Chapter Thirty-Eight
Maria’s last full day on vacation arrived with Isobel hardly aware of it. She had not seen Lance since the night they had made love. His latest business trip had run into complications, and he could not get back as planned. She had seen little more of Maria from the time they parted at the baseball game. The morning began with her working in the gallery waiting for Pauline, when her cell rang. She did not recognise the caller ID. She put down her sketchpad and hit the button eagerly, sure this time it would be Lance.
“Hi, babe, it’s me.”
Isobel closed her eyes and took a deep breath. She had known that, eventually, Ryan would call. In her mind she had rehearsed her lines, imagining the anger, perhaps tinged with sadness, she would feel. Now that the moment had come, she simply wanted to have it over and done.
“And…?”
“I’m just calling to say sorry for being such an ass on Sunday.”
Isobel sensed him tiptoeing into the conversation, measuring her reaction before choosing his tack. “That’s okay, there’s nothing to apologise for.”
“You shouldn’t have shot off like you did.”
Her resolve to stay in control, to be calm, to show no emotion, evaporated with the rebuke. “You mean I should’ve stayed and prostituted myself? With just Shahidi, or had you organised a line?”
“I’m trying to make up here.”
“I’m glad you found the time, since you were obviously pretty busy on my birthday. Were you wiping Shahidi’s arse or licking Mel’s?”
“Mel’s got nothing to do with this. I can explain why I didn’t call but first I want to see you.”
“I’m sorry, Ryan, it’s over. Fun as it has been, I’m moving on with my life. The Hollywood crowd is not for me.” Her eyes remained on the sketchpad; for some reason the image on the page now repelled her and she picked up an eraser and swept it back and forth across the sheet of white paper.
“And you’ve made that decision based on one man’s stupid behaviour?”
“Yes, and I’m not thinking about Shahidi.”
“Okay, I fucked up. I should’ve left with you there and then. But I also wanted to have words with Shahidi, to let him know what he tried was way out of order.”
“Like he would have cared.”
“Aren’t you even interested in what I said to him?”
“How you defended a maiden’s honour? No, I’m not. You went back to thank him for his hospitality and apologise that I hadn’t repaid it. That’s the long and the short of it, isn’t it?”
“No fucking way, and you know me better than that.” He paused, seeming to wait for a response, an apology perhaps, and when it didn’t come, he continued. “Can’t you think back past one bad experience that I had no control over to the weekend we spent together? How we were in bed, how you felt about me when I told you I loved you and wanted you to move in with me? I meant it then and I mean it now.”
“Good lines for your next script. I think we’ve exhausted this conversation.” She went silent and waited, sure she knew what to expect next.
“You seeing anyone else?”
“Whether I am or not would make no difference to where you and I stand.”
“I’ll take that as a yes.”
“Take it how you like.”
“The smug Bible basher, right? Is he just nosing round your pussy, or have you been on his root all along?”
She had heard enough. “Listen here, you glib bastard. So far you’ve dumped me into the hands of the FBI and dumped me into the clutches of a pervert. That’s quite enough for one lifetime and it’s more than enough for me to dump you. Good-bye, Ryan.”
Her brief moment of anger quickly passed, to be replaced by one of relief. The sadness, if there were to be any, could wait. She hit the red button on the screen, switched the phone off and returned to her sketching.
Isobel closed up the gallery and decided to forsake her bike and walk to the Del. Her discussion with Pauline had left her wondering if fate could be so kind to her after all. Pauline’s motives and intention matched what Lance had led her to expect. The terms she suggested for the transfer of the on-going business seemed more than fair. Isobel had been non- committal, struggling to make it seem like any decision on her part would put logic above emotion, when inside she fought to contain her enthusiasm. She had left with a copy of the last three years’ accounts, and promised Pauline she would get back to her with her thoughts after she had studied them and taken professional advice.
Before the discussion she had suspended belief. Now as she walked up Orange Avenue the possibility of owning a business of her own felt real, and she tingled with a mixture of excitement and apprehension. In her past life it would have been Peter taking charge, reviewing the accounts, telling her what to do—probably suggesting she go shopping instead. Now any decision would be hers, and hers alone.
She took a seat in the hotel lobby, browsing through the papers Pauline had given her, as she waited for her meeting with the mysterious Rafael Rodriguez. The first unbiased purchaser of her painting, she thought with a sigh, remembering her sunset in Lance’s house, remembering Lance. He still hadn’t called.
Rodriguez soon arrived and introduced himself as the hotel general manager. A portly, bald man of Hispanic appearance, he looked as if indulging in the hotel’s famous culinary and wine delights could be core to his job description. He thanked Isobel profusely for agreeing to see him and asked her to follow him. He took her down a flight of stairs, past the boutiques and gift shops, to a corridor given over to telling the story of the Del hotel in words and pictures. It set out a star-studded history with photos of Presidents and celebrities past and present. Amongst the great and the good of San Diego she saw a grainy photo of Cornelius Grant. Isobel had browsed the display before, but nothing prepared her for the sight of her own painting there. An elaborately inscribed bronze plate beneath the frame read: “The Hotel Del Coronado as captured by English artist Isobel Roberts.”
