The Truth About Delilah Blue (18 page)

The walk from kitchen window back to living room—where her mother waited—was a long one. If, after learning what Victor did to her, Lila had had a moment of believing that her father had kidnapped her out of some sort of misguided sense of necessity, it vanished along with the rear chrome bumper of the Datsun as it careened away from the cabin. Agreeing to meet with Elisabeth, then bolting, was truly her father’s most despicable act. Showed zero compassion, even less remorse, and an absolute lack of understanding of the gravity of what he’d done.

She followed the brick road back to the living room, back to where Elisabeth sat on the sofa, her shaking hands wrapped around a clay mug Lila had made in fourth-grade art class. When Lila had pulled it from the kitchen cupboard, Elisabeth had teared up, turned it over in her hands, asked
if she could keep it. She’d insisted upon drinking chilled Zinfandel in it while she waited for Victor to emerge. She looked up as Lila entered the room. “I was just staring out at the hill here. It’s just like the psychic said. That you were facing directly into a mountain. That there was one big window, but other rooms had little natural light. Like an animal’s lair.” She looked around the room. “It’s all here, everything she said. The stone fireplace, the uneven floors, all this wood. Spooky to think how accurate she was.”

“I’ve got something to—”

“She also said I’d had a tough life. That I would have to work harder than most people to have what I was meant to have.”

“You mean me? And Kieran?”

“Not really. I think Amelia meant nice things. That I was meant to have them, but circumstances—like your father—got in the way. Not that I mind about material objects.” She laughed into her mug. “No. Now that I have you, I’m the richest woman in the world. Now if your father would just get in here, we can get this thing over with. I’m not sure my stomach will hold out; I’m so nervous.”

“Mum.”

“My sister, now she had it easy. Married a pediatrician who came from money. There was never any question about going out to work to support the family. Right from the start, she had her babies and played tennis. Wore diamond studs and shopped at Chanel. Sometimes I wonder how different my life would have been if I’d been the one to marry well.”

Lila said, “About Dad…”

“I might have been a very famous artist. Did you know I once sold a painting to Edgar Sherman? He’s like Donald Trump in Canada. He said to me, ‘Ms. Lovett’—that was
what he called me—‘I’m going to make you a very successful woman.’ So I waited, certain he was going to the press or something. But nothing ever happened. I always worried he soured on my work after living with it a while.” She eyed Lila hopefully.

“No way it was that. People have great intentions and then get busy.”

“He would be a very busy man.”

“I’m sure. If he really is like Trump.”

“He is! Look him up if you don’t believe me. One of the richest men in Canada. Owns nearly the whole country.”

“I totally believe you. Listen, Mum. Dad just took off.”

Elisabeth stared at her, mouth agape. “He left? You mean just now?”

Lila nodded. “Just now. I’m sorry.”

Without a word, her mother stood up, circled the room several times as if in a trance. When she passed by the window for the third time, her mouth flattened into a thin line and she hurled Lila’s little green mug into the fireplace.

A male model got an erection yesterday. Tristan Brandeis, an L.A. Arts ballet major who picked up extra cash by allowing the lesser forms of life in the art department to interpret his beautiful physique.

There he was, facing Lichty’s Thursday-night acrylics class, seniors only, heels pressed to the baseboard, the wall rope snaked around his wrists so he could let his body fall forward forty-five degrees as if he were flying. Or rising up from the grit on the floor. His muscular face turned up to the heavens. Or the acoustic tiles, depending upon your religious bent. The weight of his body pulled the rope so tight that his hands were swollen. He’d cut off circulation, but the pose was only to be for twenty minutes, so he probably figured he could handle it. But what took the stance into legendary status was that, before the students arrived at the
south studio, in honor of Halloween next week, he’d painted his entire body, face, even his bald head silver.

The students loved the paint. And the pose—such a delicious juxtaposition of looming threat with utter vulnerability, all immortalized in metal like a lobby fountain in Las Vegas. What a challenge! From the right angle it would have looked as if he had no arms and his feet were growing right out of his shimmering hipbones. The first ten minutes were silent, so frenzied and intent were the artists upon capturing the essence of this magnificent glittering beast who had burst through the crack where floor met baseboard.

Then it happened.

Some people thought it the model’s love of his own form—who, after all, would deem themselves worthy of basting their own parts in liquid metal? One girl thought it was the breeze coming in from the open window at the back of the class. Another said he’d been dateless too long. Lila herself wondered about the metallic paint, perhaps it prevented oxygen from getting to his pores and what happened was simply a sign his body was in distress, reaching and clawing for O
²
. But whatever the reason, aeration, self-adoration, or dermal suffocation, at about the eleven-minute mark, Tristan’s great silver phallus—at first leggy and unsure, helmeted and apologetic—rose up from beneath his flawless belly.

En pointe.

It stood proud, as Tristan dangled like a magnificent hood ornament.

Two or three students left the class, offended. Others stayed, choosing to ignore the uninvited guest. One older man—widely known for preferring to sketch nude females—crumpled up his drawing and turned himself
backward, choosing to draw the vent on the wall behind him rather than the confirmation of what he’d long suspected: that any man who chose to drop his clothes in public, silver phallus or not, wasn’t a man at all.

