The Green Lace Corset, стр. 5
From her altar, she picked up the diamond ring that had been his nonna’s. He had insisted she keep it even after Anne broke off their engagement. She slipped it on and lolled on the daybed, remembering the romantic afternoon in Tuscany when he’d proposed.
Her phone broke her reverie with a text message from Tony: Pizza’s ready.
She’d forgotten about it and the fact that she’d been starving, and she ran down the stairs. Outside the door, Anne almost bumped into Mata Hari, her homeless friend, who was walking down the sidewalk, wearing one of the pink pussy hats Anne had knitted for the women’s shelter for the 2017 Women’s March.
Mata’s blue eyes lit up. “Hi, missy. Long time no seen you around-o.”
“I went on a road trip to Arizon-o.”
“I was there once. Thought I’d fry from the desert heat. Bad for beauty.” Mata grinned.
“I was in northern Arizona; it’s pretty nice this time of year. Hungry?”
“Am I ever.”
Anne held up a finger. “Just a sec.” She went inside Tony’s, paid for the pizza, and gave one of the slices to Mata.
“Thanks.” Mata took a bite. “Where’s that handsome moneybags of yours?”
“We broke up ages ago.” Anne had shared this with her several times before.
“I told you he was a keeper. You’re not getting any younger.”
Anne didn’t need reminding of that. “I just couldn’t live in New York.”
“You’re so right. Those hot Broadway lights dry out our skin, like Arizona deserts.” Mata touched her wrinkled cheeks. “Not our misty San Francisco air and sultry moons.”
After staying with Sergio in New York for a month, Anne had realized that even though they adored each other, it just wasn’t going to work out. True love or not, home was here in San Francisco, and she planned never to leave it again. Still, she’d probably call him tomorrow. She hoped when she saw his face, she didn’t fall in love with him all over again.
4
In the morning, Anne awoke from a Sergio kissing dream. His king-size New York bed was deep, sheets smooth. Wearing the green lace corset, she ran her fingers through the curly hair on the back of his neck. His hands explored the corset’s bodice. His clean scent, honeysuckle mixed with sage, permeated the air.
Anne sat up. She certainly wasn’t going to call him now. She eyed the corset hanging on the closet door. The dream was right: Sergio would like the outfit. She sighed. He’d never get to see it.
Who might have owned it before? What year could it be from? Maybe it was a costume from a movie or TV western. Many had been filmed out that way.
Out of coffee, she grabbed a Diet Coke from the fridge and poured it into the ARTISTS DO IT IN COLOR mug Sergio had given her for her birthday.
Anne remembered her mom telling her about someone in the family wearing a corset. Anne called her number.
“Hey, Mom.”
“I followed your posts. Looked like you had a good trip. I’m sorry you couldn’t come home to Michigan on your vacation. I understand that as an artist you need new experiences.”
Anne appreciated that her mom really tried to be supportive. Most Michiganders didn’t travel much. In fact, her mother had never even come out to visit in all the years Anne had lived in San Francisco. Not even when she’d had her solo show at Gallery Noir. She’d accepted long ago that her mom didn’t travel out of state, but it would be a whole lot easier if she would come to California, instead of depending on Anne to always make the trek.
“Find any treasures?”
“Plenty. The best find was a corset.”
“What?”
“A corset. The most gorgeous green. Didn’t you tell me your grandmother used to wear a corset?”
“Yes. An ugly old thing, dingy white cotton, with laces that crisscrossed down her spine. She wore it all the time, whalebones and all. She claimed the corset helped her bad back. I don’t know how that could be. Grandma never left the house without hers on. She also wore all black, even though Grandpa had been gone for twenty years . . .”
Anne knew she had better hurry up this conversation, or she’d be on the phone all day. Anyway, she had to get that application finished to drop off before her afternoon class.
“Well, this one isn’t ugly. I’ll go now so I can send you a photo. Love you. Call you later.”
Hard to believe women had worn corsets for so many years. All the time.
She scrolled through her photos, found a fun one of her posing for Lola in the boutique, and texted it to her mom. Sergio would like the picture, but she didn’t send it. He might get the wrong idea.
Anne skimmed through more road-trip photos and forwarded a few to save to her computer. Some of her favorites were the whipped-cream clouds. On hot afternoons, they’d turn dark and thunder and lightning would ensue. She’d hurry back to the B and B before then so she could curl up in her room, listen to the rain pound on the gable roof, enjoy the show. That was what vacations were for.
How fun it will be to paint that sky. Even though she should really work on her application, it would take only a few minutes to start the background. She pulled out a new canvas and set it on the easel. “Nothing is truly white in the sky,” she remembered her college professor telling the class.
Anne squished a dollop of Titanium White and a tad of Mars Black directly on the canvas, dunked her biggest brush in a jar of water, swirled the two paint colors together, and washed the mixture over the fabric. After having not painted for a few weeks, she felt the