by Tish Cohen
It wasn’t fancy. Just a foyer with a vending machine sorely in need of refilling; a metal coat rack, unused but for two or three light jackets; and a huge open space dotted with stools and easels. At the far end, a counter with a steel coffee pot, mismatched mugs, and a carton of milk. She’d found this group through a classified ad in the L.A. Times. Just a bunch of art lovers who funded a tiny school through car washes and garage sales and private donations. Prominent local artists stopped by, sometimes to speak, other times to draw or paint. Models were paid from a hat that was passed around the studio at the end of a session.
A fifty-something man, red-faced with a wide nose, stood at the door and nodded to regulars, checked the roster for names of the newcomers. Lila approached him. “Hi. I spoke to you on the phone?”
He looked at his list. “What’s your name?”
She’d made a decision. Mack was no longer. Neither was Lovett. She wasn’t either one of those people anymore. It would take some time to figure out who she was. For now, she was just the daughter of a man who loved her more than his own freedom and a mother who had suffered more than any parent ever should. She was the sister of an eight-yearold in desperate need of a childhood. For now, that was enough.
Still, the man with the clipboard wanted an answer.
“It’s Delilah. Delilah Blue.”
“Righto. Here you are, Miss Blue.” He pointed toward the room. “Welcome. Feel free to get yourself set up. We start in fifteen minutes. Glad to have you on board.”
She poked her head inside. About twenty or more adults were standing, sitting, unpacking, sharing a laugh with someone nearby. Portfolio in hand, she crossed the room and set her case down next to a stool by the front window. She unzipped her case and pulled out her blue silk robe. After slipping into the bathroom to change, she returned to the little red carpet square by the window and looked out.
She smiled. There. Across the street, above a flower shop, was Adam’s painting. In billboard form. A reclined nude looking up, copper hair tumbling down her back, a pair of faded jeans draped across her hip.
Nude with jeans.
Naked and anonymous, bare and concealed.
There were worse things to be.
The man from the foyer nodded for her to begin, and Delilah stepped onto the carpet where sun poured in from a skylight directly overhead and dropped her robe. But before she assumed her pose, she reached into her bag and pulled out a pair of bent, child-size fairy wings. After reshaping the wire framing—still lavender, but missing some of their sparkle, drowsy from a lifetime of Lila’s dreams—she slipped her arms through the satin straps. She planted her feet, hugged herself with arms crossed, rested her chin on her right hand and shoulder, and gazed out above the heads of the artists. Then came the best sound of all. The creaking, squeaking, crunchy-cold snow sound of sharpened pencil on paper.
For now, the feel of their eyes on her skin, on her wings, was all she could handle. Art school could wait. Not forever, but long enough to settle Kieran into her classroom at Rykert Public School and for all of them to get used to the new taste of their lives. For now, this seemed just right.
There. At the back. A latecomer walked in.
Lichty.
Their eyes met and she stopped breathing for a moment, unsure what to do. Leave maybe. Before he announced to the class that they were sketching a thief.
No.
I’m here, she thought. Enough with the running, the hiding. Truth is, I’m here now. Drenched in sunshine, this is me.
Delilah shot him a glance that said this is my pose.
Deal with it.
Lichty stared at her for a moment, listening. Then he lowered himself onto a stool, closed his eyes for a moment and nodded as if saying, “Okay.”
He pulled out a pad and started to draw.
ONCE IT WAS over, the students put down their pencils and looked around the room, blinking as if lost and finally found. Smiling, sighing, stretching backs taut with ninety minutes of concentration. A few packed up to make a quick exit; others were more inclined to linger, chat, compare sketches.
Delilah rubbed her neck and shook out her arms. The stillness, the focus, had been just what she’d needed. She’d missed it. And she’d made a decision. Still unclothed, still winged, she folded down to the floor and reached into her bag. Pulled out her phone. Dialed.
A click.
The roar of New York traffic.
His voice. “Hello?”
“Come home.”