If Tristan was troubled by this occurrence, or embarrassed by it, it didn’t show. Neither a wince nor a quiver crossed his beautiful face.

It was Lichty who surprised Lila most of all. He told his students that this assignment was now worth a full 20 percent of their term mark. Said they could interpret the pose any way they wished, but their decision would affect their grade. When Tristan had finished his pose—both poses—he’d thrown on his robe and made a dash for the changing area behind the curtain. All models were aware of the potential repercussions in the case of impromptu erections. Models who inadvertently succumbed were not only mortified, but depending upon the professor, were sometimes asked not to return.

Lichty had waited for him. Once Tristan reappeared, fully clothed and hopefully headed for a shower somewhere, Lichty told both him and the class that becoming aroused was a natural part of modeling nude and such things had happened to models since the beginning of art itself. Then he told Tristan he’d be in contact with his booking agent to secure him for regular sessions because his focus, under extreme duress, was worthy of an Oscar.

Lila walked into the changing stall and dropped her bag, immediately pulling off her top. Today was to be different than any other class. She’d never posed longer than forty minutes at a time—not without a short break. And some days she struck five-minute poses while the class did quick sketches. Those days were the best. She was able to
stretch for a few seconds while rearranging herself, thereby increasing blood flow to strained body parts.

Today was Lichty’s infamous Three Pencil Class. By three pencils, he meant three hours. Artists loved it; models dreaded it. Two of his life drawing classes—one freshman, one junior—were coming together for one marathon session. They said it was the ultimate seal of approval from Lichty. There were only two models he’d ever used for this once-a-year session: the legendary Yaffa Street from Marin County and her local protégée, Mei Sing.

Today it would be Lila Mack. Most days, Lichty allowed her to construct her own stance, but this time was different. This time he had parameters. She was to wind her limbs and ooze both sensuality and strength. Youth and exhaustion.

This time was different in another way. Lila had agreed to do the class on one condition: that she have a heater. A forty-minute session was one thing. She would not pose for three hours in frigid air. It hardly seemed possible but the studio had grown colder since the weather had changed, and three hours without moving meant almost zero blood flow to twisted body parts. Surprisingly, he’d agreed. But when she walked around the class looking for it, there didn’t seem to be a heater in sight.

She wandered over to his desk. “I’d like to set up the heater before I pose. Shivering will start me out cramped.”

He slipped a piece of paper into a file folder. “No heater today, I’m afraid.”

“But you said—”

“Nina Previn needed it for room three-oh-five. You’ll pose without it.”

She’d never have agreed to three hours without a heater. She looked at him levelly. “That’s going to be a problem.”

He looked at up at her and grinned sweetly. “It might be a problem in someone else’s room, but not in mine. Not for anyone who wants to continue to work in my studio. It’s a privilege to pose for my Three Pencil Class. And every model knows it.”

Of course. Because everything in her life had to come with a “but.” Hey—your mother’s back in your life. But guess what? She comes bearing missing child posters with your face on them. And that father you’ve adored and trusted all these years? Brimming with Basenji facts, but don’t get on a plane with him!

It was wrong to talk back to Lichty. It didn’t take a genius to recognize that. But she couldn’t help herself. “So Brandeis can have an erection and keep working, but I’m finished unless I work in the snow?”

“Tristan Brandeis is a pro. And he didn’t start out by lying to me about his experience.”

“You think I lied?”

He unfolded himself, dusted off his thighs, and walked into the changing stall. When he emerged, the brown robe dangled from his finger. “You wore this on the first day, did you not?”

“Sure.”

“Do me a favor.” He passed it to her. “Smell it.”

“I’m not—”

“Smell it.
”

She held it close to her nose and sniffed, grimacing.

He grabbed it back and tossed it into the changing stall. “No one who has modeled even once pulls on the studio
robe.” He glanced down at Lila’s robe. “Because studio robes rarely get washed.”

She looked around the room, her eyes settling on a scuff mark on the floor. “Do you want me to leave?”

“No, Miss Mack. I don’t want you to leave. I’d very much like you to stay.”

Something about his tone—it implied something else. As if he had news for her but wasn’t sure if he was at liberty to say. “Wait. Do you know something about the scholarship? Have they given you their answer?”

“They have not. It has only been a week.” He clapped his hands, turning to the class. “Prepare to draw, people. Model, assume your pose.” When she didn’t move he barked, “Now!”

She’d tried poses where she leaned against the wall and intertwined her arms, flexing her wrists outward. But she didn’t feel this was powerful enough—it promoted flexibility but offered no contractions, no polarity between muscles at work and those at rest. And you had to consider the time frame: 180 minutes. It would be a lifetime if she chose the wrong pose. Ultimately, she’d decided upon sitting with one foot tucked in close, the other leg crossed over the bent knee. One wrist rested on the top knee, hand dangling with delicate fingers. The other hand would be held out behind her, supporting her weight while she thrust her chin in the air, stretching the muscles in her neck. She settled her body into the pose, pushing her skeleton into its own grooves to ensure she could hold it for three full hours. Or pencils.

