Chapter One: Seeing Things
She had been tucked away for decades, but her eyes were still bright when Alma carefully removed the cloth. She stepped back and appraised all of the work she would need to do. With a nod of her head, she grabbed and opened a sterile scalpel package and affixed it to her custom handle. Placing it neatly at her workstation, she doubled back to her drawer and grabbed some tape, ignoring the familiar feeling of eyes following her as she brought all of her tools over.
Old painting tended to do that. She gave the painting a sidelong glance, looking at the portrait’s mischievous gaze. Walking back over, she flipped over the paper card that Ronnie had left her. She had come a long way since she first took his restoration course during college and even further since she first came to his studio. When she forced herself out of her shoebox apartment to attend his guest lecture on restoring historic pieces, she didn't know it would lead to her making one of her first real friends and landing a prestigious position at his studio.
'Their studio' she reminded herself.
It was only recently after she formally ended her apprenticeship with him, informally he reminded her that you never stop learning as long as you share a studio with your teacher, that Ronnie Pan, world renowned painter turned restorer of fine art, decided he needed a business partner.
She skimmed over the man’s familiar writing, noting his thoughts on what the painting needed, and looked back at the painting.
“So you’re a countess,” she said more to herself than the painting. “Well pardon me, my lady,”
Carefully, Alma ran her hand across the surface of the painting, checking for any raises blemishes and unevenness. Peaking through all of the rabbit glue, patches, and heavy handed but failed attempts at previous restorations was a refined and opulent looking woman. Her gaze peered through the disrepair, as if daring Alma.
Moments like this were the only times Alma felt ready to rise to a challenge.
She smiled to herself. It only looked bad.
The old, discolored varnish would protect the work from any oils on her hands, and would need to be removed anyway. She allowed her fingertips to linger, just slightly, and she caught a flash of something. Not of the woman in the painting, not exactly, but of the moments between her and the painter. Soft peels of laughters, so real they felt like they were in the room with her. Alma pulled her hand back and put her headphones on. Echoes of the dead were an acceptable part of the job, and beat having to deal with them face to face, still, they could be distracting.
Alma didn't tuck herself away in the studio because she wanted to embody the stereotype of the artistic recluse.
She saw things. More specifically she saw ghosts, spirits visting the living, unseen by all but her. And sometimes, shadows of something she didn't want to get close enough to in pursuit of understanding.
No, it was better for her, and everyone else, for her to stay tucked away.
Alma allowed everything around her except the painting to fade from focus. When she worked with these paintings, she allowed herself safe glances into the past, skating through the painter's inner most moments, preserved within brushstrokes, buried under overpaint.
So caught up in the her work she almost missed the distant buzz coming from the rear of the studio. It would have been easy to miss, even if she hadn't been preoccupied.
The studio wasn't very accoustice, nor was the building it was in.
The studio was in the back of the building that housed Pan Restoration, taking up most of the bottom floor. Located in a historic townhouse, right in the historic district of downtown, the building used to belong to an old shop and the marker still remained on the front along with the original brick. The top floor used to be an apartment of sorts, with multiple rooms to accomadate the shopkeeper's family. Ronnie had renovated it and added even more amenities, included a kitchen and laundry.
Ronnie lived above the studio for years, until he met Blossom King while on a business trip.
Now, if they aren't on a trip somewhere, they're at their house in the Bayou, which left the living space above the studio free. Ronnie transferred it to Alma once her old lease was up, around the same time he first brought up a partnership.
Alma knows he's trying to quietly retire and she can tell he views her as his successor, but she doesn't feel like partner material, let alone an heir to a legacy like his.
The buzzing toward the back continued and she got up to take a look, already having an idea of who it was. The security screen near the back door showed the familiar face of her favorite mailman.
He rested a box on his hip, looking around before ringing the buzzer once again.
He waited patiently and she admired the way his gold cross chain rested on his chest. A flash of something personal on his otherwise standard postal uniform.
She smoothed her braids, although he couldn't see her and cleared her throat before pressing the button on the machine to answer without opening the door."
"Pan Restoration," she said, hoping she didn't sound too eager.
"Oh, hey, thought I came too late. Traffic was crazy. I'm speaking to Alma, right?"
"Yes,"
It would probably be an overreach to call Jaime a friend, but the talkative mailman had been pretty much the sole deliver of packages to the studio for a year. He had a bright, easy smile, dark black hair that fell in a dark wave just above his shoulder, and light brown skin made richer by the sun.
When he dropped off a package, Alma felt like she had gone sightseeing without having to leave the comfort of home.
"Okay, cool. I thought so, you know from your voice. I just can't see you. Wait, you can see me right?"
He tried to balance the box and adjust his shirt at the same time, almost losing his grip on the box.
Alma smiled at his antics.
"Follow the sound of my voice,"
His big dark brown eyes widened as he looked over at the security box.
"Oh shit, I thought it must be in the door bell, but I didn't see a lens. Is it at least my good side?"
He struck a pose, hands smoothing his neatly trimmed facial hair, once again almost dropping the box.
"Yes," Alma said before she could stop herself and Jaime stalled, eyes widening slightly.
"Oh, for real? Heh, thanks," he began to lean again but once again was thwarted by that damn box.
"There are solvents in there. Please be careful,"
"Sorry, yeah, pricey art business going on in there," he winced and Alma did the same.
She didn't want to scold him, but she also didn't want him or the supplies getting damaged.
"You can just set the box down,"
"Yeah, I could. Don't know why I don't just...do that..."
She watches him through the screen mouth an indiscernible curse word and gingerly set the box down.
"Wait, you have one more package, hopefully a bit more fun,"
She watched him walk back to the postal truck, carefully taking note of his defined legs and overall strong frame.