Acknowledgments
Much appreciation goes out to people I could not have done without. Camilla Fox, wildlife consultant and director of Project Coyote, for educating me about coyote behavior and the predicament of urban wildlife. Jytte Lokvig for Alzheimer’s accuracy. Viola Spolin for creating a hillside home I loved enough to wrap a story around. Carol and Aretha Sills for preserving and sharing it. Harold Cohen for legal clarification. Dr. Gary Shapero and Dr. Jeffrey Werger for medical accuracy and Kerry Lewis for teaching me to love L.A. from beneath the Hollywood sign at midnight—I am happy to have lived through it. Jessica Keener, Ricki Miller, Patry Francis, John Lindsay, Jennifer Kolari, and Danielle Younge-Ullman for early reads. Dr. Karen Sharf for Alzheimer’s information and Lachlan Mackinnon Bleackley for vintage car details and raising me in the back of a 240Z in the first place. Patricia Gill for launching my love of art. The fabulous folks at Hidden Valley for putting up with the obsessive writer over in Bernie’s old place. The gem of a book The Undressed Art by Peter Steinhart for insights into the psychology of drawing and nude modeling. Hope Ryden’s God’s Dog, Marc Bekoff’s The Emotional Lives of Animals for coyote habits.
At HarperPerennial, words cannot do justice to my brilliant editor, Jeanette Perez. Jeanette, you have the wisdom and insight of ten editors, plus two. Carrie Kania, my publisher, who offers the kind of in-house enthusiasm and support every writer dreams of. Amy Vreeland and Nancy Tan for the most thorough copyedits.
At HarperCollins Canada, Iris Tupholme for continuing to publish my books. Jennifer Lambert for her most excellent editorial eye. Leo MacDonald for dazzling marketing and being the man I can always count on bumping into in New York. Alex Schulz for stepping in with enthusiasm and a fabulous British accent. Melissa Zilberberg for tireless publicity.
At Goldberg McDuffie, my publicist, the elegant and persistent Grace McQuade. At United Talent Agency, my film agent, Kassie Evashevski, and her assistant Dana Borowitz. At Writers House, the literary agent with the mostest, Daniel Lazar, who has stayed on this roller coaster without screaming to get off or throwing up even once. Seriously, you are THE best agent a writer could wish for. His witty assistant, Stephen Barr, who sometimes sends me money. Also at Writers House, Maja Nikolic and Angharad Kowal.
As always, my most patient family, who put up with my craziness and absolute lack of domestic skill: Steve, Max, and Lucas.
PRAISE FOR TISH COHEN AND The Truth About Delilah Blue
“A beautifully written, finely wrought, race-to-the-end novel about finding your family, finding a life, and finding yourself. Tish Cohen is the next great thing in women’s fiction.”
—Allison Winn Scotch,
New York Times bestselling author of
The One That I Want and Time of My Life
“Tish Cohen knows how to slide us into a story, letting us imagine we might know the pathway. But we are wrong because she is a wonderful story teller and will surprise us at every turn. She has created a cast of characters who are filled with delicious human frailty and love. If you think you know anything about parental love and misguided choices, think again. Cohen peels away the layers of families and human desires and leaves us with a world of hope.”
—Jacqueline Sheehan,
New York Times bestselling author of
Lost & Found and Now & Then
“What is more wrenching for a girl than being separated from her mother? In this engrossing novel, estranged parents navigate narrow lines of legitimacy in t
he aftermath of an awful twelve-year family separation. It is impossible to turn away from these damaged yet engaging characters as they struggle to either erase or face the past. Cohen, who writes with clarity, wit, and warmth, is brilliant in her penetration of the family layers, presenting all sides of the drama by allowing each character to be the star of their own show. This is a book that won’t be set aside until the last page is turned.”
—Randy Susan Meyers, author of
The Murderer’s Daughters
Also By Tish Cohen
Town House
Inside Out Girl
Copyright
The Truth About Delilah Blue
Copyright © 2010 by Tish Cohen.
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EPub Edition © JUNE 2010 ISBN: 978-1-443-40032-9
Published by HarperCollins Publishers Ltd
First Canadian edition
No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without the prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in reviews.
This book is a work of fiction. The characters, incidents, and dialogue are drawn from the author’s imagination and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
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Library and Archives Canada Cataloguing in Publication
Cohen, Tish, 1963–
The truth about Delilah Blue / Tish Cohen.
I. Title.
PS8605.03787T78 2010 JC813’.6 C2010-900518-X
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