“It could have been the first time she’d seen herself other than in pools of water,” I said, wondering what she’d looked like. Had she worn her hair loose or had she braided it? Had she painted her face, tattooed and pierced her skin? Had her clothing been made of deerskin, tule grass, or woven rabbit fur?
Heather traced one of the pink, garland-like ribbons carved into the oak frame with the tip of her finger. “Wish I had a picture of it.”
“No problem,” I said, grateful for the opportunity to share a piece of her ancestor’s past. “Stay put while I grab my camera.”
Shooting from her side, I was able to catch Heather’s profile as she looked into the mirror plus her full reflection looking back.
“This ol’ mirror has, like, a gray look to it,” Heather said, “and it’s kinda wavy, don’t you think? See the ripples and bubbles in the glass and, like, all those tiny, blotchy spots around the edges? No offense, girl, but it makes me look kinda old.”
It did appear as though an older version of Heather was looking back, but my guess was that it had more to do with the lack of lighting in the room than the age or oxidation of the mirror. “Yeah, makes you look like a regular old crone,” I said, taking another shot.
“Your turn,” Heather said, reaching for the camera. “I’ll take a picture from the same angle you took mine. Kinda weird, how I can get the side and front of your face all in one frame.”
I found my gaze drawn to the eye of the camera reflected in the mirror, thinking of the many cultures that believed a photograph, like a mirror, could steal one’s soul.
“Okay, now, one of the mirror by itself,” Heather said.
As I scooted out of the way, I focused on the mirror’s tinted and mottled outer surface. The Mayans believed that mirrors opened portals into the Otherworld, allowing ancestors to pass through, and at that moment, I believed it.
“I’d better get back to work,” Heather said with a note of regret in her usually cheerful voice.
I ejected the memory card from the camera, slipped it into the side pocket of my purse, and followed her out of the room.
🗲🗲🗲
Veronica was sorting through a rack of designer fashions labeled New Arrivals when I walked in. She wore black leather pants, a leopard print top, and spiked ankle boots; but what set her apart and shouted Wow! was her red lambskin jacket. It was cropped and simply hung there, supple as silk, and, with Veronica’s every move, its zebra print lining peeked out impressively. Like a classic Vegas showgirl, her image flashed glamorous, unattainable, and too big for this town.
“Hi, Veronica,” I said, primed for battle.
She turned and, for an instant, the expression on her face appeared innocent, almost vulnerable.
“I saw you from across the street,” I said, “and wondered if you’d like to join me for coffee? My treat.”
She stared at me as though shocked at the very idea of accepting my invitation, before visibly drawing herself together. “Now why would you want to treat me to coffee?”
“Because you’re my sister.”
“So?”
“I don’t know about you, but I could use a friend.”
“Seems to me you’ve befriended the whole damn town. Haven’t you heard? I’m bad news.”
“You’re my sister,” I repeated, “and that makes you important to me.”
Her face, like that of an airbrushed mannequin with secrets I wasn’t privy to, suggested the joke was on me. “Marjorie dear, you have no idea what you’re getting into.”
“I’m inviting you out for coffee, not to move in with me,” I said, poking at my sister’s armor like a quixotic fool.
Leave me to my misfortune, I imagined her response.
Instead she laughed. “Your treat, right?”
🗲🗲🗲
“Don’t mind her,” Veronica said, her armor solidly in place. “I’ve got a nasty reputation around here.”
“So what?”
“Oh, dear sister, when you learn more about me, you’ll stay clear all right. But, in the meantime, I might as well enjoy your company.”
The scent of freshly ground coffee, crisping croissants, cinnamon buns, and apple fritters made my taste buds tingle and my stomach churn. But they didn’t detour me from my mission of fighting windmills and sheep. “So, what did your dad say?”
“Coffee, black,” Veronica directed the barista, delegating me—and my question—to no more than an annoying fly she’d just as soon swat as listen to. Then she headed for an outdoor table with the possessive familiarity of someone who came here often.
I selected a vanilla latte and paid for our order.
On joining Veronica with our drinks, I repeated my question with stubborn determination. “What did your dad say?”
She smiled as one smiles at a dense underling. “That he loved me.”
“Mom, too,” I said.
“And?”
“I asked her why she hadn’t adopted us both,” I said, realizing that the conversation might run smoother if I allowed Veronica to take on the role of interrogator.
She snorted. “So, what’s her version of the story?”
“That you’d already been adopted.” I didn’t share the rest of what my mother had said—that our birth mother had put Veronica up for adoption before she died—though, considering the snotty way my sister was acting, she deserved a vengeful slap in the face.
Veronica shot me a look that sent prickles down my already tingling spine. So much for allowing her to take the lead.