From across the room, Adam smiled, gave her the thumbs up on her pose.

She tried to focus on the wall beyond his head. Already, her neck was beginning to cramp, sending threads of pain
down behind her right shoulder blade. She glanced at the clock. They were barely ten minutes into the pose. One foot was nearly numb and her entire torso had tensed to counterbalance her uptilted head. Her shoulders started to shake. Only 170 minutes to go.

I
T WAS JUST
about the two-and-a-half-hour mark when she realized her neck was injured. She’d held her head tipped back, as if watching a kite, for far longer than the trapezius muscles would tolerate. When Lichty turned off Earth, Wind & Fire’s “Fantasy” and declared the class to be finished, Lila had had to reach behind her skull and gingerly guide it back into place, so locked was her upper body. She disentangled her limbs and sat forward, allowing her chin to droop down to her collarbone and stretch the muscles that roared so loudly up the back of her neck. Standing was out of the question until she could find a way to carry her head. Once she balanced it on top of her shoulders with one hand on the back of her neck, she slid her robe over her shoulders and hobbled toward the changing stall.

She yanked the curtain shut behind her and pulled on panties and skirt. T-shirt and cardigan. Socks. Boots. Beloved, adored boots. God, her neck pained. Emergency-room pain. She stood still, relishing the warmth thick cotton brought to her body, and kneaded the bulges in her neck. As she massaged, a glint of gold on the floor by her feet caught her eye. She kicked her dropped robe aside to see a chunky bracelet winking up at her.

Her first instinct was to pull open the curtain and ask the students if anyone had lost a bracelet. Or maybe just say a piece of jewelry in case several acquisitive hands shot up at once. Probably not a great idea. She should just turn it in
to Lichty. Or the office even. If someone lost a piece of jewelry this special, they’d go straight to the office.

That’s what she’d do. Stop at the office on the first floor on her way home. Or after the emergency room, depending on her neck.

The thing is, no one had used this studio in a few days. One of the sinks had been leaking, and the room had been closed to students. So whoever lost it did so the week prior.

She yanked back the curtain to find Adam waiting on the other side. “Hey.”

“Hey.”

Fidgety and nervous, he pointed across the room. “Did you even see that guy at the back? Spent, like, twenty-five percent of his time highlighting your, you know…” He motioned toward her hips. “Your lady parts.”

Lila slid the bracelet into her pocket, secretly pleased with his possessiveness. “It’s kind of the drill around here.”

“Seemingly.” He nodded, pulling at his nose. “Seemingly. If he’d kept it to even fifteen percent, I could see it. But you stretch it out much longer and, man. If you’re uncomfortable, I can drive you home.”

She hoisted her bag over one shoulder. “I’m okay. But thanks for watching out. Are we still on for later? I warn you, when I model in private, I expect to be paid in pizza.”

“Right. That.” He winced as if about to deliver bad news. “I sort of have to cancel. Postpone.”

“Why? Assignment?”

“Actually, you’re not going to believe this. Nikki called.”

“Really?”

“She wants to talk. Wants to go out tonight.”

She stared at him, dumbfounded that a) Adam’s senseless yammering hadn’t turned Nikki off the other day, and b) her own stomach had just lurched so violently the pain in her neck vanished. Thinking back to their tête-à-tête on his front porch, the way his forehead felt, warm and solid and real, pressed into hers. She tried to sound thrilled for him. “Hey. Adam, that’s great. It’s what you’ve wanted, right?”

He shrugged. “We’ll just be talking. Two people making sounds with their mouths.”

Hopefully that was all they’d be doing with their mouths.

“I’m sorry. Maybe tomorrow?”

“Maybe,” she said. “I’ll have to check.”

He stood there smiling like a fool.

“Congratulations, Adam. Seriously.”

W
ANDERING INTO THE
office, fingering the cool metal in her front pocket, Lila let the silky rope slide between her fingers. An office secretary smiled at her. “May I help you, dear?”

“Yes. I was just wondering if anyone had reported any missing jewelry. In the last few days.”

“Nothing valuable, as far as I know. Let me check with the others.”

She disappeared down a darkened hallway. After a few moments, she returned. “No, we have no reports of anything valuable having gone missing. Have you found something you’d like to turn in?”

Somewhere between the second and first floors, maybe on the landing halfway down, Lila had changed her mind about the bracelet. It might have been the way the pain from her lengthy pose had scrabbled up to her brain and inserted
its fingers firmly in the gray matter and started to squeeze. Or the fact that she still hadn’t stopped shivering. But she suspected it was something else entirely. Someone else entirely.

Nikki and her ability to control her life. Adam’s life.

Whoever owned this bracelet didn’t even care enough to search for it. There were a lot of moneyed kids swanning around this campus; the bracelet could belong to someone who just didn’t care. Or someone who wanted to get rid of it.

On the other hand, there were people who had done without for far too long. There were people for whom nothing went right. Like her mother. And she never complained. Just marched on and tried to do the best for the people around her. Seeing the look on Elisabeth’s face when Victor took off down the street was too much to bear. How much could one woman take? How much could Lila take?