Splash

by Kristen Kelly

  He put down his fork, reached across the table, took my hand, and stroked it with his thumb. Then he brought it to his lips and laid a chaste kiss on it.

  “Sis, the only thing I regret is that I didn’t see the signs. I should have…and I should have been there for you. I had no idea you were so…”

  “So out of my mind that I wanted to take my own life? It wasn’t your fault, Jason. I brought it on myself. I’m the one that should have seen the signs. Why hadn’t I, Jason? Why? There were the late night phone calls. The long hours. The drugs. What kind of idiot doesn’t see all that?”

  “You’re not an idiot.” He squeezed my fingers before letting go. “Eat your fish. It’s delicious.”

  I picked up my fork and took a bite of poached salmon. He was right. It melted in my mouth. When I was finished chewing I said, “So, just curious, how are you going to pick the perfect man for me?”

  Jason gave me a toothy grin. “I have a secret weapon.”

  ***

  I decided I needed a diversion. I had sex on the brain. My imagination had been going wild all day and I was pretty sure I was ovulating. The only thing that had ever helped me focus during this time of the month had been painting. It didn’t matter what.

  Hoisting a bag with brushes, paint-tubes, canvases, and supplies further up my shoulder, a flutter of excitement filled me.

  I hadn’t painted in like, forever. My Ex had literally squashed my enthusiasm in recent months. Why had I let him? My art work had always given me joy. It fueled my soul, made me think I was contributing something all my own, despite the fact I rarely sold any of my paintings. Not that I couldn’t have. I didn’t see the point. After all, I didn’t need money when I had Jason.

  Jason. My wonderful brother was a blessing took care of me, and curse at the same time. A blessing because men like my Ex drained me dry. A curse because I stopped dreaming. I just let myself sit there. Not needing to do anything that wasn’t already done for me.

  Now I was ready to live, I told myself. It wasn’t Jason’s fault I’d not made had a career. I should have had my own showing by now. I was good enough. But every time I thought about it, the idea made me nauseous. It was terrified to be a failure.

  I started to walk faster, intent on discovering a private little painting nook where no one would ask me what I was doing. Perhaps a grassy area under a sun umbrella would do, but when I looked around, they were all taken.

  I supposed I could paint in my room, but I couldn’t look at the bed and not picture Damon naked in it. And, I wouldn’t dare paint him. That would bring him into the light.

  Fuck, the man was hot! So hot I’d used my vibrators three times after our swim lesson. Once directly afterwards, and twice after lunch. I pictured the flex of his back muscles as he pulled himself up that ladder, the powerful legs below firm round buttocks as he vaulted from the pool. He looked almost better from behind. Almost. God, I was pathetic. I needed to splash cold water on my face. Hell, I needed a cold shower. Again. I hoped painting would be just as good. But not painting him.

  As I strolled through the sunshine around the pool, hot air assaulted me like a physical blow. This had to be, by far, the hottest day of the summer. My skin became oily, and I desperately needed a drink. I blinked several times trying to clear my vision from the sweat that was pouring down my face.

  Crowded didn’t even begin to explain how many people I saw. Every available beach chair was filled with people in bathing suits. Kids of all ages were lined up at the diving board, and the water was overflowing with inner tubes, floats, a couple babies in life jackets, and people doing cannonballs off the side of the pool. I was also a tad claustrophobic.

  Lifting my head, I tried to see if there were any tables free in the back of a grassy patch. I didn’t need much. Just a 4 x 4 space and not somewhere where I would bump elbows with anyone.

  Beside the decking, people sipped drinks or ate sandwiches on small wooden tables. To the left was a full bar.

  Too many people, I thought. Now, what was I going to do? I’d had my heart set on painting outdoors.

  Struggling with all my supplies, I paused mid-stride. I set my bags on the grass and took a deep breath. Jason had mentioned a library. A pretty impressive library to be exact. Libraries were quiet, right? And even if it wasn’t, they were usually quite spacious. Big enough to squirrel myself away in a little corner somewhere. I needed to paint. To relax. To get my thoughts onto a bright white canvas. All I needed was a bit of privacy.

