tower is covered with the paintings of a great Hopi artist, Fred Kabotie. My Grandfather is a trader. He sells that kind of art—he knows all the artists and everything about their work.”
She gave my hand a little squeeze. I couldn’t tell whether she was flirting with me, humoring me, or telling me she’d heard enough.
We walked past the reception desk, where Julius was taking care of registration. To our right stretched a pale turquoise hall, long and high. I’d never imagined such a display of Southwestern Indian art. It was king-size and absolutely terrific. I was at home here. I could tell her all about it.
I led her toward an eagle kachina made by a carver who Grandpa had taken me to meet down at Third Mesa, on the Hopi Reservation. “That—”
Miss Darnell took my hand and squeezed again. A big yawn told me this squeeze meant, Enough for now.
Julius sidled up and handed her a key. “Your room, Miss Darnell. And a letter for you.” He handed me another key. “Our room,” he said, “next door.”
“I believe I’ll go freshen up,” she said, eyes tired. “Then maybe you’ll give me a tour.” She waved at the art and set off behind Julius and the bellman.
I took advantage of her two hours of getting fresh to check out the art thoroughly. Before the navy, I’d spent my life in a house jammed with Navajo and Pueblo art, selling it to the few tourists we got or toting it to traders in Flagstaff. Still, I had never seen anything like these pieces. They were bigger, more ambitious, and more imaginative than I’d dreamed possible. My first thought had been to sound like an expert to Miss Darnell. Now I didn’t care if I sounded like what I was, awestruck. I found the manager and asked him about the artists, where they lived, what their clan was. He was glad to talk about them.
“Let’s have a drink,” she said from behind me.
After a quick introduction to the manager, I escorted her to the bar, and she went through the same routine with the ingredients of her margarita.
“The same for my friend,” she told the barman.
“No,” I spoke up, “I’m working. I’d better not.” Maybe Mr. John sent me to guard Linda Darnell against a known threat. I ought to ask Julius, who’d spotted himself on a stool at the far end of the bar, where he had a wide range of vision and an open field of fire. Why did Mr. John send two bodyguards, instead of a bodyguard and a driver?
When her second margarita came, I saw her look at the fourth finger of her left hand. She tossed me a devilish smile and slipped the ring off and into her clutch purse.
“You’re married,” I said.
She licked the salt off the rim of her margarita glass and said, “Sort of. You?”
“I don’t see that in my near future. And the way Navajos do it—”
“ It? You do it differently?”
She knew what I meant. Or didn’t mean. “The way we get married. Real traditional. My mother is set to choose my wife.”
Her eyes danced. “Oh, I see. And how does she do that?”
“It’s got to be someone I’ve never met. Some people are so squeamish about it, that if you drew pictures together when you were five years old, forget it. Plus, you’re not allowed to see each other until the wedding day.”
She whooped at that one. I wished it was a joke. “What happens if the two don’t like each other?”
“That happened with an uncle of mine. One look, he and his new wife hated each other. The family tossed them in a hogan together, boarded up the door, and by the time three days went by? They liked each other very well.”
“And who will your mother choose for you? Any guesses?”
“That custom, it’s not for me. I intend to marry who I damned well please.”
She glinted, she glowed, and I think she thought I was too funny—not in the good way—for words. After another drink, we went in to dinner.
Linda asked for a table where we could look out on the gardens. The ma î tre d’ bowed too deeply and said,
She gave my hand a little squeeze. I couldn’t tell whether she was flirting with me, humoring me, or telling me she’d heard enough.
We walked past the reception desk, where Julius was taking care of registration. To our right stretched a pale turquoise hall, long and high. I’d never imagined such a display of Southwestern Indian art. It was king-size and absolutely terrific. I was at home here. I could tell her all about it.
I led her toward an eagle kachina made by a carver who Grandpa had taken me to meet down at Third Mesa, on the Hopi Reservation. “That—”
Miss Darnell took my hand and squeezed again. A big yawn told me this squeeze meant, Enough for now.
Julius sidled up and handed her a key. “Your room, Miss Darnell. And a letter for you.” He handed me another key. “Our room,” he said, “next door.”
“I believe I’ll go freshen up,” she said, eyes tired. “Then maybe you’ll give me a tour.” She waved at the art and set off behind Julius and the bellman.
I took advantage of her two hours of getting fresh to check out the art thoroughly. Before the navy, I’d spent my life in a house jammed with Navajo and Pueblo art, selling it to the few tourists we got or toting it to traders in Flagstaff. Still, I had never seen anything like these pieces. They were bigger, more ambitious, and more imaginative than I’d dreamed possible. My first thought had been to sound like an expert to Miss Darnell. Now I didn’t care if I sounded like what I was, awestruck. I found the manager and asked him about the artists, where they lived, what their clan was. He was glad to talk about them.
“Let’s have a drink,” she said from behind me.
After a quick introduction to the manager, I escorted her to the bar, and she went through the same routine with the ingredients of her margarita.
“The same for my friend,” she told the barman.
“No,” I spoke up, “I’m working. I’d better not.” Maybe Mr. John sent me to guard Linda Darnell against a known threat. I ought to ask Julius, who’d spotted himself on a stool at the far end of the bar, where he had a wide range of vision and an open field of fire. Why did Mr. John send two bodyguards, instead of a bodyguard and a driver?
When her second margarita came, I saw her look at the fourth finger of her left hand. She tossed me a devilish smile and slipped the ring off and into her clutch purse.
“You’re married,” I said.
She licked the salt off the rim of her margarita glass and said, “Sort of. You?”
“I don’t see that in my near future. And the way Navajos do it—”
“ It? You do it differently?”
She knew what I meant. Or didn’t mean. “The way we get married. Real traditional. My mother is set to choose my wife.”
Her eyes danced. “Oh, I see. And how does she do that?”
“It’s got to be someone I’ve never met. Some people are so squeamish about it, that if you drew pictures together when you were five years old, forget it. Plus, you’re not allowed to see each other until the wedding day.”
She whooped at that one. I wished it was a joke. “What happens if the two don’t like each other?”
“That happened with an uncle of mine. One look, he and his new wife hated each other. The family tossed them in a hogan together, boarded up the door, and by the time three days went by? They liked each other very well.”
“And who will your mother choose for you? Any guesses?”
“That custom, it’s not for me. I intend to marry who I damned well please.”
She glinted, she glowed, and I think she thought I was too funny—not in the good way—for words. After another drink, we went in to dinner.
Linda asked for a table where we could look out on the gardens. The ma î tre d’ bowed too deeply and said,
Similar Books
