I can make the journey in a month, and you can help me if the worst happens…
My chest is tight as I finish the letter. It sounds like she came here to have her baby. Doing quick math in my head, if my father was in kindergarten, he was only five or six. Aunt Winnie is seven years younger than he is.
Was this baby Manuel Treviño’s? I feel strongly the answer is yes, since I don’t know of any other aunts or uncles. If that’s the case, what happened to the baby? Where is it?
Looking at the clock, it’s after one, and I need to rebook my hotel room. I can’t go back to Plano today. I have to find out what happened.
12
Angel
“That’s not my best angle.” Winnie is beside me looking at the pictures I’ve taken using her digital camera.
She’s wearing a fitted, dark green V-neck dress, and her hair is gathered in a loose bun at the nape of her neck. Her makeup is subtle, emphasizing her blue eyes, and she has a light stain of plum on her lips.
I think she’s stunning, and I flick the buttons on the back, changing the filters and dropping subtle yellows and pinks over the image. “My mother would have loved this camera.”
“Your mother was a photographer?” Her voice is sharp. “You drew her with a camera.”
“She was an artist. We lived in Mexico, at the foot of the Sierra Madre, and she would take pictures and blow them up and add paint to them. It was a unique style, similar to Georgia O’Keefe.”
Winnie’s eyes narrow. “Why did you leave Mexico?”
I shrug, looking around. “When she died, I came to live with my family.”
“I see.” She straightens, walking away from me and going to the fireplace. “How about this?”
Placing a hand on the mantle, she looks towards the windows. I raise the camera and take her photo from several different angles.
“Not bad… I have one last idea. See what you think.” I lead her to the chair she was sitting in yesterday and have her turn in the same direction, facing the windows. “Shoulders back. Now let’s have this guy in your lap.”
Reaching down, I pick up the white cat I noticed yesterday with the black legs and ring-striped tail.
“What?” She laughs. “Boots?”
“I think it adds a whimsical element that shows personality.”
Her blue eyes narrow, but she cooperates. Again, I take several shots from different angles. When we’re done, I take them all to the laptop computer she provided and plug in the camera.
“You’re very professional.” She says it like she expected me to be unprofessional, but I let it pass.
“These are my favorites.” I bring up four images and she sits in the chair in front of the computer.
“The deal was I would choose my favorite.”
“I’m just helping find ones with good highlights. See in this one, your expression is more dramatic, the contrast of shadow and light—”
“I’ll look at all of the images and tell you the one I like. You can wait in the hall for me to call you.”
Hesitating a moment, I bite back all the things I really want to say to her right now. Clearing my throat, I nod. “I’ll take a look at those art supplies.”
“Oh, yes. They’re just in the sitting room. Through that door.” She gestures to a door beside a bookcase.
It leads to a smaller room filled with natural light shining through a wall of windows. “This would be the perfect place for me to pai
nt.”
She doesn’t answer, and I see a plastic bag sitting on a desk. Going to it, I notice a fifty-dollar bill is also on the table beside it. Ignoring it, I pull out the tubes of oil paint. Turning them over, I study the labels. I’m more familiar with acrylics, but I’ve been studying tips and techniques for working with oil.