  I gathered up my bag, threw the handles over my shoulder again, turned back the way I came.

  Now where had Jason said the library was again? As I stood there deciding, an older but very sophisticated looking woman walked by. She smiled at me, and then kept on walking, held high, a spring in her step like she had all the power in the world. I immediately thought to myself, ‘now that’s how I’m going to walk when I’m her age.’

  She was striking in her appearance. Good bone structure. Fine lines. And a head of the most dazzling white hair I’d ever seen on a woman above dark oversized sunglasses. Snow white, I thought. Not like the princess but the color of snow. She was wearing pale blue pants and a low cut blouse beneath a canary yellow opened at the front jacket with pearly white buttons. Definitely going somewhere important I thought, and not just to hang out by the pool.

  As she sauntered around the corner, I watched the swing of her pale leather handbag, the sway of her hips, the way she carried herself. Now that was the kind of woman I could see myself as some day. Not because she was beautiful but her grace, her confidence. All that inner stuff was inspiring. Yes! I know who I’ll paint. I’ll paint the pretty old lady.

  Before I could forget what she looked like, I took out pad and pencil, walked over to the bar and quickly sketched of my new model. As I doodled away, the room started to spin a bit and I started to get woozy. Holding my head, I grabbed onto the bar, feeling a headache coming on. I fell into a chair, my face probably drained of all color because, the bartender came over. “You okay?”

  “I will be. Can I just have a drink of water?”

  “Of course.” Five seconds later I downed a full glass. “Anything else?” he asked looking worried.

  “No. No, I’ll be fine now. Just needed to get off my feet and hydrate a bit.” Taking a linen napkin he held out for me, I wiped my sodden brow. “Except… Do you know who that woman was that just walked through here?”

  “Woman?”

  “Yeah, she had dark sunglasses and a yellow coat, although why anyone would wear a coat in this heat is beyond me.”

  “Oh that’s Mrs. Delaney. She’s the owner.” He leaned forward licking his lips and then whispered conspiratorially. “Don’t let on I told ya, okay? She likes to pretend no one knows who she is. Super lady too. Buried four husbands and then built this place all on her own. Very kind too. Once I once saw her hire a whole family that were about to be deported. They didn’t even speak English. Made all the bad guys go away, if you know what I mean.” He gave me a sly wink and I was afraid to ask how. “If you ever get a chance to sit down with her, do so. But she’s a…a little eccentric, but very interesting. Goes by the name, Delilah. She says it suites her better than her real name.”

  “Which is?”

  “Lucy. Lucy Delaney, but don’t tell her I told ya.”

  I smiled. “Sounds like one heck of a gal.”

  He chuckled. “She is that, and then some. Oh. Would you like something stronger now?”

  I stood up. “No thanks. I’ve have some painting to do. Thanks for the water.”

  ***

  When I saw the entrance to the library, I thought I’d made a mistake so I turned around looking for other entrances, but there weren’t any. It didn’t look like a library, but I could see bookshelves from where I stood. I backed myself up and read the commemorative plaque on the brick wall: Nelson Delaney Club Library. Guess I’m in the right place but… Wow!

  As my heels clicked away across the h
ard parquet floor I saw little designs beneath my shoes, hand-painted by the likes of it, tiny fish, whales, and seagulls glittered in mosaic tiles on a background of sea foam green and blue ocean, the waves swirling below my feet. The tiles shone, like they were made of mother-of-pearl shells and the colors glittered beneath several crystal chandeliers overhead. Each square foot of the floor captured my full attention. It was like a painting beneath my feet. I was so busy looking down, I strolled right into the lady with the white hair, knocking her completely off her feet!

  She made a little “oomph” and then fell flat on her rump, the cup she was holding knocked out of her hand. What I presumed was coffee, spread all over the floor.

