Wharton - Ghosts of Arizonas Tonto National Forest

It was impossible not to stare, tostudy her ivory skin and perfectly sculpted features. Her long black hair flowed past bare, white shoulders,tantalizing as it brushed the dcolletage of the claret-colored dress. Her dark eyes spoke of closely guardedsecrets and haunting mysteries. The knowing smile of her full, crimson lips proclaimed a maturity beyondher years.

She sat alone at a small table inthe faintly lighted corner of the hotel dining room. I was unable to take my eyes off her and I prayed she wouldnot take offense at my intense gaze.

Three white flowers stood in a darkblue vase at her left, moved from their customary place at the tablescenter. A crystal goblet of redwine sat within easy reach. Thedark bottle from which it was poured added to the mystique and dangerous charmof an enchanting woman dining alone.

With simple elegance, she cradled thewine glass in her delicate right hand. She sipped once, and again, pausing briefly to study the finely craftedcrystal so near her alluringlips. She smiled, gently returningthe glass to the white tablecloth and placing it directly in front of her.

I looked away for a moment,reflecting on my own circumstances. I had travelled to Cordes at the direction of my employer, Jacoby &Jacoby Galleries of New York. Being a respected art critic, my services as a buyer were frequentlysolicited by galleries. They paidwell and my trips to far off, interesting places were a welcome respite from mydaily routine.

Artists had begun moving to theCordes area in 1899. Indeed, myclose friend Brentwell Stokely had migrated there from New York in 1901. That was fifteen years ago. We all thought he was crazy, giving upthe cosmopolitan delights and culture of the city for a small cabin in thewilderness. But, when I saw himearlier this day, he seemed far happier than I had ever known him to be.

Just last year in 1915, the CordesSociety of Artists was organized, he told me. Cordes would be an increasingly important center for artistsin the future. Of course, that iswhy I travelled here in the first place. I had hopes of discovering some brilliant new artist, an innovator, anoriginal style. Cubism, with itsstark geometry and abrupt realism, had become popular in 1907. I was searching for the next importantstyle and movement. Perhaps Icould influence the direction of current artistic thinking.

Again, my eyes were drawn to thedignified, magnificent woman sipping red wine in the dimly lit nook of thedining room. Why is shealone? What are her secrets? Certainly she is meeting some handsome,dashing mythological god of a man. They will fly off together into the heavens on a white, wingedsteed. She will be a queen, agoddess sitting at the side of her god-king.

The waiter brought me a secondmartini. The first one had been agenerous offering, and this one also did not disappoint.

The woman did not seem aware of myfrequent glances and oftentimes lingering gaze. Instead, she appeared quite focused on the glass of winesitting before her. With two moresips of my martini, I felt the familiar warmth and contentment.

My fascination with this beautifulcreature was recklessly enhanced by the gin I had consumed. I must have her, I fantasized. I must have her no matter what thecost, I silently exclaimed. Iknew my bold mental meanderings were precisely that, a passionate desire that would go nowhere. I smiled in self-understanding. It was amusing to think about her as apossibility, but depressing to know the reality. I could never have a woman such as this.

As I looked toward her, I saw thatshe had bowed her head slightly and was sitting closer to the wine glass. I thought I saw her lips moving, almostas if she were speaking to the clear, crystal goblet.

Yes, yes, her lips are moving. Now she is smiling, as if the glass ofwine was speaking to her. It ismy second martini at work here, I told myself. A woman this stately and of such precise beauty could notpossibly be deranged and talking to a glass of wine.

But, she smiled once more, andthrew back her head in laughter. The classic beauty of her happy face was overwhelming. I was enraptured with this incredibleangel. Certainly, she cannot be amere mortal.

She was much excited with herconversation now. Her gestureswere more dramatic and enthusiastic. She was indeed conversing with the glass. I took a gulp of my martini, not a good thing to do. Is she indeed in love with a glass ofred wine? I asked myself with great but unwarranted irritation. It was, of course, none of my business what the woman wasdoing. But, I was captivated byher and felt an inexplicable possessiveness.

My second martini had disappearedquickly. I was getting a bittipsy, I realized. The woman isdriving me to drink, I laughed to myself. But, in my heart, I knew it was true. She was imposing, delightfullygorgeous, radiant in her classic beauty. Yes, yes, I already said that. But it was true. A womanthat resplendent could only be found in the Greek sculptures in the museums. Of course, the martinis had definitelyassumed control of my brain, accentuating and embellishing my every thought.

Yes, bring me another! I orderedthe waiter impatiently.

Of course, Senor, he replied,with a puzzled look on his face. He wondered what he had done to offend me and make me cross.

Moments later, he returned with mythird drink. As he set the silverconcoction before me, a thunderous explosion shattered our tranquility and thequiet night. The muzzle flash of arifle streaked through the room like a shaft of lightning.

The shot came from the window on myright. I jumped from my chair andran to the opening, but found myself staring into the empty darkness, and noone in sight.

But, I quickly looked back towardthe corner of the dining room and the dazzling woman I had been admiring allevening. I gasped. She lay on the floor with her handclutching her chest. Blood wasstreaming through her fingers and dripping onto the floor.