At the Brink

by Anna del Mar

  “You’re not from around here,” I said. “And I’m betting you’re not from Italy either.”

  Vinnie’s cackles echoed in the small dining room.

  “New Orleans,” he said. “Katrina sent me off. My daddy always said I should’ve learned to cook gumbo and jambalaya, but my mamma liked her pasta, so ya’ll got lucky.”

  “Is Lily here?” I asked.

  “Lily?” He gave me a second look. “She’s here, doing inventory in the back. Are you a friend of hers?”

  “You could say that.”

  The man scratched his head and gave me another, not-so-friendly look. “You ain’t wishing da lady harm, are you?”

  “Of course not.”

  Vinnie crossed his arms, casually flexing his powerful muscles. “’Cause I’m not above thrashing anybody wanting to harm her.”

  “You don’t have the exclusive there,” I said. “I’d throw a few punches in that brawl.”

  Vinnie nodded approvingly. “Why then, am I right thinking you’re not one of them friends of Martin Poe?”

  “A hundred percent right.”

  “Good,” he said. “’Cause if you were, I was gonna give you a good talkin’ to.”

  “I’ve heard about him.”

  “Oh, so you know,” Vinnie said. “People like Poe give women hardship and men a bad name. You’d think he’d appreciate a kind and pretty wife like he has. But no sir, he don’t. Every penny she makes, he spends. And she’s so nice. Hardworking too. He ought to be culled from the herd, if you get my drift.”

  “Oh, I get your drift all right.”

  He cocked a brow. “You know Lily’s a good girl, right?”

  “I know.”

  “You keep it that way, you hear me?”

  “I hear you.”

  I settled down to wait for Lily. The urgency buzzing in me was distracting, not to mention disturbing. I’d been type A all my life—but this? This was different. I had trouble differentiating between doing the right thing and doing what I wanted, between infatuation and obsession, fixation and compulsion. Was this a positive development or a catastrophic setback?

  Lily dropped her pen when she saw me. “What are you doing here?”

  “Relax.” I picked the pen off the floor and handed it back to her. “I just want dinner and some company if you can spare it.”

  She gulped so loudly that I actually heard it.

  “Not that kind of company,” I said. “Just talk, that’s all.”

  For a moment, she didn’t know what to do. Dressed in her black waitress uniform, with her hair up in a messy bun and hardly any makeup on, she looked cute. She was attractive precisely because she didn’t know she was pretty. Her kind of beauty was rare, down to earth and unpretentious. It didn’t hurt that the black slacks cupped her ass nicely.

  At last, she took a deep breath and looked down to her pad. “What will you have?”

  “What do you recommend?”

  “The linguini with clams is very good,” she said. “That is, if you like clams.”

  “I love clams,” I said. “Do you?”

  “I guess.” She blushed.

  “Let’s have two of those.”

  “Oh, no, I can’t. I’m working.”

  “Vinnie,” I called out. “Lily here says she can’t have dinner because she’s working. What do you say to that?”

  “I say you’re da last customer tonight and she needs some meat on them bones.”

  “You heard him,” I said. “Let’s get dinner going.”

  The food was a pleasant surprise. The sauce was crisp, the clams fresh and the pasta perfectly cooked. It turned out we were both hungrier than we thought. Lily fidgeted when she first started eating, but Vinnie’s Chianti helped her relax. I poured her another glass.

  “Friend of Bill’s?” she asked when I took a sip of my water.

  “Friend of my liver,” I said.

  She gave a startled laugh, a joyful sound that infused me with an instant sense of accomplishment.

  “So,” I said, riding on the high of her laughter. “When did you first become interested in art?”

  “Word is I grabbed onto the brush on the day I was born.”

  “Really?” I said, rolling a forkful of linguini. “How so?”

  “It’s an old, boring family story.”

  “I want to hear it.”

  “The thing is,” she said, playing with her fork, “my father was a painter.”

