Earlier chapters

by Mike Schwarcz, text and art

Returning home from another long day in the studio, again to an empty house, Miguel went rummaging through the fridge for something to feed himself, finding a frozen pizza. Turning on the oven, he sat alone, staring into space, trying to decide whether Santa Fe was going to save him or break him.
The way things stood, he felt cornered. Sara was forcing him into a choice he didn't want to make; career or relationship, with nothing foreseen that would change Sara's attitude. If she was delusional enough to think he was planning to leave her, he was at a loss. All those years he was loyal to her, and this is what she's thinking?
The doorbell rang. Miguel later recalled the oven clock read 7:47 when he glanced at the timer, hoping to pop the pizza in before answering the door.

Driving through town on her way to the Saturday market at the Railyard, Sara's phone beeped a text. She glanced down.
"Want to drive up to Taos today?"
After parking, she called the office. "What's up in Taos?"
"Client has a lodge and acreage he wants to sell, but all the other agents are out or busy. It's an agency referral, so it would be your listing if you land it, and it sounds like it will probably list for over a million! However, it has to be today; he's flying home tomorrow.
Sara paused for a second before responding. "Okay, send me the info, why not? It's a beautiful day for a drive," she said.

Miguel spent his morning in the studio; he could be found there most days, but his workflow was often interrupted by the mental distractions Sara kept throwing his way. Many days, he never picked up a brush. Sara and her issues were always on his mind, and too often, they paralyzed him. She was sending subliminal messages: unexplained absences at weird times, coming home late, suggesting to Cece that he planned to abandon her. 'Had she found someone else? Should he call Cece and ask her if there had been any talk of another man?' Their fragile truce only held if the facade of civility was respected, letting Sara's issues simmer beneath the surface, while he preferred they be brought into the open to clear the air. But, with the pressure of the SpACE Santa Fe premiere, this wasn't the time for a confrontation. He was under enough pressure already. Sara had pulled a similar stunt before their move to Santa Fe; he had called her bluff that time, he didn't feel he had the energy to go through it again.

Her GPS told Sara Taos was an hour and a half drive North. But the appointment wasn't in Taos, it was in Angel Fire, a small resort community another thirty minutes East of Taos. "Great, no rush, I'll stop for a nice lunch on the way, she thought. The trip took two hours, with the highway offering no options for lunch, Sara arrived in tiny Angel Fire —actually a ski resort —famished.
She opted for a place called Summit Haus to grab a late lunch; it offered great views, but ski runs without snow cover made for a strange scene. She needed some time to get herself together; she hadn't researched or looked at comps for ski lodges in New Mexico. While waiting for her food, she logged on to the MLS service to see if she could find a price per acre in the area, based on recent sales. She didn't find any lodge listings. Okay, he is an absentee owner. Whatever he thinks it's worth, I'll agree. Getting the listing is the point, not arguing about value. We can adjust the price later.

She drove slowly down El Camino Real, a dirt road, seeking a driveway or road that would lead her to the Buckskin Lodge.
The meeting was set for three-thirty. She arrived five minutes early. Entering, she found the place deserted but for a gentleman of indeterminate age standing behind the bar.
"Hi, I'm Sara," she introduced herself.
"Hello, I'm Pete, the owner," he said.
"Would you like a glass of wine?" he offered.
"Okay, but only if you join me."
"I plan to do just that."
"So I was told you are an absentee owner. Where do you live?"
"Presently, San Francisco, but soon New Jersey."
"That's a switch."
"At my wife's insistence, my dream retirement has been cancelled; to be replaced with a suburb and grandchildren. That, and the fact that the risk-reward ratio inherent in skiing has changed as I've aged. I broke a leg recently."
"Well, if you love snow, New Jersey's got more snow than San Francisco. But trying to run a business from that far away—" Sara trailed off.
"Exactly, I'm not getting any younger, and it's getting harder and harder to find good, trustworthy help these days. Especially when they know the boss is hundreds, or thousands, of miles away."
Pete gave Sara a tour of the lodge and its seven en-suites, as well as a few of the unoccupied cabins. It was close to several ski areas and Peter claimed it had been a consistent money-maker over the years. After the tour, they had another glass of wine and tossed around numbers that might represent a reasonable selling price. Pete wasn't much help, stuck on 'four million' whenever price came up.
"Well, that's fine, we can start there, we'll know real quick if it's overpriced, we won't get any calls. If it's too low, we can count on a bidding war," Sara smiled and handed him her card.
They both got up, and he walked with her to the parking area.
"It was a pleasure meeting you, Sara, and I see now that you're equipped for those winter showings." He gestured to her Land Rover. "I'm impressed, the last agent I had up here pulled up in a Mercedes-Benz and all I heard was her complaining about rock chips."
"Off Hwy 434, it does get a little hairy. I wasn't expecting the dirt roads and blind corners, so I'm glad I brought the Range Rover, it's not really Mercedes appropriate."
"There's no valet," Peter laughed.
"I'd enjoy working with you. Feel free to call me any time if you have questions," Sara got in and rolled down the window.
"Hopefully I can earn your business. I can have a listing agreement drawn up and emailed; you can sign via DocuSign, it's easy nowadays." Sara suggested.
"Oh, you'll be hearing from me. I like your style," Pete said.