“What else did your dad say?” I asked.
“Believe me, you don’t want to know.”
But I did want to know. I bit my lip to keep from pleading.
“You’ve got to trust me on this one,” she said.
Trust my Color Me Bold sister? Not going to happen. “I’ll find out sooner or later.”
She smiled almost kindly. “You know what they say about curiosity.”
Curiosity didn’t begin to describe the urgency building up inside of me.
“I can tell by the sorry-assed look on your face that you haven’t told me all you know, either,” Veronica said.
Sorry-assed? I wasn’t poking her armor. She was poking mine. “Tell me about your dad,” I said, desperate to discover what made us so different. Did life’s circumstances override genetics to such an extent, or did we have traits in common, hidden behind makeup, clothing, gestures, and bravado?
“I’m not very happy with him right now,” Veronica said, “and prefer not to dwell on him.”
“You sound angry,” I said.
“I am.”
“How long have you felt this way?”
“A long time. Do you have any siblings?”
“One sister.”
Veronica grinned. “Besides me?”
“No.”
“What brought you to Carmel Valley?”
She’d gained the upper hand again, in what was turning into an odd conversation. “I’m on retreat.”
Veronica tapped a perfectly manicured fingernail against the side of her mug. “How’d you meet Ben?”
I glanced at my own nails, short, unpolished, boring. “Marianne at the winery gave me his number when I asked her about the Ohlone/Costanoan Esselen.”
“The Ohlone/Costanoan Esselen? Whatever for?”
“At first, I was interested because of a mirror I bought that supposedly belonged to a Margarita Butron back in 1773. She was Ohlone/Costanoan.”
“You like old stuff, do you?”
“Not necessarily, but this mirror is special.”
“Okay, so what else do you find so interesting about the Ohlone/Costanoan Esselen?”
“I found out that we were part Native American and that our mother was part Esselen and Rumsen Costanoan.”
“Yeah, Pop told me,” she said in a yawny voice. “Did you tell Ben?”
“Of course, though I don’t look or feel Indian.” I paused and took in Veronica’s long black hair, how it hung loose about her face as I imagined Margarita’s had when she was young. “At least, you’ve got the hair color right.”
Veronica sipped her coffee, her hands steady, unlike mine, which were shaking as if I’d consumed too much caffeine.
“I think I heard Margarita speak,” I said into the silence.
Veronica pulled in her breath mid swallow and began to cough as though choking.
I jumped out of my seat and patted her back, her lambskin jacket rippling like silk beneath my hand. “Are you okay?”
“You’re hearing a voice, too?” she sputtered between hacking coughs.
“Yes, but—”
“Holy shit. We’re both going crazy.”
Veronica appeared sane to a fault, the very opposite of crazy. “We’re just able to hear what others can’t,” I said.
Veronica pinned me with her cobalt gaze. “I think we’re both losing our marbles.”
“I took pictures of the mirror,” I said. “I had prints made. Get yourself a refill. I’ll be right back.”
Without waiting for Veronica’s response, I dashed down the street to the pharmacy and, in less than ten minutes, returned, a bit winded but happy to see that Veronica hadn’t ditched me. I sorted through the photos with the agility of a poker dealer shuffling cards until I found one of Heather looking into the mirror and her muted reflection.
Veronica glanced at the photo and back at me. “So?”
“Here’s another,” I said. And then we both saw it at once. Where the reflection of my face should have been, was the fuzzy image of a stranger.
“Holy shit!” Veronica said. “How’d that old Indian gal get into the picture?”
My arms, neck, and scalp turned into a mass of gooseflesh. When Heather took that shot, my attention had been focused on the camera reflected in the mirror, but what the camera saw was not me. “The picture I took of Heather turned out okay,” I said. “Her face is a bit gray and muted, but that’s definitely her. I wonder what happened to mine.”
“This is too weird for my taste,” Veronica said, harshness replacing the former hollowness of her voice. “If I didn’t know better, I’d say you had it photoshopped.”
“Do you think it’s Margarita? Maybe she’s trying to tell us something.”
“Don’t include me in your paranormal adventure,” Veronica said, pushing back her chair. “I said I was hearing a voice. I didn’t say anything about Margarita.”
“You’ve got to admit that she plays a part. This picture is proof.”
“Got to go,” Veronica said, standing. “Nice visiting with you.” She took a deep breath and grinned as if our shared time together and the resulting conversation had been no more than a joke. “Good luck with the ghost, kiddo.”
She started to leave and then turned. “By the way, I’m not returning that deliciously warm and practical coat you lent me Saturday night. So here, take mine.” She wiggled out of her lambskin jacket and tossed it to me before sauntering off as if nothing out of the ordinary had transpired.