He returned with a wide smile and she didn't know if she was blinded by it or the way the light reflected off of his chain.
"Ready to play, What's in the box?"
Alma nodded, knowing he couldn't see her. Clapping her hands slightly and leaning closer to the screen.
She loved this game and wanted to savor it until the day he eventually tired of it.
"I know what's in the box,"
"It's not about you knowing what's in the box. It's about Mr. Gallardo guessing what's in the box," he said in his best game show voice and she giggled.
But she forgot her finger was still on the buzzer.
He heard it, but instead of looking confused he grinned widely, hamming up his inspection of the box even more.
"Mr. Gallardo will now use his powers of deduction to ascertain the contents of this box, without committing the federal crime of mail tampering,"
He lifts the box.
"I am sensing considerable weight, but it shifts. Liquid?"
"Correct."
"Of course. I am also getting the faint scent of something herbal and citrusy, but also floral. Not enough smell to denote a spill, but enough to indicate a high quality fragrance,"
Alma was always surprised how the game shifted from playful to impressive.
"Bergamot," she muttered in awe.
"I like it," he cleared his throat. "Uh yeah, the amount of shifting makes me think it's a shampoo, not thick enough to be a lotion.
Alma bit her lip. He was half right. There was a bergamot shampoo, but she also bought a shea butter lotion.
"There is lotion in there too,"
"But I was right about the shampoo?"
"Correct."
"Yes! Still undefeated! How do you feel Mr. Gallardo? Me? I feel great Mr. Gallardo, and the real prize was getting to hear Ms. Alma laugh,"
His smile softens and he looks in the direction of the monitor.
Alma opens her mouth to speak, but nothing comes out.
A moment passes, then two and he laughs awkwardly.
"Well, I'll leave this here and uh, I'll see you next time,"
Alma finds her voice but it's underwhelming, even to her ears.
"See you,"
She watches him walk away, but before she can beat herself up about not being quicker on her feet, her phone goes off.
There was really only two people that texted her. If it wasn't Ronnie, then it was her sister.
"Hey, Shy," she says, not bothering to look.
"Sis, I'm at the diner near your place! Come have breakfast for dinner with me,"
"Have you already ordered?"
"Of course, come on, don't keep me waiting,"
Her sister hung up and Alma sighed.
She wouldn't trade Shirley, or Shy as she was ironically called by her friends and family, for the world. But having such a spontaneous sister makes being a recluse difficult.
Fortunately, they meet in the middle, with Shy coming over for movie nights in more and more often. Even now, as dusk settled, she knew Shy was trying to accommodate her preference for late night dining.
She stepped out and grabbed both of her boxes, setting the supplies to the side and slicing the box with her toiletries open with the scalpel she usually reserves for removing poorly applied patches from canvas.
Quickly, she slathers some of her new lotion on her legs, arms, and face, hoping to bring a bit more life into her under moisturized brown skin. She pulls her braids up into a messy updo, futile hoping her sister would not notice that she hadn't touched up the style.
It was the edge of a southern summer. The heat during the day was stifling, but as it transitioned to night, the breeze came across the water, causing a slight chill.
She slipped on a hoodie and grabbed an extra one for Shy.
The diner near her apartment was called Fixins, a blend of American diner staples with a southern comfort twist.
A bell chime signaled her arrival and she heard Shy before she saw her.
Perched at the bar with a milkshake she was engaged in a giggle filled conversation with, Dhalia Perkins, the daughter of Fixins' owner, Gladys Perkins. Gladys wasn't too far away, watching the two of them with a smile, while she graciously ignored that Dhalia wasn't doing much waitressing, despite having on the pink and yellow uniform. Old Frank, Dhalia's father and Gladys's husband sat in his seat, sipping a coffee despite the late hour.
"Come on in Alma. Shy's saved you a seat and already out in an order for french toast,"
Alma allowed Gladys to lead her to a booth.
"She seems a little preoccupied,"
Gladys looked back over at the two cheerful teenage girls.
"Graduation's coming up. Now they want to talk about graduation and graduation parties and graduation dresses,"
Gladys sighed but smiled, eyes glittering.
"I'm so proud of them, but just thinking about my baby going off the college is enough to start up the waterworks.
Alma instinctively reached out a hand to Gladys who took it easily.
Everyone in town loved Gladys, not just because the food at Fixins was so good the city featured it in their tourism booklet, but because she was such a kind and welcoming presence.
When Alma's own dinner table became too much to deal with, she found herself at Fixins where Gladys kept 'forgetting' to charge her. When Alma thought of home cooked meals, she thought of Gladys's food, served by the woman herself.
"Oh, I'll be fine! Just getting all sentimental like,"
Gladys pulls a pen out of her freely styled salt and pepper coils, her white teeth contrasting beautifully against her dark brown skin. Alma recalls that Gladys's son, Sam, who's probably off on a fishing boat somewhere, had the same full lips and smile, while her daughter Dhalia favored their father, Old Frank, more.
"You want some meat and eggs to go with that French toast, baby?" She asked, already writing it down.
"Yes ma'am, thank you,"
Gladys hurries to the back and Alma look back towards the girls laughing.
Her sister looks at her and calls over.
"One sec, Alma, we were just—"
"Hush up a second now!"
Her words are interrupted by Old Frank's gruff voice.
Alma looks at him and follows his eyes to the small tv perched on a shelf in the diner.
A news reporter, face stern spoke and a red breaking news banner scrolled underneath her.
"A fourth girl has disappeared, adding to the tally of disappearances along the gulf. Local law enforcement has confirmed with us that the FBI is now involved, but they were unable to answer the question on minds all over the state. Which town will lose a daughter next?"