The Vanishing Point by Judith Van Gieson

as a garage. The door was open, and Claire could see a compact car inside that matched the turquoise trim. She parked in the driveway and walked to the front door. The doorbell was a wind chime, a series of graduated metal pipes. Claire struck it, and the sound reverberated along the pipes.
    When the door opened and she faced Jennie Dell, the woman who was nearly as legendary as Jonathan Vail, Claire had the sensation that the front door was the cover of a pop-up book and that Jennie was popping out of the pages. She had put on about twenty pounds but was still an attractive woman, an earth mother now instead of a sprite. Her abundant blond hair rippled down her back, but silver framed her face. She wore an ankle-length denim dress with a scoop neck that showed ample cleavage. The dress had long sleeves that were narrow at the shoulder but full at the wrist. When Jennie raised her arms Claire could see that the sleeves had a yellow lining. Jennie reminded her of Stevie Nicks in her latest, full-figured incarnation.
    â€œI’m Jennie,” she said in her husky voice.
    â€œClaire Reynier.”
    â€œYou found the house all right?”
    â€œThe turquoise trim helped.”
    Jennie laughed. “Come on in.” She picked up a butterscotch-colored cat with white paws that had leapt onto the doorstep the minute Claire struck the chime. “This is Butterscotch. You’re not allergic to cats, are you?”
    â€œNo. I have one myself.”
    â€œYou look like a cat person.”
    Jennie put the cat down on the wood floor, and Claire followed her into the house, which had a fragrant, smoky smell as if someone had walked through it waving a smudge stick. Burning sage was a ritual practiced in New Mexico to cleanse a house of bad thoughts or to conceal offensive odors.
    â€œMy son says that if there is reincarnation he wants to come back as a single woman’s cat. No other being in the universe gets as much attention,” Claire said.
    â€œSmart man,” Jennie replied.
    Claire realized she didn’t know whether Jennie was single or not. “Are you single?” she asked.
    â€œYes,” said Jennie. “And you?”
    â€œRecently divorced.”
    â€œAh,” said Jennie. “Can I get you something? An herb tea?”
    â€œThat would be fine,” Claire said.
    Jennie went into the kitchen, and Claire sat down in the living room, which relied heavily on Guatemalan fabric for decoration. Or was that overdecoration? Huipils were thumbtacked to the walls. The cushions on the sofa and chairs were a red-striped fabric. There were numerous embroidered pillows, and a wicker basket full of cloth dolls in native dress. The room was small and busy. The dominant color was red. It was a contrast to Claire’s spare, subdued house, but once she got used to it, she rather liked it. Long enough for a visit, anyway.
    Jennie came back with a tray holding an earthenware teapot and two cups. She put the tray down on the wicker basket she used as a coffee table and sat down on the red sofa, arranging her dress so that the skirt spread across the cushions. It occurred to Claire that she had dressed to complement the room. Denim blue was about the only color one could get away with in here.
    â€œDo you work for Maya Jones?” she asked. It was a store in Madrid that sold Guatemalan imports.
    Jennie leaned back against the cushions. “No, but I buy a lot of stuff there. I’m a writer.”
    â€œWhat do you write?”
    â€œMini books. Those little books you see beside the checkout counter in the bookstores? I do different subjects. Dogs, astrology, food. It’s a living.” She laughed. “I guess. I published a novel once, but it didn’t do well.”
    It was an entrée to a subject Claire wanted to discuss. “I’ve been talking to UNM Press about publishing Jonathan’s journal. Avery Dunstan, the editor I work with there, heard from