  “Oh my god. I’m so sorry.”

  I dropped all my things to help her up. “I’m really very, very, sorry.”

  To my surprise she’d already risen quite quickly and was brushing at the drink that had splashed all over her clothes.

  “Oh my god, your blouse. I’ll pay for the dry cleaning and again, I’m so…so sorry. I should have looked where I was going. I don’t know what I was…”

  She gave me a genuine smile.“Nonsense. You’ll pay for nothing. This just gives me another reason to get out of these old things. I knew I should not have worn this. I’m more of a…” She looked at the ceiling and flung out her arms. “Free spirit,” she announced. “I hate this outfit. I only wore it to appease my granddaughter. She insisted I wear something more…conventional…to our board meeting this afternoon.”

  She looked down, brushing at the hideous stain on her blouse with long spindly fingers. Then she laughed. “Honestly, I usually wouldn’t be caught dead in something so…boring. You gave me the perfect excuse to change my attire, young woman.”

  I loved her smile, the lilt to her voice. Her energy.

  “Besides it was worth it just to see your face.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “The floor, dear. You were looking at my art, were you not? Either that or you have something on your shoe.”

  I glanced down. “Um yes. I mean, no. There’s nothing on my shoe.”

  “I thought not.”

  “And this is you…creation? On the floor?”

  “Of course.”

  “I’ve never seen anything like it.”

  “Do you like it?”

  “Oh yes. It’s magnificent.”

  Her face beamed. “Thank you. Most people don’t even look down. They just stroll right across it like its…nothing.”

  “Definitely not, nothing,” I said.

  “I’m glad someone around her has an appreciation. It took me fifteen years to finish you know.”

  “It’s breath taking. Really.”

  “Thank you.” She thrust a hand forward. “I’m Delilah. Delilah Delaney and you are?”

  “Elizabeth.” I took the proffered hand, shaking it lightly, but I still couldn’t believe I had knocked her off her feet. “Are you all right? Should we call a doctor or something?”

  She laughed. “Heavens, no. People think I have brittle bones because I’m old, but I don’t. I’m fit as a fiddle.”

  “I didn’t mean…”

  “Of course you didn’t, dear. It was an accident. Just an accident.”

  I bit my lip, not knowing what to say next.

  “Do you like this room?”

  “Oh yes. It’s lovely.” I took in my surroundings, the floor to ceiling books, the fine paintings too numerous to count on every wall, the large computer screens hung eight feet in the air. A small coffee shop was over to the right. Large neon signs with every conceivable coffee, tea, chi and yes, liquor shone behind an assortment of breads, cakes and cookies.

  “I take it you paint,” Delilah asked, indicating the folded easel beneath my arm.

  “Um, I do although not professionally.”

  “One doesn’t have to make money to be an artist. It’s what’s in your soul that counts. You’re looking for a nice private area. Am I right?”

  “How did you… ?”

  “I was the same way at your age. How about over there?” She pointed toward the coffee shop. “Most of the people that come in here are business men. They take their drinks where they can see the screens. You’re probably safe in that little corner in the back. Come.”

  I followed her into the coffee shop setting up my supplies exactly where she showed me.

  “May I see what you’re working on?”

  “I haven’t really started yet.”

  “Oh, what a pity. A bit of painter’s block? Let you in on a little tip. Before you start on anything…Anything at all. Doesn’t matter what it is, have a good roll in the hay first.”

  I burst out laughing. “Did you just say…?”

  “With the partner of your choice of course.”

  “You mean, have sex first?” Was she for real?

  “Of course. Why not? My best pieces came after the best orgasms of my life. That floor back there. Five men were my inspiration. Now, don’t look at me like that. You’re not fooling me, honey. I know need when I see it. You’re thinking about him right now, aren’t you honey?”

  My face heated and I dropped my gaze to the tiled floor. When I looked up she was smiling so wide, I thought she was going to break out into song.