Climbing in and turning the key, waiting for the old girl to warm up, Commission on four million, that ought to bring Miguel to his senses, she smiled.
Glad that she had convinced Miguel not to put the top on quite yet. The drive home would be glorious, a setting sun, the mountains, and the smell of pine needles. To Sara, the wind blowing through her hair was more intoxicating than wine.
She headed West on Camino Real, squinting to shield her eyes from the sun. As she accelerated, she still struggled to follow the winding road due to the glare. Coming around one bend, a sudden crashing noise above her head shook her.
She turned to her right, looking up, trying to catch what it was she was hearing. In that same instant, one hundred and fifty pounds of stag deer came crashing off the hillside, landing on top of her in the Range Rover. The deer, flailing madly now, was as confused as Sara about what had gone wrong. Sara lost control. The Range Rover swerved to the left, crossed the road, and overturned in the ditch beside the road, pinning both her and the deer underneath.

Miguel threw the switch for the porch light. He was surprised to see two police officers when he opened the door.
"Can I help you?"
"Are you Miguel Angelo?"
"Something wrong?" Miguel was baffled.
"Could we come in for a moment, sir?" one officer asked.
Miguel opened the door and stepped aside.
"Sadly, we're here to inform you that there's been an accident.
"An accident?"
"Sara Angelo. Is she related to you?"
"She's my wife."
"Yes, sir, I'm sorry to inform you that Sara Angelo was killed earlier today in a vehicle accident. This address was listed on her license."
"Oh no," Miguel said softly as the words sank in.
"I'm sorry to have to ask you this, but we need you to come to the morgue and identify the body."
"I can't do that right now, I'm sorry." Miguel turned, looking for a seat before his knees gave out.
"I don't have a car, I haven't eaten, I just can't," Miguel said.
"I understand, sir. It's okay if you need some time. The Medical Examiner's information is on this card. Contact them when you're ready," the officer said.
Miguel looked at him blankly. "I have to call Ron," he finally said.
"Ron is a friend, I assume?"
"Yes."
"Would you like us to wait while you make the call?"
"Yeah, I think so."
Miguel found his phone in the kitchen and hit Ron Hagen.
"Ron here. What's up, Miguel?"
"The police are here, they just told me Sara was killed in a car accident."
"Shit! I'll be right there. Are you okay? Let me talk to one of the officers."
Miguel held the phone out to the nearest officer.
"Hello? This is Officer Wilson."
"Hi, I'm a family friend. My name is Ron Hagen. I'm on my way. I'm requesting that you remain there until I arrive. My friend has been under a lot of pressure lately and shouldn't be alone at a time like this. I'll be there in ten minutes."
"We'll wait for your arrival, Mr Hagen, and we're sorry to be bringing bad news."
"It's a tough job sometimes, not your fault."

Ron arrived in six minutes, reaching the front door in seven large steps. He entered into an awkward silence.
"Officer Wilson?"
"Right here." Wilson walked to Ron.
"Can we have a word outside?" Ron asked.
"Sure, do you think he's going to be okay?" Wilson asked as they walked to the front porch.
"I think so, but he needs someone to be with him. Also, I need to tell him about the circumstances of the crash. Tell me what happened."
"In a nutshell, a deer jumped off a hillside and came through the roof of her vehicle, causing her to veer off the road and overturn. It's not uncommon, actually. Due to the rut, this time of year, the deer get frisky and act irrationally. In this case, because the truck had an open top, she had no protection. The deer was probably flailing to escape, causing her to panic and veer off the road into the ditch, where it overturned. Both she and the deer were dead inside the vehicle when officers arrived.
"Sounds like a gristly mess," Ron sighed.
"You would be right. Is there anything else we can do before we hit the road?"
"No, Thanks for your patience and understanding. I'll take it from here."
After the officers departed, Ron went to the bar and poured two stiff whiskies. Offering one to Miguel, he said, "I'm deeply sorry you have to go through this."
Miguel remained silent.
"Would it help to know what happened?"
"Does it matter?"
"I think it does; it was basically a fluke accident."
"How so?"
Ron related the details he had learned from Wilson.
"Ironically, I was talking about putting the roof on last week, she begged me to wait another week or two because the weather was so nice, and I listened to her."
"Look, you can't take the blame for this! Are you hungry?"
"Hardly."
"Do I smell pizza?"
"It's in the oven."
"Well, I brought a sleeping bag, or we can go to my place, either way, I'm not leaving you alone tonight."
"Let's go to your place, I can't be here."

Questionnaire on the story

To be continued

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