“Do you like it, the positioning, I mean?” asked Rodriguez.
Her mouth was opening and closing like a goldfish. The thought that her work hung on public display, that she merited the status of an “English artist” overwhelmed her. “Yes, yes I do. But you’ve taken me quite by surprise.”
“We pride ourselves on surprising our guests at the Del. We weren’t sure where best to display it. I originally thought the lobby the obvious place, but everyone who stays at the Del spends time studying this montage, and even those who are only visiting for a meal or a drink must pass this way. So it seemed the right choice. And we can always move it later. But if you would prefer the lobby…”
“No, no, here works, it fits in well.”
“Yes, that’s my feeling,” he said, clearly pleased, his stomach seeming to increase in size with each new smile. “From the past to the present, the old to the new. Your painting is so much in line with the modern image we want to present of the hotel; we’re so pleased to have found it. And I am so fortunate that you’re also staying in Coronado.”
“But you haven‘t invited me here to ask where best to hang the painting.”
“Quite so. Perhaps we can retire to my office?”
Rodriguez got straight to business after serving the coffee. “I wonder, Mrs. Roberts, if you might consider a joint promotional initiative.”
“What do you have in mind?” asked Isobel, both puzzled and intrigued.
“Two things, the first being a feature article in our magazine, about an English artist in Coronado. Your painting of the hotel would be given a full page in the body of the magazine, with your photo on the cover, perhaps set against the painting in the background. These are just my ideas, of course; the copy, the photo-shoot, all that would be left to the agency we use.”
“My picture on the cover of your magazine? I’m not exactly Chrystal Brakeley.”
“Chrystal Brakeley is not exactly Chrystal Brakeley, if I may say so. And she does not have the connections you have with Coronado, nor is her painting hanging in the hotel.”
This all sounded too good to be true for Isobel and she wondered if “connections with” might be better put as “connections in”.
“Flattered as I am, do you mind if I ask how my painting first came to your attention?”
“One of my staff saw it in the window of the gallery, I believe.”
“No one called the hotel about it?”
“I could not be sure on the sequence of events, but my facilities manager did speak to someone about the painting.”
“Do you know who? I’m sorry for the questions, Mr. Rodriguez, but if someone has prompted the hotel’s interest I would like to thank them.”
“Of course. Though I’m afraid I don’t have any details, but I can enquire.”
“You don’t know if your manager dealt with a man or a woman?”
“Now you come to ask, I believe a Spanish-speaking lady spoke with my manager.”
Isobel let out a sigh of relief that her good fortune had not once again been engineered by Lance. “And the second thing you wished to raise?”
“We’ve had many enquiries about your painting. Even though it’s not for sale, I’m interested to know if you would be agreeable to making prints available in the hotel store? The advice I have is $300 for a full size print, $50 for something smaller. If that’s not too presumptuous.”
“And how many prints did you have in mind?”
“Shall we say one thousand?”
Isobel had arranged to meet Maria for a midday lunch in Old Town, the spot where Spanish settlers set up a mission close to where they landed, at what would become San Diego. Old Town now served as the terminus for the trolley bus tour that ran to and from Coronado. Isobel chose the trolley option rather than taking the car across the Bay Bridge, thinking Maria would enjoy the ride back, if she ever planned on coming back. The historic church and bell tower, the pioneer wagons and the whitewashed buildings with their rough wooden beams gave Old Town the look of a dusty Mexican village in a spaghetti western, but it had long since been converted into a tourist trap of souvenir shops and Tex-Mex restaurants. As they ate at an outside table a trio of amigos with drooping moustaches and over-sized sombreros stood strumming their guitars and singing Spanish love songs next to their table. The smell of hot tortillas and refried beans tortured Isobel’s nostrils as she sipped from a frosted margarita, watching Maria tuck into a burrito the size of a rolling pin; her chin stuck out over the table to protect herself from the melting cheese. She wore the same clothes Isobel last saw her in.
“Good to know you haven’t lost your appetite,” teased Isobel, “for food, I mean.”
“You’re welcome to share…the food, I mean.”
“I’ll pass,” said Isobel laughing, but nevertheless scooping up a handful of tortilla chips from Maria’s basket.
“There’s no way I can finish this,” declared Maria, finally drawing breath.
“We can get it boxed if you’d like to take it home with you,” said Isobel, “I mean, who knows where you’ll be for your next meal.”
Maria gave a scowl and pushed the plate away. “How are things with Lance? You’re looking radiant, if I may say so.”
“All good, nothing new to report. How are things with the holiday fling, you naughty stop-out?”
