The Green Lace Corset

and broke out into a belly laugh.
“Lived there long?” she teased.
“Forever.”
“I’m on my way to check on Aunt Sarah, who suffers from a lung condition. She’s real needy these days. Where’re you going?”
“West.”
“Where west?”
“Toward the Pacific.”
She’d heard out West there was an ocean bigger than any lake she’d ever seen and that one could never get all the way across it.
“Maybe even San Francisco,” he said.
She unwrapped her sandwich, ham on rye, and offered him half.
He closed his eyes, took large bites, and swallowed. “Thank you kindly.” His eyes looked directly at her.
Her heart kicked like a bucking bronco’s. She’d seen those steel-blue eyes before. That day in the bank. That day she’d never forget. It just couldn’t be the same person. This was a gentleman. That bandit had been filthy, rough, and terrifying.
He blinked at her with what might be a flicker of recognition. She struggled to remain nonchalant and focused her eyes on her sandwich. What if it was he?
After the robbery, she had described what she could recall to the sketch artist. Because the robber had worn a kerchief, all she could recall were his brown Stetson and those eyes. The artist had been able to capture the coldness in them. Every time she saw one of the posters with those eyes above the kerchief in a post office, bank, or depot, her hands broke out in a sweat and her body shook. She could still hear that shot and smell gunpowder.
Now, as she glanced up, his eyes pierced hers and he grinned. A chill loped up her spine. She was sure it was him. Did he recognize her too?

3
Pleased to have made it back to San Francisco before dark, Anne crawled into the traffic moving into the city. After only two weeks away, she felt as rejuvenated as if she’d been gone for a year. As she chugged across the Bay Bridge, a sense of calm embraced her, despite the traffic.
The beautiful scenery reinforced that she’d made the right decision to stay in her chosen city, not to move home to Michigan when things had gotten tough or to move to New York with Sergio. This was where she belonged, near the Golden Gate Bridge; Coit Tower; Gallery Noir; SFMOMA; and her friends Paul, Fay, and George, who lived at Bay Breeze, Sylvia’s old home.
As soon as Anne got settled back at home, she’d finish the artist-in-residence application for the museum. She’d promised herself she would work on it on her trip but hadn’t. In addition to her teaching assignments, she’d have a working studio for four months there. Priscilla, her boss and the education director, had encouraged Anne to apply, saying she’d be perfect. She wasn’t so sure, though—San Francisco claimed a lot of incredible local artists.
She pulled onto California Street, and a parking spot appeared miraculously in front of her apartment building. She squeezed Tweety into it and turned the wheels into the curb, facing downhill. She slipped on her backpack from the passenger seat and from the trunk grasped her box filled with found travel treasures, and the bag from the Really Resale Boutique.
In the restaurant window next to her apartment building, Tony tossed pizza and smiled hello. The aroma overtook her, and she realized how hungry she was. She lifted two fingers, her sign that she’d be down soon for two slices of her favorite pescatarian pizza with plenty of anchovies.
She set down her things, unlocked her building’s door, and scrambled inside.
Mrs. Landenheim stepped out of her first-floor apartment. Thai, her Siamese cat, skittered out into the foyer, threaded through Anne’s legs, and ran up the stairs.
Even though it was evening, the landlady still wore curlers. “Welcome home. I followed you on Instagram. Looked like a wonderful trip.” Mrs. Landenheim dropped a stack of mail in the box Anne held up.
“Thanks.” Exhausted, Anne didn’t want to chat.
Mrs. Landenheim eyed the box of loot. “What did you find?”
Anne set her backpack, her boutique bag, and the box on the dingy carpet and pulled out a greasy hubcap. “Found this on Route 66.”
Her head did a little dance as she sang, “Got my kicks on Route 66.”
“What are you going to do with that?” Mrs. Landenheim managed a smile.
“Never know. It just called to me. Maybe a mosaic.”
“What else you got there?” Mrs. Landenheim bent down, stuck her pink-polished nails into the box, and lifted out a turquoise-haired doll the size of a troll.
“Harrumph.” She tossed it back and pulled out a lunch bag filled with colorful stones. To reward herself for following the law and not picking up rocks from the ground in the Painted Desert, Anne had bought the smooth stones in the park’s gift shop. One at a time, Mrs. Landenheim picked out and studied the various items in Anne’s box: a ceramic girl in a white apron and head scarf, a jar of marbles, an old washboard, a rusty horseshoe, a conch belt, and a baggie filled with flea-market silver charms.
Anne opened the baggie and held it out. “Close your eyes and pick one.”
“What are they?” Mrs. Landenheim asked.
“Milagros means ‘miracles’ in Spanish. Each one symbolizes something different. Catholics pin them onto saint statues in churches.”
Mrs. Landenheim dug her hand inside and selected a trinket in the shape of a skinny leg. “What’s this?”
“It’s a leg.”
“What?” Mrs. Landenheim handed the tin curio back to Anne.
“It means it’s time to step forward in your life, but you must go with care.” Anne didn’t know if that was what it meant, but she believed that was what Mrs. Landenheim needed to hear.
“Oh, my. Ray Ray proposed to me last week. Do you think the leg means I’m supposed to say yes? I’ve been hesitant to consent, after being widowed all these years. I don’t want to give up my independence. What do you think? Is the leg giving me a message?”
Anne had never liked Mr. Block, former owner of Gallery Noir. He had called her collages “kindergarten cut-and-paste.” She hadn’t