  “Take it from me, Elizabeth. Fuck him. If you haven’t already. Fuck him long and fuck him hard. Do that, and you’ll have a masterpiece on your hands.” She looked over her shoulder. “Like my floor back there.”

  “I don’t think…”

  “Of course oral sex is nice too. Hmm. Haven’t had that in way too long. Must pencil in some me time when I get a chance.”

  I could not stop giggling thinking of this woman more than twice my age talking so candidly about something so intimate. Part of me was shocked, but the bigger part believed every word of what she was saying.

  “You’re looking at me like I’ve gone fruity,” she said smiling. “Honey, life is so short. Take your pleasure when you can and move on if that’s what it takes. Your art will be the happier for it.”

  Then, she patted me on the hand and took her leave, saying goodbye to me in French and blowing me a kiss before she turned away, heels click clacking along that beautiful floor.

  I watched her go. She didn’t so much as walk as danced off, hips swiveling while she hummed to some sort of show tune. Then she really surprised me.

  When she made it to the entryway, she slipped off her soiled pants, rolled them in a ball, and popped them in the bin by the door. She was wearing these lacy little black panties that just peeked below a long flowing blouse. I guess she could do what she wanted since she owned the place but still… I shook my head slowly, grinning from ear to ear and laughed to myself. Eccentric was right but man did I love her style!

  ***

  Turning back to the task at hand, I set up my easel and canvas by the back wall, just as Delilah had instructed. Then I took out my paints, brushes, rags, blotters and tools, and set them on a table. On another table, I set my bag with extra canvases inside it—this also served as a sort of barrier to my personal space.

  I took out my folded sketch depicting Delilah and spread it on top of a canvas. I admired her lines, her calm clean bone structure, her smug serious expression. Gazing at the drawing, I realized something was missing. With me. Personality of my subject. How would I portray that on the canvas? In the past, I would meet the challenge by painting in another subject, or a prop of some kind, but none of those things sang out to me right now. Was she right about my needing a muse? I clipped the sketch to the corner of my largest canvas and set on the easel. Delilah just seemed like a larger than life subject.

  I took a long refreshing drink from my water bottle, and took a step back, studying my blank canvas—then the sketch—and then back again. Was sex really the answer to good art?

  Damon. What would Delilah say if she knew I lusted after one of her employees?

  Take your pleasure while you can and move on if that is what it tak
es.

  Could I do that? Really disengage my heart from my body and take what I craved so desperately? Didn’t that make me shallow or god forbid, a whore? Delilah didn’t think so. She slept with five men just to get that floor finished.

  My skin prickled with heat and my breath grew hot.

  I stared at the floor. Wondered if Delilah had sex on it. If she had five men all at once. How wicked of me to think that. Not that I hadn’t been thinking the very same thing with Damon. And he was only one man. But for my art?

  I picked up a paintbrush. Mixed some colors together on a pallet. Plunging the horsehair bristles into deep rich smooth indigo paint with some variants of ultramarine, I knew it was the right shade. Adrenaline flowed through me. The color was erotically charged, full of passion and spark. Like Delilah.

  What a lady! She was so young. So vibrant. Alive with energy. A deep yearning to show the real Delilah took over my thoughts. I needed to paint her a certain way. I needed people to see her. Something that went beyond just adding a pet dog or bird to the portrait. I wanted to catch her perfectly. Or as perfect as was possible by someone like me. I worried my rendition of such a beautiful woman would do her justice. Maybe I would paint her with those five men. Oh god, I couldn’t! But wouldn’t it be scandalous if I did?

  Chapter EIGHT

  Damon

  She never stopped to amaze me.

  I slapped a hand over my mouth, trying to contain my laughter. It wasn’t the first time nor was it probably the last, I saw my grandmother in this state.

  I couldn’t stop grinning and wondering how she could light up the room like she always did. My eighty-year-old grandmother was wearing a bright linen suit coat over a low-cut silk blouse that showed entirely too much cleavage. She was seated at the bar—sipping a drink with a little umbrella inside it.