The Secret Life of Anna Blanc (11 page)

Anna drove with the top down so she could feel the mischievous air, which was rising again, hot from the east.

“You selfish girl!” cawed the Widow Crisp, who was wearing her own ugly dress again. Anna had cleaned most of Officer Singer's vomit off the hem. The Widow scowled. “You've soiled my frock, almost killed me in the car, and now you're smothering me with dust. I! Hate! Wind!”

Anna happily ignored her. She pulled into the drive and saw Mr. Wright's ocean blue Cadillac parked in front. Her heart raced. “Jupiter.”

She had long since given up expecting Mr. Wright or Mr. Blanc in the evenings. If she had, she would have spent more time primping in the orchard. The men invariably started work early and worked until after she was in bed. Previously, this had vexed her. If she never saw Mr. Wright, how could she encourage his attentions? But now she had welcomed it as providential. It would make her matron work possible.

Anna plucked up a half-knitted blanket, skillfully wrought by the Widow Crisp, and sashayed into the house. The Widow followed like a shadow.

Mr. Wright waited in the parlor, dressed for dinner. He stood and greeted Anna with a boyish grin. “Hello, darling. Hello, Widow Crisp.”

Anna smiled back. “I didn't expect you.”

“I missed you.” He took her hand and kissed it. “Aren't you glad to see me?”

Anna glowed. “Yes.” He looked wonderful, and she remembered how much she did miss him, or the idea of him, or the promise of what being with him could be like—like being on the train. He was
everything she wanted, outside of police work. She held up the afghan and beamed. “I'm knitting for the Orphans' Asylum.”

That evening, after Anna had freshened herself and changed into a stunning Nile-green evening gown, the Widow Crisp joined Anna and Mr. Wright for a romantic dinner. Afterward, she followed them into the conservatory and sniggered while Anna played piano badly. Then, she followed them into the parlor for cards, where she took Anna's last cent, drank glass after glass of the Blanc's best sherry, and flirted with Mr. Wright until his face turned red.

Anna knew she had to get rid of the Widow Crisp, or she might snap and beat her with a candlestick. Then she remembered how much the Widow hated the east winds. Anna smiled brightly. “Mr. Wright, would you take me for a stroll around the grounds?”

He looked out the window at the chaos in the garden and smiled bemusedly. “It's the perfect night. I'll have to hold you tight so you don't blow away.” He offered Anna his arm. “Shall we?”

The Widow frowned.

The grounds of the Blanc estate were peppered with jacaranda, evergreens, oaks, and palms, all shaking their manes, their leaves falling like summer sleet. Anna's skirts whipped around her body, and gusts of eucalyptus pollen made Mr. Wright sneeze. He clutched his hat to his head. The Widow Crisp was unshakable, despite her hatred of the winds. She stood on the terrace, her bun come undone, her hair alive like a medusa, her glittering eyes glued to the couple.

Anna raised her voice to be heard. “Do you think I'm cuckoo to want to walk tonight?”

“No. This is very romantic—the wind blowing the stars into new constellations, you, me…” The corner of his mouth quirked. “The
Widow Crisp.” Saying so, Mr. Wright pulled Anna behind a tree and out of the chaperone's sight. They were near a large rose bush that was shaking off its petals.

Anna laughed over the rush of the wind. Stray locks of her hair flew like bull whips. “They're sure I'm going to run away and join the circus.”

He raised his eyebrows. “Well, are you?”

“I'm considering it.”

“Then, can I come with you?”

Anna raised a finger to her lips as if thinking. “That depends. What are your talents?”

He leaned up against the tree and sheltered her with his body, standing very close. “I can throw knives.”

Anna encouraged him with a smile. “Not at me. I won't wear sequins.”

Mr. Wright shook his head. “Never at you.”

“Don't you want to know my talents?” They were grinning at each other.

“What are your talents?” he asked.

“Lion taming.”

“Lion taming is the most important quality that I look for in a wife.” Mr. Wright snapped off a rose, which had but three tenacious petals, and dropped to one knee. “Tame me, Miss Blanc? Please? Just to be clear, I'm proposing.” He gave her the balding rose and held his breath.

It was the moment for which Anna had been waiting; the moment she thought would never come again. She stood on the threshold of freedom and, dare she hope, love? “You'll marry me no matter what happens? Even if my father says no and cuts me out of his will and offers you heaps of money to leave me?”

