The Green Lace Corset, стр. 8
He eyed her.
“What are you looking at?” she asked, with a scowl.
“Your beauty.”
“Stop teasing.” For an outlaw, he sure was a sweet-talker. If she was going to escape him, she’d need to stay alert.
The train slowed but didn’t stop as it passed a few buildings beside a wooden sign that said ADAMA.
Frothy, scalloped clouds with navy-blue undersides floated above. That was probably what ocean waves looked like. She didn’t know for certain, because she’d never seen them before. Since Cliff said they were going to the Pacific, she’d find out soon enough. To her chagrin, even though he was a thief, she still thought he was handsome.
A line of pines taller than any church steeples she’d ever seen passed by. Misty rain wafted sideways, hovered, then disappeared from sight. The train curved around a bend, and her heart opened at the awe-inspiring vista. She’d never seen such massive snowcapped mountains. She wished she could reach up and touch the peaks with her white-gloved hand. They resembled Mount Olympus, like she’d seen in the mythology book at the library, as if gods really could live up there.
As the train began to slow, she spied a real church steeple and a smattering of buildings up ahead. Beside them, a cowboy lassoed a roan mare and led her into a corral. The whistle blew, and a crowd of folks looked up expectantly at the windows as the train rolled to a stop beside a row of rusted-out boxcars.
Cliff stood and handed her bonnet to her. “Let’s get out.”
“Are we at the Pacific?” She tied the bow beneath her chin.
“No. We’re gonna get off here for a while.” He grabbed his saddlebag and tilted his head toward the corridor. Sally Sue followed him, holding her basket tightly.
6
Anne knocked on Priscilla’s door and stepped inside. An abstract painting, maybe even an original Rothko, hung behind her desk. Diplomas up the yin-yang covered another wall: BA in art history from Vanderbilt, MA from the Rhode Island School of Design, PhD from Yale.
From behind her desk, Priscilla peered at Anne through thick-rimmed glasses. “Welcome back. Have a seat. You look rested.”
Anne held the application with shaky hands. “Thanks again for letting me go. I really appreciate it, Dr. Preston.”
“No problem.” Priscilla removed a pen from her gray, schoolmarm-ish bun and spanked it on the desk as if it were a paddle. “Artists need rejuvenation. Are you feeling fresh?”
“Yes. How did my classes go?”
“One of our new volunteers did a fine job covering for you.”
“Glad to hear it. Speaking of rejuvenation, I’ve come up with a project I think the kids will enjoy.”
“You mean young artists.”
Oh, brother. “Yes, young artists will enjoy. Do you happen to know anyone who has horses?”
Priscilla hesitated. “In fact, I do. One of our board members has a ranch out near Los Olivos. What do you need?”
“Used horseshoes.”
“Really?” Priscilla tapped the pen on her desk again. “Why?”
“We’re going to mosaic them using found objects. You’ve encouraged me to be more innovative with my lessons.”
Priscilla shrugged. Her big, shoulder-padded jacket looked like something out of the 1980s. She was probably about Anne’s mom’s age, but it was hard to tell. At least her mom tried to stay stylish for her Avon business.
“I’m sure he can help with that. I’ll introduce you by e-mail.”
Anne stood up. “I’d better get ready for class. Here’s my application.” She put it on the desk.
“Oh, that’s right—you’re applying for the residency. It’s going to be hard work. You’ll be on your feet all day and interacting with museum guests.”
Strange. Priscilla had told her to apply. She’d always been warm to Anne; today, though, she was downright chilly.
“I know. Thank you for the support and encouragement.”
Anne made her way down the hall to the classroom, went inside, and opened the blinds for the natural light. Even though she’d been gone only two weeks, everything looked different. The space was neater than usual; a new shelving unit had been added, and many of the bins had been rearranged. She hoped she’d be able to find her materials. Adorable tinfoil sculptures were displayed on a top shelf.
“Hi, Anne. You’re looking gorgeous.”
Stunned at the sight of her old boyfriend, she stepped back. It had ended very badly. “Karl, what are you doing here?”
“I covered for you while you were gone.” He closed the space between them, gave her a hug, and kissed her on the cheek.
His cinnamon scent used to entice her but now made her want to throw up. She pulled away. “But you aren’t even an artist.”
“I am now. I left the hardware business and studied sculpture at the community college.”
She pictured him whittling with a Swiss Army knife, scraping a twig into a marshmallow skewer. An artist, he must have been kidding. When they were together, he hadn’t understood her creativity and hadn’t been supportive of her artwork at all, had even called it a hobby.
She eyed his handsome, chiseled face, with its steep cheekbones and cleft chin. “You were always handy.”
That was for sure. He was handy in bed. Their sex life had been incredible, and she had fallen for him right away. The jerk. After she’d finally broken up with him, he’d kept texting and calling until she’d decided to block him.
Anne looked at the clock. Her students would be arriving any moment. She spread collage paper on the tables. She’d been seeing Karl for a year when she’d broached the commitment subject and he’d been forced to make a confession. He’d said he was married but that he and his wife slept in separate rooms—as if Anne would ever believe that.
“How’s your wife?” she asked now.
“I don’t know. We’re not living together anymore. I haven’t seen her for a year.”
“What about your son?” Anne asked. Karl had wanted to move in with Anne while his divorce was being finalized and she could