  “Leonard Boswell,” I said, “not just a painter, but a famous one.”

  “I forgot.” She flashed me a flustered look. “Due diligence, eh?”

  “Due diligence indeed,” I said. “Go on.”

  “Okay, well, Mother used to tell the story. When I was born, my father was painting one of his famous works—Churning Seas. He locked himself in his studio and painted nonstop through the delivery. I don’t know if you’ve heard, but he was known for being, well, a little...temperamental?”

  “I read something about that.”

  Temperamental was putting it mildly. Leonard Boswell had been one of the most important painters of his generation. For all his talent, he’d indulged in a bottomless craving for alcohol and gambling, which is why—according to Riker’s report—at the time of his sudden death, when Lily was twelve, Leonard Boswell left his daughter and widow financially ruined.

  Lily skipped all of that. “After the birth, my father wandered out of his studio. His beard had grown unruly. His eyes were dazed, but when he reached out to meet me, his baby daughter, he offered me his pinkie. Instead, I latched onto the paintbrush he still held in his hand. Ever since then, my mother says I’ve been hanging on to the brush.”

  In my mind’s eye, I could see the wide-eyed, button-nosed, pink-faced baby that Lily must have been, wrestling the paintbrush from her bewildered father. The visual made me smile.

  “Great story,” I said. “Did Leonard teach you to paint?”

  “I spent hours doodling beside him,” she said. “He taught me the basics, but he was a master of chiaroscuro. He understood the relationship between light and darkness in ways I never will.”

  “So,” I said. “When’s your next showing?”

  She put her fork down and pushed the plate away. “Um, never?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I don’t do showings.”

  “Why not?”

  “They require personal appearances.”

  “And?”

  “All those people make me sick.”

  “But you went to the benefit the other night.”

  “Only because Martin made me go,” she said. “I threw up before, during and after.”

  “Jesus,” I said. “So if you don’t do showings, how do you sell your paintings?”

  “I don’t,” she said. “The paintings I’ve sold have been word of mouth, friends and such.”

  “That’s a slow way to fame.”

  “I don’t want fame,” she said. “I just want to paint.”

  I believed her. “What are you working on now?”

  “Sketches mostly, nothing major. The community center where I teach asked me to donate a painting for their auction, but paint is expensive and I don’t have the time right now anyway.”

  Her old phone rang, not the one I’d given her, but her battered, ancient one. She looked at the number and sighed.

  “Who is it?” I said, refilling her glass.

  “It’s Martin. He’s been calling every hour. He wants me to come home.”

  “Will you?”

  “I don’t have a choice.” She sipped on her wine. “Bree’s partner returns today.”

  “Who’s Bree?” I pretended I didn’t know the woman’s add
ress, social security number, credit report history, educational background and current place of business.

  “Bree is my best friend since elementary school.”

  “You met in elementary school?”

  “She was the trouble maker,” Lily said, perking up. “I was the shy one. When my dad died, I grew even quieter. My teachers worried. And then one day, during recess, this chubby, bespectacled terror comes over to me and says, with this really funny nasal voice that she still has, ‘I heard your daddy died.’”

  “She said it just like that?”

  “That’s Bree for you.”

  “What did you do?”

  “I just kind of shrugged,” Lily said. “Then Bree pulls out this horrible homemade puppet from her backpack, striped with uneven black and yellow felt lines, with crooked buttons for eyes and huge fuzzy antennae.”

  “Were you scared of it?”

  “Scared? Are you kidding me? I loved it!” Her smile lit her face. “I thought it was the sweetest thing anyone had ever done for me. When I asked what the puppet’s name was, she giggled and said, ‘It’s a Lily Bee!’ Get it? Lily B.?”

  Her laughter tickled me all the way to my groin. I could get used to that sound. I could get used to the sparkle in her eyes as well. It warmed my gut and automatically widened the smile on my face.