Mr. Wright frowned. “Of course.”

“Then, yes.” She took the rose and smiled. She felt hope, relief, and a tinge of grief for something she couldn't name. Her eyes wandered to Mr. Wright's large, soft hands, which disappeared into his coat as he stood.

“You better have this, then.” He produced a ring. Anna hurriedly stripped off her glove. He took her hand, and slid it onto her finger. Anna's eyes sparkled like the diamonds. The piece was generous and uncommon, like something made in another world by elves—or a really good French jeweler.

“Do you like it, Anna?”

“I adore it…Edgar.” She closed her hand around it, knowing that wearing his ring would make her golden again in the eyes of the world.

He leaned in close, his hair flyaway with static electricity. The wind carried away his warmth and his scent. She lifted her chin and closed her eyes for his kiss.

Before their lips came together, their mouths but a whisper apart, the Widow Crisp rounded the tree. Edgar pulled back. Her timing was preternatural, her expression prim and disapproving. Anna silently cursed the Widow. It was a hostile act. She knew the mangy crow had done it on purpose. The Widow wouldn't care if they cavorted naked, but she would care if Anna had the briefest moment of bliss.

Edgar smiled tightly at the Widow Crisp, murmuring to Anna from the side of his mouth. “Sorry darling. I'm not much good at making love with an audience.”

Anna sighed. “I had hoped she would blow away.”

That night, Anna smuggled an iron from the laundry into her room, hidden in a shawl, and slid it under the bed. She lit a fire in the carved stone hearth. Butterflies fluttered in her insides. Tomorrow, Edgar would ask her father for her hand. And her father would say…what? And then what?

Anna pulled her egg-encrusted matron's uniform from a carpetbag. She wet the stiff fabric in a tub of cold water and scrubbed at the hard egg yolk and chalky chicken dung with soap and her father's boar bristle toothbrush. Her own silk night robe stuck to her lingerie, damp from splashes. She stripped off the lacey garment and hung it near the fire to
dry, side by side with the newly cleaned uniform. She would continue to go to the station. Once she knew she was really, truly engaged, then she would quit.

Anna climbed into bed and squirmed herself warm under the covers. She needed beauty sleep, especially if her father said no, but fear of not sleeping kept her awake. She felt fidgety, overexcited from a day that was more eventful than the whole rest of her life put together. She rang for the maid to bring her sleep syrup and, when it arrived, slurped two spoonfuls of the bitter liquid.

As Anna drifted off in a barbital haze, the little beaten man lay in the gutter and called her name from a dream: “Anna. Anna.”

“
Sacré bleu
! It's always something, Anna,” Mr. Blanc said, as if it were her fault. The mountains in the east were glowing pink and a mist hid Catalina Island. Anna wore yesterday's frock, which she had plucked from the floor and donned quickly, her legs bare and chilled underneath. She took big steps in the dewy grass to keep up with her father, and almost trod on a dead gopher—a half-eaten one. Two brown teeth poked from its stiff mouth, its fur clumped in wet, bloody tufts.

Mr. Blanc halted in the middle of the lawn. Her full name,
Anna Virginie Blanc
, was cut into the turf in big dirt letters. They splayed across the lawn, edged with hairy roots and halves of worms, and sprinkled with a white powder. Anna put her hand on his thick arm and squeezed. A Mexican gardener approached with a wheelbarrow full of sod. He looked gravely at Anna. “
Buenos días, Señorita
.” He knelt and began scraping the powder out of the letters with a trowel. Anna shivered and pressed her lips.

“Who did this?” Mr. Blanc demanded. “Do you know, Anna?”

Anna shook her head and hugged herself.

“Never mind. I've called the police.”

Anna's heavily lashed eyes widened and she spun about to leave. The last thing she needed was to be interviewed by Wolf. Her father grabbed her arm. “You're not going anywhere alone.”

“I never do,” Anna said in a singsong. She started to sweat.

“And, you're going to stay with the Breedloves. Will they have you?”

“Of course.” Anna craned her neck to watch for police cars in the drive, and noticed the gardener's dog lying on the asphalt.

Mr. Blanc slapped his forehead and turned to the gardener. “It's herbicide, isn't it?”