“We’re having fun. Jason has asked me out on his yacht this afternoon. He wants to know if you’ll come along. He’s also invited Lance, a thank-you for the Padres tickets.”
“Lance is still out of town.”
“Yes, but Jason says he might be back this evening.”
“Then he’s better informed of Lance’s schedule than me.”
“So anyway, Jason has suggested he pick us up from the yacht club on Glorietta Bay and we sail up the coast by La Jolla, then Lance joins us there if he’s back in time.”
“And if he’s not I play gooseberry on your last night?”
“There’s six or seven cabins and Jason has invited half the crowd from the baseball game along, so it’ll be fun, but if you’d rather not then we can give it a miss.”
“And deny you your last night of sin? You’d never forgive me.”
“It may not be my last night. Jason travels to Europe every month. And if Lance pitches up we both enjoy a romantic evening.”
“If he pitches up,” said Isobel with a sigh.
Maria gave her friend a sideways look. “And if he doesn’t, there’s always the other studs on the boat.”
Juanita had returned to work despite her bruises, which though yellowing had still not yet disappeared. Isobel had invited her over for a catch-up before she set off sailing. If nothing else, Isobel welcomed the company whilst Maria lay in her pit recovering from several days’ sleep deprivation. Isobel chatted happily, telling Juanita about the visit to the Del hotel and that it had been her efforts that had been instrumental to everything.
“If you hadn’t been so stubborn, the painting would never have been in the window and none of this would have happened.”
Juanita glowed in the praise. “De nada, señora,” replied Juanita, pretending to dismiss the gratitude with a flap of her hand. “Next to everything you have done for me, it is nothing. And now Pauline, she is more easy with me, she give me more freedom with the window display.”
“Because now she realises what a star performer she has working for her. And how is the safe house working out?”
“Tonight will be my last night there. It is a good place with good people, but now I prefer to live at home.”
“You can’t go back to El Cajon. What if Pablo comes back again looking for money? You mustn’t take that risk.”
“First, señora, the refuge, they give me the name of a widow in Chula Vista. She has a room she does not use. I must pay, of course, but it is not so much, as the lady, she prefers not to live alone. She say that I will be company in the evening, and she also is happy to have a baby in the house.”
“That’s marvellous news, I’m so pleased for you. And Pablo knows nothing of this? Where you will be living?”
“Pablo is gone forever, señora. He not come back, of that I am certain.”
Isobel’s body shivered. “Gone forever? Is he dead?”
“No, he is not dead, a bad weed does not die. But he is gone. It all happened the same night as the shooting. Pablo went drinking the money he took from me. My friend, she see him drunk, but that I expected. He meet with some woman in the bar, a cheap puta for sure because it is full of them, but one no one had seen before. She took Pablo off with her.”
“A honey trap,” said Isobel, the words Lance had used coming back to her.
“Que, señora?”
“Oh nothing, I’m just thinking out loud. But how can you be sure he’s gone forever? What about when he sobers up, when the prostitute has emptied all of his pockets?”
“That is the mystery, señora, that no one can explain me. Somehow he woke up in jail in Tijuana. He wanted for many bad things in Mexico and he has no papers to get back through at the border. And God did not give wings to a pig, so he cannot fly back. Even when he out of the prison, and that may be many years from now, he will have to find a woman in Mexico to put food on the table and beer in his belly.”
Isobel pondered the speed and decisiveness with which Lance had acted. Perhaps the “ruthless” tag favoured by his detractors had substance after all. Had he been true to his word? Was it a crime to spirit a thug who did not belong in America over the border? Or did he apply the same amoral code that Jay lived by, “the end justifies the means”? The abrupt way that Lance had left her after their night of passion, his lack of contact since, and now the reminder of Jay…
“Well, however it happened, it’s manna from heaven,” she said with a smile, glad to tear her thoughts back to the present. Juanita looked back with a blank face. “I mean it is your good fortune. Now you can look forward to a new life, a better life.”
“And for Clarita, too.”
Isobel went to a drawer and retrieved an envelope. “This is for you. It’s a present from me, a thank-you, but maybe it’s better if you open it later.”
“I think that I would like to open it now.” She took the card from inside the envelope and her look of puzzlement turned to disbelief. “But what is this, señora? And whatever it is I cannot accept it. You have already done so much for me.”
“It is the proceeds from the sale of the Point Loma sunset, I want you to have it.”
“But this is a fortune, señora, and Pauline, she paid already the commission she owe me.”
“It is not a fortune to me and it will help you get you set up in Chula Vista, or you can put it away for Clarita if you cannot take it for yourself. A christening present, if you like.”
For the first time in their relationship Juanita abandoned all distance and threw her arms around Isobel. She dropped her head against Isobel’s bosom and she bent to kiss it. The girl released her hold and stepped back, tears on her cheeks. “Now, señora, we are amigas, no?”
Isobel took her hand. “And I hope that we will always be friends, so you must make that the last time you call me ‘señora’.”