Look Closely - Laura Caldwell [64]
“I think I will work from here today.”
Amy tutted. “I wasn’t talking about working at home. I’m talking about ordering soup, watching soaps all day.”
I managed a little laugh. “I’ve got files with me, and I’ve got to get some stuff done, but I’ll try to log in at least two hours of television, okay?”
“Okay, but take it easy. And I’ll keep everyone away. I promise you won’t get even one phone call from the office.”
“Perfect,” I said, because I wouldn’t be home anyway. I was going to Santa Fe.
I found a last-minute Internet flight, and I landed in Santa Fe at four o’clock. As I stepped outside the airport, I felt a rush of arid heat that told me I was in the desert.
“Oh, that’s right off Canyon Road,” said the woman at the car-rental desk when I gave her S. Singer’s address. “That’s where the majority of the galleries are.” The woman circled the area on the map.
It took me only twenty minutes to reach the Canyon Road area. Along the way, I passed adobe houses that blended with the red-dirt ground and the mountains in the distance. Even the gas station and pharmacy I drove by were rounded adobe buildings. I turned up Canyon Road and saw that the woman at the rental desk had been accurate. The street was lined with art galleries, a café or two sprinkled into the mix.
When I reached the street where S. Singer lived, I turned again, and easily found the small house. It was also adobe, the color of sand, with red-painted trim along the top. A large cactus served as the centerpiece for the otherwise plain front yard where straggles of grass tried to grow in the dry climate. Although it was far from fancy, the house looked neat and well cared for. I glimpsed a small pink bicycle leaning against a sidewall. My niece’s, I thought. That bike belongs to my niece. My niece, my niece, my niece, I repeated in my head.
I walked slowly across the quiet street, no passing cars to stop me from reaching the other side in a second, and then there was nothing to stop me from walking up the short path to the unadorned wood door. A bronze knocker in the shape of bull’s horns hung high on the door. I raised my hand and used it. Once, then again and again. My anticipation had been running high, but I felt it flatten. No one was home. God, I hoped they hadn’t left town since I’d called and hung up this morning. I looked up the street, then the other way, wondering if I should ask a neighbor. No, I decided. I didn’t want to tip off the woman that I was looking for her.
It was still light out, so I decided to take a stroll. Narrow concrete walks flanked either side of Canyon Road, and I made my way from one gallery to the next, studying the lifelike paintings of the Southwest landscape, picking up the Native American pottery and jewelry. Every so often, I pulled out my cell phone and dialed the number for S. Singer, which I now knew by heart. Still, the woman wasn’t home.
A gallery owner recommended that I have dinner at Celebrations, a small restaurant across the street. I sat at an outside table next to others filled with couples or bunches of friends. I was overly aware of the fun going on around me. My eyes kept straying to the front sign and the name of the place—Celebrations. My mood was anything but celebratory. Every time I got excited that I might soon meet my niece, that I might gain some information that would bring me closer to my brother, I would recall my dad, sitting across from me last night at the Van Newton Guild, looking me in the eye, telling me lies about my sister, and God knew what else. I picked at the food. Finally, I threw some money on the table and left.
The sun was lower as I approached the Singer house again, and I saw lamplight in the windows. My pulse picked up. When I reached the front door, I raised my fist and gave a quick rap.
I heard the patter of feet inside, and then the door swung open. I let my gaze fall and met the light brown eyes of a girl with curly chestnut hair that hung to her chin. She must have been about six years