  “She calls me Lily Bee and I came up with a name for her too, Bree Cheese, you know, like the Brie cheese?”

  “Yeah, I know, the fancy cheese,” I said. “Why don’t you just move in with Bree?”

  “She’s in a serious relationship,” Lily said. “I don’t want to intrude. As of tonight, I’m back where I pay the rent.”

  “I’d be happy to put you up.”

  Alarm flickered in her eyes.

  “No obligations,” I said. “At least while you’re thinking about us.”

  “No, thanks,” she said, long, nervous fingers playing with her napkin. “I don’t want your charity.” She flashed me a shy glance and looked away.

  “What is it?” I said.

  She hesitated then asked. “Why me? That ballroom was full of beautiful women. All of them wanted to be in your bed and you knew that. Why choose me?”

  I couldn’t very well tell her about the jolts, or the flashbacks, or how I’d felt revived for the first time in a long time when I met her. I couldn’t tell her how much I appreciated what she’d done for Chavez either. I couldn’t tell her that my heart seized when I kissed her or that I got high just from breathing her scent. But I stuck close to the truth.

  “You’re beautiful and desirable too.”

  Her stare narrowed on my face. “Are you making fun of me?”

  “No way,” I said. “Look, you made an impression on me. Okay? I want you, and I usually get what I want. You want me too, I can tell, even if you don’t want to recognize it. So here’s my take on it. Let’s work through this as quickly and efficiently as we can.”

  Her gaze lingered on my face. I got the sense I’d disappointed her somehow.

  “Do you want to tell me why you really came here tonight?”

  It was an excellent question. “I thought maybe if we talked, you’d feel better about everything.”

  “Is that all?”

  Damn, her instincts were good. “I also want to talk to you about the picture.”

  Her mouth furrowed into a little pout. “It won’t do either,” she said. “Am I right?”

  “It’s not what we talked about.”

  “It’s all I can do.”

  “You can do better.”

  “What if someone sees it? Do you know how embarrassing that would be?”

  “Here’s my promise to you—anything with you in it is for me alone.”

  This time when she looked at me she met my eyes. “What you’re proposing, don’t you think it’s immoral?”

  “Immoral?” I said. “No. Lying is immoral. Murder is immoral. Rape, abuse, violence, theft, larceny and embezzlement are immoral. We’re all adults and I’m not forcing you to do anything you don’t want to do. The choice is yours.”

  She glanced away, unconvinced. The concept of money and sex offended her delicate sensibilities. Somewhere deep inside I should’ve known that. At the very least, I should have structured the deal differently. But I couldn’t very well backtrack now. Full steam ahead was the only way for me. Who the hell knew that there were people like Lily Boswell left in the world?

  Wearily, she unclipped her hair, allowing her glossy locks to tumble around her shoulders. “It’s late,” she said, massaging her temples. “Vinnie is ready to lock up.”

  “I’ll give you a ride.”

  “I think I’ll walk.”

  “To Somerville? This late? Come on.”

  It took some convincing, but she eventually accepted the ride, which ended up being very quiet, probably on account of Amman. The moon illuminated her pensive face. A new question danced in her eyes.

  “Go ahead,” I said, curious myself. “Ask.”

  She leaned over, until her mouth was so close to my ear that her breath tickled my skin, making me hard.

  “Have you done it before, this, what you’re asking me to do?”

  I should have lied. I should have told her something else. Instead, I said, “Yes.”

  The light dimmed in Lily’s gaze. The car pulled up to the curb of a two-story white clapboard house that had seen better days. Riker had reported that Lily leased a small one-bedroom apartment on the second floor from a Mrs. Walker, a widow who spent part of the year in Florida. I got out of the car and took Lily’s elbow. She tried to shake off my hold.

  “I just want to see you in safely.” I led her up the steps. “I’m not coming in, and I’m not even going to try to kiss you goodnight.”

