Read Online The Truth About Delilah Blue by Tish Cohen - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Tish Cohen
Ads: Link
“I saw the nude.”
“Nude? Of me?”
“I couldn’t believe my eyes. I’d been to every student gallery in town and there you were, right there at the back of a dumpy place on Melrose.” Elisabeth stepped forward again, took Lila’s hands. “Delilah, sweet baby. It’s been forever. Forever…” Elisabeth was crying now. Real tears and crumpled face and exposed teeth.
Something metal crashed to the ground in the storage closet and Adam Harding emerged from the doorway looking sheepish and apologetic. He held up a stack of poster paper and a fresh roll of tape. “I’m not even here. Just carry on with your moment like this never happened.” After offeringup a clumsy half bow in apology, he ducked his head and marched out of the room.
“I can’t believe it’s you,” said Lila. “Here.”
Her mother reached out to touch her face. “Don’t tell me you lost faith in me?”
Lila was silent. Of course she lost faith in Elisabeth. It had been twelve years. Faith had petered out, sputtering and coughing, somewhere around year five. She looked into her mother’s green eyes, blinking and full of emotion.
The someday she’d waited so long for was here in front of her. She had to take special care of this moment; it was flyaway and delicate and shone like a bubble stretched so big they were standing inside it. One wrong move and it would pop. They would never see it again. She was meant to say something joyous and affirming. Something like “Never” or “I knew you’d come for me someday.” Instead she hiccupped and watched as the bubble burst. “Actually,” she said, “I kind of did.”
Seven
Victor stared through the glass door in the lobby. The plastic bin in his arms held the shrapnel of his career: a handful of stacked salesman awards, a few photos and baubles that had decorated his desk, a heavily thumbed copy of Napoleon Hill’s Think and Grow Rich . The good pen he saved for signing contracts, the shoe-shining kit Lila had bought him for Christmas the year Victor turned forty-nine, and, on top, eighteen carefully rolled-up ties.
It had been vital to him, as he packed up in stunned silence, that he exit with the utmost decorum. He’d nodded to whichever salespeople happened to be in the office, winked at the administrative assistants, and set the box between his feet so he could shake hands with Douglas and thank him for all the years of employment.
Blair Austen, with his butternut squash–shaped bodythat caused his thighs to rub together, and his great fleshy swag of a neck, complete with razor nicks and burns—for who could properly shave an empty sack of skin?—was to assume not only Victor’s corner office (he’d seen the boxes beside the jackal’s desk), but all of his accounts.
Including Fairfax.
Including Gen.
The thing is, Douglas was right. Victor had been having trouble with his memory. Arrived at an appointment on time, but found himself at the wrong address. Arrived at the right address, but on a Saturday. What he hadn’t realized was that other people were catching on. Still, it was normal, wasn’t it, to forget a few things in your fifties? Surely the Guzmans having to close early because of one misunderstanding was not something to get fired over. Siniwick was overreacting.
Blair Austen and his hard-sell approach made other people, people with more mannerly conduct, appear ineffectual and disposable—that was the real problem.
Lila wouldn’t be home yet—she’d said something about heading down to an art supplies shop off Sunset Boulevard that stocked a special type of canvas or paper or some such thing. Victor hadn’t really been listening. Or, if he was going to be honest, he had listened perfectly well. Then he’d promptly forgotten.
Then again, the art store mightn’t have been far from home. Lila could be back by now. He couldn’t bear the thought of going home and finding her sitting at the kitchen table, smiling up at her father and seeing the
“Nude? Of me?”
“I couldn’t believe my eyes. I’d been to every student gallery in town and there you were, right there at the back of a dumpy place on Melrose.” Elisabeth stepped forward again, took Lila’s hands. “Delilah, sweet baby. It’s been forever. Forever…” Elisabeth was crying now. Real tears and crumpled face and exposed teeth.
Something metal crashed to the ground in the storage closet and Adam Harding emerged from the doorway looking sheepish and apologetic. He held up a stack of poster paper and a fresh roll of tape. “I’m not even here. Just carry on with your moment like this never happened.” After offeringup a clumsy half bow in apology, he ducked his head and marched out of the room.
“I can’t believe it’s you,” said Lila. “Here.”
Her mother reached out to touch her face. “Don’t tell me you lost faith in me?”
Lila was silent. Of course she lost faith in Elisabeth. It had been twelve years. Faith had petered out, sputtering and coughing, somewhere around year five. She looked into her mother’s green eyes, blinking and full of emotion.
The someday she’d waited so long for was here in front of her. She had to take special care of this moment; it was flyaway and delicate and shone like a bubble stretched so big they were standing inside it. One wrong move and it would pop. They would never see it again. She was meant to say something joyous and affirming. Something like “Never” or “I knew you’d come for me someday.” Instead she hiccupped and watched as the bubble burst. “Actually,” she said, “I kind of did.”
Seven
Victor stared through the glass door in the lobby. The plastic bin in his arms held the shrapnel of his career: a handful of stacked salesman awards, a few photos and baubles that had decorated his desk, a heavily thumbed copy of Napoleon Hill’s Think and Grow Rich . The good pen he saved for signing contracts, the shoe-shining kit Lila had bought him for Christmas the year Victor turned forty-nine, and, on top, eighteen carefully rolled-up ties.
It had been vital to him, as he packed up in stunned silence, that he exit with the utmost decorum. He’d nodded to whichever salespeople happened to be in the office, winked at the administrative assistants, and set the box between his feet so he could shake hands with Douglas and thank him for all the years of employment.
Blair Austen, with his butternut squash–shaped bodythat caused his thighs to rub together, and his great fleshy swag of a neck, complete with razor nicks and burns—for who could properly shave an empty sack of skin?—was to assume not only Victor’s corner office (he’d seen the boxes beside the jackal’s desk), but all of his accounts.
Including Fairfax.
Including Gen.
The thing is, Douglas was right. Victor had been having trouble with his memory. Arrived at an appointment on time, but found himself at the wrong address. Arrived at the right address, but on a Saturday. What he hadn’t realized was that other people were catching on. Still, it was normal, wasn’t it, to forget a few things in your fifties? Surely the Guzmans having to close early because of one misunderstanding was not something to get fired over. Siniwick was overreacting.
Blair Austen and his hard-sell approach made other people, people with more mannerly conduct, appear ineffectual and disposable—that was the real problem.
Lila wouldn’t be home yet—she’d said something about heading down to an art supplies shop off Sunset Boulevard that stocked a special type of canvas or paper or some such thing. Victor hadn’t really been listening. Or, if he was going to be honest, he had listened perfectly well. Then he’d promptly forgotten.
Then again, the art store mightn’t have been far from home. Lila could be back by now. He couldn’t bear the thought of going home and finding her sitting at the kitchen table, smiling up at her father and seeing the
Similar Books
