to the back.”

  “You’ve completed six new paintings, right? Are the others more detailed?”

  “Yes. But they don’t depict The Homestretch or Lady Scarlet or the little girl.” Hallie’s mouth felt dry. She sipped the raspberry lemonade Marianne had served, now diluted by melted ice cubes. “In my paintings, the streets are bordered by wooden buildings, nestled beneath snow-capped mountains. One painting shows a train, the Midland Terminal Railroad.”

  “How on earth do you know the name of the railroad?”

  “It’s lettered on the engine. I wrote it there. With a skinny paintbrush. The question is why did I do that?”

  “Do your buildings have names?”

  She nodded. “My fifth canvas depicts several saloons, for instance The Combination Miners Exchange, Last Chance, and Swanee River. For my sixth canvas I’ve used glossy grays and browns, like a tintype photo. The Homestretch is at the end of the block, but other parlor houses are called Laura Belle’s, Nell McClusky’s, The Old Homestead and The Mikado. High above the houses I’ve painted a comet. It looks right, but it doesn’t really belong, Marianne, because a comet orbits around the sun and I don’t think you can see it, not unless you’ve set up a telescope.”

  “Hallie, call your mother.”

  “Why?”

  “Because your paintings have revealed two clues, three if you count the mountains.”

  “What clues?”

  “The Midland Terminal Railroad and the Combination Miners Exchange. It could be a mining town.”

  “Good grief, Marianne, do you know how many mining towns sprouted in the last half of the nineteenth century?”

  “Do you?”

  “Of course not, but there must have been hundreds.”

  “How many were nestled within snow-capped mountains? The comet might be another clue. Call y
our mother, Hallie. She’s a history teacher and a history buff. What have you got to lose?”

  What’s left of my sanity. Will Mom laugh? Or say that her only daughter has bats in her belfry?

  She needn’t have worried. Mom didn’t laugh, nor did she mention bats. Instead, Josie O’Brien expressed genuine enthusiasm at the prospect of solving her only daughter’s historical puzzle. “I need a break,” she said. “I’ve been grading an exam on the Civil War. Multiple choice. I gave the kids a bonus question. Who’s on the fifty-dollar bill? The choices were Ulysses S. Grant, Robert E. Lee, Hugh Grant, Jamie Lee Curtis, or Spike Lee. Can you guess how many kids circled Hugh, Jamie Lee and Spike Lee?” She sighed. “Okay, darling, I’ll scan my computer, then my research books, and get right back to you.”

  Right back took twenty minutes. It seemed like an eternity. Hallie paced, her motions jerky, as if someone pulled the strings on a marionette. Beneath her curls, her scalp prickled.

  Was her painted town genuine?

  Marianne could be right. If Mom’s books contained the information she sought, she might have read about mining towns when she was little and stored the information. Like a squirrel storing nuts for the winter.

  Was she going nuts? Mom’s books could never explain Gabriel. But she had already justified Gabriel. He was her dream man, plain and simple. No, not plain. Her dream man was undeniably handsome, charismatic, and—

  Gabriel didn’t exist, except in her imagination. She could paint him over and over, but if she wanted kids she’d better set her sights on a more realistic knight in shining armor. Like Neil’s friend, Ivan. He wasn’t Ivanhoe, not even close, but he earned a good living as a CPA and her biological clock was ticking. In ten years she’d be thirty-seven, then fifty.

  Gabriel would never age. Lucky Gabriel.

  Ivan wasn’t charismatic, not by a long shot. But he was handsome, or he would be if he didn’t wear his natural hair like a toupee, and he’d never be out of pocket because he didn’t spend money as if it was going out of style. In fact, he banked a goodly portion of his fortune “for a rainy day.”

  To be fair, Ivan wasn’t miserly. He took her to every Times-approved Broadway show. They never missed the U.S. Open and had courtside tickets for the Knicks. They ate in good restaurants, and if Ivan was a tad stingy with his gratuities, leaving 15% to the penny, she could always make some excuse, return to the table, and put more money on the tip tray.

  Recently, Ivan had suggested she “fish or cut bait.” Neil nudged, too. He honestly believed that her pragmatism and Ivan’s sensible, matter-of-fact mentality would harmonize. Like peanut butter and jelly, ham and eggs, bagels and cream cheese.

  Problem was, Hallie liked peanut butter and mayonnaise, ham and mayonnaise, bagels and butter.

  The phone’s strident ring interrupted her musings.

  “Cripple Creek,” said Josie, her voice purring with satisfaction.

  “Please give me the name again, Mom.”

  “Cripple Creek, Colorado. It tangles the tongue a bit, doesn’t it? I keep wanting to say Crickle Creek.”

  “How do you know?”

  “The Midland Terminal Railroad. One of my history books shows a sketch from the Denver Public Library’s Western Collection. The train crosses a trestle, and in the background there are snow-capped mountains. My book also includes an article from a newspaper, The Colorado Springs Gazette, dated the sixth of June, 1900. Do you want to hear it?”

  “Yes, please.”

  “‘A petition was filed by the Midland Terminal Railroad Company asking the city to remove the disorderly houses from the vicinity of the M-T trestles on Myers Avenue.’ That same newspaper printed another story, Hallie, a few months later. ‘The Fire and Police Committee of the city council has instructed the Police to notify the denizens of the row to keep their windows closed, their blinds down, their doors shut and not to solicit in the streets.’”

  “How long have you had that book, Mom?”

  “A few years, I guess. Why?”

  “I’m trying to figure out what prompted me to paint my train, saloons and parlor houses.”

  “Speaking of parlor houses, I couldn’t find anything on your Homestretch. But there was a very famous house called the Old Homestead. Maybe you got them mixed up.”