  “Well, see, now, that might be something that a gal might enjoy after a dinner date.” She forced a smile to her face. “You’re a nice guy. You’re a good kisser too.”

  “Am I now?” I smiled, fully tempted by her lips.

  “Why can’t you just be like a normal guy?” she said. “You could take a girl to the movies, buy her some popcorn, take her home, kiss her goodnight...”

  “Lily.” The smile died on my lips. “I’m not and will never be your average guy.”

  “Too bad.” Her eyes looked like liquid amethysts under the moonlight. “On a night like this, you might have made someone a nice boyfriend.”

  A dog barked in the distance. A chilly breeze arose. Any inclination I’d ever had to be anything other than what I was had been blown off my brain long ago. This was the only way I knew how to be.

  “Lily,” I said. “I need you to get your courage up. Friday is almost here.”

  “I know.” She dug in her purse for her keys. “I’m really trying.”

  “I believe you,” I said. “I really want this to work out too. I have something for you.”

  I pulled out a credit card from my pocket. It had Lily’s name on it. It was linked to one of my accounts. Lily stared at the card and then at me. Her mouth opened, but no words made it through those lovely lips. Any other woman in her situation would have taken that card.

  “I can’t accept that,” she mumbled embarrassedly.

  “I insist.” I dropped the card in her purse. “It’s yours, to use it for whatever you need, but also for expenses related to your preparations.”

  “What preparations?”

  “The preparations you will undertake in anticipation of finalizing our agreement.”

  She stared at me. “Excuse me?”

  “There’s the pictures, which you know you must complete, today, tonight preferably. There’s also this.” I pulled out the folded piece of paper from my pocket and handed it to her. “I want you to go to the first address on the t
op of that list tomorrow, Friday at the latest.”

  “Bella’s Beauty Spa?” she read aloud. “Why would I want to go there?”

  “For grooming.”

  “Grooming?” Her frown deepened. “What kind of grooming?”

  “You know,” I said, not a little exasperated. “Grooming? As in female grooming?”

  Her lips pursed in a perfect ‘O.’ “You want me to...” And still, she couldn’t say it.

  “I also need you to go see Doctor Stevens,” I said. “Her number is written down there.”

  “Doctor Stevens?” She scanned the paper then turned her eyes to me, widened to a size that rivaled the full moon. “Tell me that you’re joking.”

  “It’s no joking matter,” I said. “You have an appointment on Friday at ten o’clock. I’ve already talked to her.”

  “Wait, wait, wait.” A hot fire burned in her eyes. “You took it upon yourself to choose a doctor for me? You talked to her about me?”

  “I’m only trying to expedite the process.”

  “Do you hear what you’re saying?” She threw her door open. “Do you know how wrong this sounds?”

  “Calm down, Lily.”

  “This is it,” she spat out the words. “Do you think I’m some slut that needs to be sanitized? Do you think I’m some filthy gutter that has to be disinfected? Or perhaps you think I’m a gold digger and you’re afraid I might get pregnant to milk money off you?”

  Damage control. “I didn’t mean to offend you.”

  “Josh Lane, this is the end.” She stepped into her foyer and whirled around to face me, eyes sparkling with anger. “Your answer is no. I’m not going to send you dirty pictures. I’m not going to shave my pussy. I’m not going to go to your doctor. And by God, I’m not going to be your damn whore. Got that?”

  She slammed her door on my face. And with that, Lily Boswell, the exclusive object of my current obsession, painted me out of the picture and booted me out of her life.

  Chapter Six

  Lily

  Martin waited for me, sitting in the dark, sipping his Scotch, lounging on the sofa where he’d made himself a bed, far from mine, thank God. He wasn’t drunk by any means, but I could tell by his heavy-lidded expression that he indulged in one of his melancholic moods. I was so angry that I didn’t care. Or maybe I had stopped caring a good while back. He winced when I flipped on the lights. At least the electric service hadn’t been disconnected...yet.