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“She said if she wanted her portrait on black velvet, she’d go to the corner gas station and pay somebody five dollars.”
My mouth falls open again. “She said that?”
“Oh, that’s not half of what she says. You just wait.” Rosalía shakes her head. “Anyways, I showed her your sketch of Sofia. Valeria sent it to me. It’s so good. You really captured her personality in the eyes, and—”
“And?”
“And she said if you came by this afternoon, she’d give you a minute of her time. Very dismissive.”
“This afternoon?” I feel faint. A fifteen-thousand-dollar job combined with the Arthaus award… I wouldn’t need anybody’s help.
“I said noon, but she said two.” Rosalía shrugs like it’s no big deal, something I do every day. “She goes to the First Presbyterian church and then she has lunch.”
“I can be there at two.” I’m mentally flying through my portfolio. “What can I show her? All my pieces are abstracts…”
“Just show her what you’ve done. It’ll be great.” Rosalía squeezes my arm. “And I told her your name was Angela Carmen. It sounds less Mexican.”
“It’s not going to change my face, Rose.”
“Nonsense!” She does a little wave. “You could easily pass for whatever you want.”
“An American?” Which happens to be what I am.
“Whatever it takes.”
Shaking my head, I give her a squeeze. “Thank you. I’ll just show up and be myself.”
“That’s the best any of us can do.”
From the back of the Lyft, I look up at the mansion. Is it possible I’m wrong? Double-checking the text Rosalía sent, I verify it’s the correct address.
“This is it?” I ask, wishing for some mistake. It can’t be…
The driver points to the dashboard map, and I know it’s right. Reaching for the door handle, I carefully step out onto the sidewalk.
“Thank you.” I say as the car pulls away.
What’s going to happen now? I didn’t know Rosalía worked for Deacon’s aunt. I’ve never been to this house. I’ve never even dared step foot through the doors—as much as Deacon wanted me to.
How small is the world exactly? Sofia would know—because of Disney. Beto would be furious. Straightening my shoulders, I clutch the handles of my portfolio and walk with purpose to the front door. It doesn’t matter. It’s a job.
How I wish I had that burner phone on me. For all I know, my brother’s tracking my calls.
“Welcome, Angela.” A statuesque older woman opens the door. “My name is Winona Clarke. You may call me Mrs. Clarke.”
“How do you do, Mrs. Clarke.”
“If you’ll come this way.” She leads me through a house that reminds me of an old hunting lodge.
It’s paneled in dark wood, and the floors are covered in Persian rugs and animal hides. The furniture is either leather and brass or wood and tapestry, and everything smells like old money and furniture polish. I imagine that’s Rosalía’s contribution to the home.
Looking down over the foyer is a life-sized portrait of a man with thick white hair and a conquering expression. A white beard covers his jaws, and he holds a tan cowboy hat. He’s very Texas in his bolo tie and slacks with oil derricks rising in the background. It’s a stately painting, formal and ancient, but looking closer, I see a resemblance.
It’s Deacon’s grandfather.
The one who supposedly shot mine down.
How strange is life?