  “No, Mom. In one of my paintings, the Old Homestead sits in the middle of the block while the Homestretch is farther down the row. All my houses have discreet signs or engraved plaques, some above the doorbells, some above the doors.”

  Josie chuckled. “It’s a bona-fide mystery, darling. If I were you, I’d buy an airline ticket and visit Colorado.”

  “I can’t, Mom. I spent too much money at a charity auction.”

  “What did you buy?”

  “A tennis racquet. It was a celeb-sports auction and I got caught up in the bidding. I’m afraid Colorado will have to wait.”

  “Do you want Dad and me to buy you a ticket? An early birthday present?”

  “Mom, my birthday’s eight months away!”

  “Okay, a very early birthday present. Didn’t you once tell me you’d met a young man from Colorado at one of your art seminars?”

  “Yes. Joshua Quinn. His father was Simon Quinn, the artist and slain Civil Rights activist. Joshua inherited his father’s genes. And his dreams. He’s an illustrator. Children’s books. He takes fairy tale characters and changes them into African Americans. You’ve seen the watercolor on my bedroom wall. My black Snow White? That’s Joshua’s.”

  “In Africa, where snow is virtually unknown, Snow White is called Flower White.” Josie chuckled again. “Do you have Joshua Quinn’s phone number?”

  “I have it. Josh and I went out for dinner and dancing, but there were no sparks, at least not on my part.” From the corner of her eye, Hallie could see Marianne’s questioning glare. “Josh gave me his address and phone number and said to call if I ever needed him. Mom, Marianne’s about to burst. I’ll talk to you later.”

  “Okay, darling. One last thing. When that temperance, tee totaling lady Carrie Nation visited Cripple Creek, she called it a foul cesspool, the most lawless and wicked city to be found anywhere. She warned the people of the Gold Camp that Myers Avenue was luring innocent men and women by the hundreds to death and destruction.”

  “Death and destruction,” Hallie echoed. “I believe I will take you up on your birthday gift. Thanks, Mom.”

  “You’re welcome.” In a voice tinged with amusement, Josie sang, “Give my regards to Colorado, remember me to Cripple Creek, tell all the girls on Myers Avenue, that I will soon be there.”

  “Creek and there don’t rhyme,” Hallie said pragmatically.

  And yet, Myers Avenue sounded awfully familiar and the mere mention of the name caused an ache that was almost tangible.

  I’ve got the blue devils, she thought, even though she had never used that expression before.

  FIVE

  Gabriel Quinn massaged his left knee. The darkroom smelled acrid, almost vinegary, but it was a familiar, comforting smell. The safelight had been turned off and two Tiffany floor lamps radiated a warm, stained-glass glow. Despite the nagging ache in his leg, Gabe wanted to shout with joy.

  John McFadden’s money would be well spent because John Denver’s song had achieved miracles.

  Yesterday’s film had been processed and Gabe couldn’t be more pleased. Anne McFadden’s face demonstrated exactly the right amount of dreamy seductiveness. Her expression revealed anticipation rather than lust. Her breasts cleaved above the bandanna while her hips seemed to sway rhythmically. Even the mimetic gestures of her hands seemed to say: “I miss you Johnny, I want you Johnny, come home to me.”

  Fortunately, Gabe had shot one roll with his Nikon and then switched to his Hasselblad before Jenn had flounced into the studio and jostled his arm, causing him to turn and accidentally shoot the antique couch.

  “I’ve got to talk to you, Gabe,” she had said, her perfect, capped teeth clenched.


  Suppressing his own anger at the untimely interruption, he had smiled at Anne and suggested she put on her street clothes.

  “Don’t look so disappointed,” he had said. “You were the one who wanted to get this over with.”

  “But it was fun,” she confessed, sauntering toward the dressing room, her circlet of flowers askew over one bright baby-blue eye.

  Gabe watched Anne’s grass-skirted rump disappear. Then he turned his face toward Jenn, who was clothed in lime green slacks and a matching Cashmere sweater. Her body language exhibited displeasure, disdain, disgust. Were there any other dis-words? Yup. Disciplinary. He was about to be chastised.

  “She’s a tramp,” Jenn said scornfully.

  “Who? Anne McFadden? You’re couldn’t be more wrong. She’s a lady.”

  “Is that supposed to be funny, Gabe? The Lady and the Tramp? If Walt Disney could hear you, he’d turn over in his grave. Or his freezer. Wasn’t Walt frozen? In any case, he’d never shoot pornography.”

  “Neither would I. Listen, honey, there’s a big difference between pornographic and provocative. If you posed, you’d see the difference.”

  “Not a chance! You won’t add me to your stockpile.”

  “Stockpile? Jenn, what’s happened to you? Before I left on my last assignment, you were so—” he paused, thinking soft, responsive “—tolerant. You hated my war photos but you never criticized. Is it my leg?”

  “Daddy says your wound is very patriotic.”

  “What do you say?”

  “I didn’t come here to argue.”

  “Why did you come here? Especially when I’ve asked you to keep away during my photo sessions.”

  Momentarily, she appeared contrite. “I’m sorry about that, Gabe, but you have to make a decision. Today. Daddy says to fish or cut bait.”

  “I’m not a fisherman. I’m not a salesman, either. Oh, I get it. This morning, on the phone, I told your father I didn’t want to sell cameras or shoot pictures of babies, unless they’re my own. That’s why you’re fuming. Daddy sent you here to sweeten the pot. My own store, perhaps a chain of stores.” Gabe heaved a deep sigh. “Even if I wanted to sell cameras, shoot family photos, and develop vacation snapshots, I would never let your father subsidize my career.”