Chapter Nineteen
Isobel stole out of the house to go to the gallery just after ten. She left Maria, who had slunk back in as the sun had risen over the bay, sound asleep. A debrief on the night’s activities would have to wait.
She cycled the short distance, pedalling hard, filling her lungs with deep breaths as she sought to clear her head and body from the previous night’s excesses. The vigorous exercise proved less successful in clearing her mind of the image of Lance with Chrystal.
She arrived at the gallery, where she had arranged to meet Juanita, and leaned the bike against the shop window. Had she not already dismounted, she might well have fallen from the saddle. In front of her eyes, taking centre stage in the window display, was her painting. An embossed white card attached to the corner read “Sunset at Point Loma”, by English artist Isobel Robert.”
She rushed into the shop, thankful to find it empty of customers.
“What in the name of God is my painting doing in the front window?” exclaimed Isobel.
“Do you want to be fired in the morning?”
“Pauline is not back in the morning,” said Juanita, smiling and showing no concern at Isobel’s abruptness.
“Well, whenever she’s back, she’ll dismiss you on the spot. You know how proud she is of the way she arranges the window. You can’t do what you please just because she isn’t around.”
“Is that your bicycle I see resting against the window, señora?”
“What has my bike got to do with the window display?”
“When Pauline is here, do you put your bicycle up against the window?”
“That’s different,” Isobel protested, now fighting the urge to laugh.
“To me, it is same. And Pauline, she tell me when she tired of all my questions that I must use my judgement in the gallery. And also, as you know, my English is not always good, so perhaps I did not understand her well?”
“It seems I, like Pauline, have underestimated you. But ‘in the gallery’ does not include the window display, as well you know. We must take it out right away. You never know who might pass by.”
“Which is why it is in the window,” she replied, mischief in her eyes and her words. “I notice it is always what is in the window that the visitors speak of first. And several people have already asked about it, and one is coming back this afternoon, with her husband.”
Isobel put her head in her hands. “For pity’s sake, Juanita. The painting must be removed right away. For all we know, Pauline is being paid to display whatever you have removed.”
“I am in charge of the store today, and the painting will stay where it is and, if God wills it, I will sell it. The painting I took down is already sold and the buyer has collected it. What am I to do, señora? Leave the window empty? If I do this Pauline would think me of no use to her, and then I will be dismissed without doubt.”
“When is Pauline back?” asked Isobel, delicately pressing two fingers to the bridge of her nose.
“Not for three days more.”
“You’re certain?”
Yes, señora, she with the Indians, in the desert.”
“Pauline, with the Indians! In the desert?”
“Yes, that is what she told to me.”
“You don’t mean Indian Wells? At the tennis?”
“Yes, Indian Wells or Ocean Wells, now I remember it. I ask her and she tell me the desert.”
Isobel blew out her cheeks. “If you leave just my painting in the window and she finds out, it is you and me who will be in the desert. And she’ll never take another of my paintings. So please, Juanita, for your sake and mine, will you change the display, for tomorrow at least?”
“If I must, señora, but today it will stay.”
“And my name is ‘Roberts,’ Juanita, with an ‘s,’ not like you have on the card. Though it will make no difference to anyone interested.”
“But it would be better to be correct, no?” Juanita leant into the window, removed the card, and made a flourish of correcting it before reattaching it. “Now everyone will know it is you that are the great artist.”
Isobel laughed and gave her a hug.
“I did not come here to talk about painting, Juanita. How is everything with you at home? How is Clarita? And is her father still bothering you?”
“Señora, you already know that I do not wish you to take on my troubles.”
“Enough of the martyr, are you still giving Pablo money?”
“Sometimes, when he loco he make me frightened. If I give what he wants, at least he go away for a while.”
“Juanita, you can’t allow things to go on like this. Last time you took a beating, but next time it might be worse.”
“I know you are right, señora, but what am I to do?”
“What you should do is call the police. But we’ve already discussed that. So I have been looking for somewhere safe for you. And I think I’ve found the ideal place. It is called a refuge, a sanctuary. It is in La Mesa, not far from El Cajon. So no longer for you to get into work. I have visited it, and there are other young women, including Mexican women, who stay there when they need to find somewhere safe, and who do not want to involve the police or the city.”
“You have visited this place, for me?”
“Yes, and this evening I want to take you there. I have spoken with the lady who runs the refuge. It is a charity. She tells me you will need to pay no money, at least for short stays.”
“I do not know, señora, I have my friends in El Cajon.”
“What is more important, your friends or your future? And you can still see your friends. If nothing else it will send a message to Pablo that he cannot take you for granted, that you will not always be there to open your purse.”
“And to open my legs.”
“Yes, those too. He’ll respect you more for taking a decision, for taking control. He’ll not know where you are, and if he wants to see his daughter, he’ll know he’ll have to behave himself.”
Isobel’s knowledge of domestic abuse came more from reality TV shows than personal experience. In truth, she doubted a hothead like Pablo would respect a woman for fleeing his fists. She worried about how he might react and about how long Juanita could stay at the shelter. But now she needed to help Juanita find the courage to move to a place of safety, and from there decide how best to proceed. She took Juanita by the shoulders, fixing her gaze upon her.
“But it is up to you; you must do what you think is best for you and the baby.”
“Pablo cares no more for Clarita than he does an empty beer bottle. But why do you do all this for me, señora? I am just a poor maid, and you are rich woman. The rich do not look after the poor in America.”
“Maybe that is why in America they double-lock their doors. But perhaps you and I have more in common than you think. We are both in a country that is not our own, and we are both trying to make the best life we can for ourselves. Are your hopes and fears any different from mine?”
“You do not fear the hand of Pablo.”
Isobel’s thoughts went to the events of the previous evening. “And neither will you, but only if Pablo first understands that if he lays his hand on you he’ll get back a dose of his own medicine. Now are you coming with me to this damn refuge or not?”
Isobel stopped on the way back from the gallery to pick up some groceries, strolling the cool aisles of the market before settling on croissants, which Maria could never resist. As she paid she noticed the face of Chrystal Brakeley, with her airbrushed royal blue eyes, staring back at her from the checkout rack. She picked out the glossy magazine. “I’ll take this too.”
“She was at the Del last night, you know,” said the cashier, eyeing Isobel’s interest in the cover. “She brought Orange Avenue to a standstill. You’d never think it, would you, with all the Presidents who’ve stayed at the Del, and not one has caused the furore that she created.”
“The age of celebrity, I suppose.”
“And good publicity for the Del. It’s in all the morning papers.”
Isobel grabbed the local newspaper. “I’d better read all about it, then.”
She opened the paper as she walked to the exit. She did not have far to look for what she sought. Chrystal Brakeley’s picture dominated the front page, the Del in the background. “Del hotel hosts super-model” trumpeted the headline, pushing an eyewitness account of a record drug haul on the San Diego–Tijuana border into the depths of the paper. Isobel studied the faces in the photo for any sign of Lance, but found none. Her eyes scanned the news report, flicking urgently back and forth until arriving at the final sentence: “The catwalk queen reportedly partied the night away at George’s in La Jolla, adding to rumours that Ms. Brakeley’s relationship with New York Giants quarterback Brent Taylor is on the rocks.”
Isobel had read all she wanted to. She threw the paper into the trashcan, paused, and then tossed the magazine after it.