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Authors: Judi Culbertson
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her map, then on to Santa Fe to find a place to stay. Once she found Route 68 going south, it would be less than two hours.
T HE HIGHWAY WOUND south beside a river that looked brown and shallow. Every minute or two she passed a new group of rafters, and closer to the road a stand selling pottery and painted kiva ladders. To her left the cluster of mountains arched toward the sky.
Something that she first thought was a hawk descended slightly, and she saw it was a hang glider, a black silhouette against the blue. Ducking her head to see it better, she yearned to be up there herself, with nothing but the sun and wind currents on her mind. She missed those days of exploring new places, of following candlelit processions down darkened streets, of sitting in cafés to write her blog.
Why had she assumed it would go on forever? Come to that, why had she assumed that Lee would always be there, that their life could only get better?
Lee, send me a messageâwherever you are .
As she drove south, the mountains crept closer to the road, their red shape restrained by fences and a mesh covering. Even here there was the familiar sign, âWatch for Falling Rocks.â She wondered if falling rocks had anything to do with the wooden crosses on the edge of the road, wreathed by artificial flowers, and decided they probably marked car crashes the way they did at home. But then she saw two white crosses at the top of a cliff and wondered.
As she turned onto the larger Route 84, the mountains took a step back again, replaced by brown hills tufted with small green bushes. The sides of the road were crowded now with businesses and signs for Santa Fe. She passed a neon-tubed outline of a huge cowboy in front of the Round-Up Motel and decided she could not face a room with a bolted-down TV and venetian blinds.
T HE T URQUOISE T RAIL Inn was a Territorial-style building with authentic furnishings and shared bathrooms. Fionaâs room had a white kiva fireplace in one corner, a red tile floor, and French doors leading to her own patio outside. Even without her own shower it had been more than she wanted to pay, but most places on the highway had âNo Vacancyâ signs and she was happy to be in the center of Santa Fe. Besides, what did the money matter? If she found Lee, it would be worth it. And if she didnât . . . who cared how much she had left in the bank?
Activating the ceiling fan, she let herself stretch out on the white bedspread. She had promised to stop by Susan Allmayerâs house, but the Dramamine still in her system was compelling. It was too late to go to the Day Star corporate offices. She let herself sleep.
When she woke up, the world was dark.
Chapter Fifteen
T HE D AY S TAR offices were located west of the plaza on the Paseo de Peralta in an adobe building set back from the sidewalk. Its glass windows looked black under a porch formed by brown pillars. Above the door a large brass sun face had been pressed into the clay. Junipers, cacti, and other succulents lined the entrance walk.
Fiona waited across the street under a cottonwood tree. The people approaching the building, laden down by newspapers, canvas bags, and Styrofoam cups, reminded her of her days as a lawyer. She had drunk no more coffee than usual today, but her stomach was seizing up in the same way. Why hadnât she gone to Leeâs apartment in Brooklyn and photocopied his passport? It would have been a good thing to have with her. Was it too late to tell them she was his wife?
The wooden handle and glass door were heavier than she expected. Holding the door awkwardly as she stepped around it, Fiona moved into a pastel world, a world with a vanilla scent. Most of the pictures on the walls were large R. C. Gorman prints of Indians, which she had never liked. She was happy that he had found success as a Navajo artist. But why did he have to make his women so meek?
Looking at the triangular shape of a woman bent placidly over a
T HE HIGHWAY WOUND south beside a river that looked brown and shallow. Every minute or two she passed a new group of rafters, and closer to the road a stand selling pottery and painted kiva ladders. To her left the cluster of mountains arched toward the sky.
Something that she first thought was a hawk descended slightly, and she saw it was a hang glider, a black silhouette against the blue. Ducking her head to see it better, she yearned to be up there herself, with nothing but the sun and wind currents on her mind. She missed those days of exploring new places, of following candlelit processions down darkened streets, of sitting in cafés to write her blog.
Why had she assumed it would go on forever? Come to that, why had she assumed that Lee would always be there, that their life could only get better?
Lee, send me a messageâwherever you are .
As she drove south, the mountains crept closer to the road, their red shape restrained by fences and a mesh covering. Even here there was the familiar sign, âWatch for Falling Rocks.â She wondered if falling rocks had anything to do with the wooden crosses on the edge of the road, wreathed by artificial flowers, and decided they probably marked car crashes the way they did at home. But then she saw two white crosses at the top of a cliff and wondered.
As she turned onto the larger Route 84, the mountains took a step back again, replaced by brown hills tufted with small green bushes. The sides of the road were crowded now with businesses and signs for Santa Fe. She passed a neon-tubed outline of a huge cowboy in front of the Round-Up Motel and decided she could not face a room with a bolted-down TV and venetian blinds.
T HE T URQUOISE T RAIL Inn was a Territorial-style building with authentic furnishings and shared bathrooms. Fionaâs room had a white kiva fireplace in one corner, a red tile floor, and French doors leading to her own patio outside. Even without her own shower it had been more than she wanted to pay, but most places on the highway had âNo Vacancyâ signs and she was happy to be in the center of Santa Fe. Besides, what did the money matter? If she found Lee, it would be worth it. And if she didnât . . . who cared how much she had left in the bank?
Activating the ceiling fan, she let herself stretch out on the white bedspread. She had promised to stop by Susan Allmayerâs house, but the Dramamine still in her system was compelling. It was too late to go to the Day Star corporate offices. She let herself sleep.
When she woke up, the world was dark.
Chapter Fifteen
T HE D AY S TAR offices were located west of the plaza on the Paseo de Peralta in an adobe building set back from the sidewalk. Its glass windows looked black under a porch formed by brown pillars. Above the door a large brass sun face had been pressed into the clay. Junipers, cacti, and other succulents lined the entrance walk.
Fiona waited across the street under a cottonwood tree. The people approaching the building, laden down by newspapers, canvas bags, and Styrofoam cups, reminded her of her days as a lawyer. She had drunk no more coffee than usual today, but her stomach was seizing up in the same way. Why hadnât she gone to Leeâs apartment in Brooklyn and photocopied his passport? It would have been a good thing to have with her. Was it too late to tell them she was his wife?
The wooden handle and glass door were heavier than she expected. Holding the door awkwardly as she stepped around it, Fiona moved into a pastel world, a world with a vanilla scent. Most of the pictures on the walls were large R. C. Gorman prints of Indians, which she had never liked. She was happy that he had found success as a Navajo artist. But why did he have to make his women so meek?
Looking at the triangular shape of a woman bent placidly over a
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