“How can you be hungry? We just ate dinner.”
John smiled at her while he chewed. He winked at her and said, through a mouthful of pasty white bread, “As you should know, I’m a man with large appetites.”
The large white canvas stretched out in front of Jill like an arctic landscape, cold and foreboding, freezing every ounce of creativity in her psyche. She sat on a metal stool in front of the abominable seventy-two by one-hundred-two-inch canvas with her arms crossed over her chest, her feet flat on the floor and her legs spread wide. The canvas hung on the back wall of her studio. The big canvas. The anchor for her show. It was an anchor all right. Every time she looked at it, she could feel it dragging her down.
What had happened? Everything had been going so well. She’d been on quite a roll getting ready for her show, and then—poof—nothing. All inspiration and motivation had stopped cold.
The thought that this might be some problem with her wish for creative inspiration crossed her mind. Could it be that her wish had backfired? This badly? It didn’t seem possible, because her first wish, the one that had brought her Marc, was going so well.
At least she had that going for her. And Marc was the best. It was ironic, she thought, how the less he pushed her for a commitment, the more she found herself thinking about one. The less he pushed her to open up, the less he tried to chip away at her shell, the more she felt compelled to crack it open.
So far, Marc had never once interrupted a comfortable moment of silence to ask, “What are you thinking about?” The death sentence, she called it. Whenever it came out of one of her boyfriends, Jill was tempted to run. And usually did. Marc didn’t spend all his time trying to get to know her better; he seemed to be just letting the relationship unfold—and how wonderful was that?
He’d started her portrait a week ago, having her pose in an off-the-shoulder, red velvet dress in which her black hair framed an enticingly exposed décolletage. Marc hadn’t let her see the painting while he worked, wanting her to wait, to see only the finished product. Although once, when he’d left the room, she’d stolen a peek.
Even though she’d already gone back to her side of the studio, and was stretching her neck and back, when he’d walked back into the room, he knew.
“You peeked.” He stood behind the canvas again, holding his brush.
“No I didn’t.” Jill adjusted herself in her chair, returning to her pose.
He narrowed his eyes at her, staring. “You peeked.”
“I did not.”
“Don’t lie to me, Jilly girl.” He’d been smiling when he’d come over and sat on top of her, straddling her, pressing her down into the chair with his weight. “I have a way of dealing with models who lie to me.”
“You don’t scare me. I’ve seen the way you deal with your models, remember?”
And he’d dealt with her right then. On the modeling platform in the middle of the floor of his studio.
Today, during the five hours and forty-three minutes she’d been sitting in her studio, Jill had mulled that scene over and over in her mind. She’d mulled a lot of scenes over and over. She just hadn’t painted any. She was starting to panic. The opening at Eleventh House was less than two weeks away and she didn’t have anywhere near the amount of pieces she wanted—the amount of pieces she needed if she wanted to break out. She knew she should probably forgo this big canvas and just get on with some smaller ones; that had been her plan in the first place. Only one or two more would have done it, but she’d gotten all wrapped around the axle with this big one and now she wasn’t going to be ready.
This had never happened before. Jill was always ready. Always prepared. Always professional. Sure, she had enough for a smaller show, but what had Greta said: that the finished pieces were fine, but the quantity was a little thin? She’d given Jill a judgmental, motherly look, a look that had torn her up more than she cared to admit. And now the pressure was really on, because she’d gotten a great preview in Chicago magazine, which meant there would probably be a crowd. She’d already sold one of the paintings to the City of Chicago, too, which was great, but now it meant that the quantity of available paintings was even more thin.
As her panic began to rise, so did her drinking. Each night she had a martini, and then, when it didn’t make her feel any better, she had another, and then some nights, another. Falling asleep eventually, she would wake up two or three hours later and be unable to fall back asleep until just before dawn. It was then, between six and sometimes noon—when she finally emerged from bed—that she had the dreams.
Winter dreams. Snow dreams. Crawling though white shag carpeting dreams. One night she’d dreamt she’d stumbled upon two albinos having sex on a white sand beach.
No psychoanalysis was necessary for her to figure out where the dreams where coming from; she’d been staring at seven thousand, three hundred and forty-four square inches of pure unadulterated white space for six hours a day, every day, for the past two weeks.
This kind of thing, this loss for ideas, this “painter’s block,” had never happened to her before. She always had ideas. In fact, she always had too many ideas, so many ideas she never had time to execute them all. There were some she’d been meaning to get to for years. And now…well now, they all just seemed so dumb. This, too, had never happened to her before. Sure, a few times she’d gone back to an old idea, rethought it and then concluded it wasn’t timely anymore, or maybe it just wasn’t anything she was interested in doing anymore, but she had never thought of any of her old ideas as dumb before.
Jill squeezed her eyes shut and pressed her knuckles into them, then opened them onto the blank canvas, hoping the swirling colors burned into her retinas might inspire something on the great white canvas. They didn’t.
She reached over to the side table, grabbed her palette knife, and began scraping the big globs of paint off of her mahogany board and into the trash.
Was this Wish Club’s fault? Was this all because of her wish for creative inspiration? Her stomach twisted into a knot. She’d been against all the wishing, all the witchy nonsense, at the beginning. Maybe she should have stood by her original feelings, because now here she was staring at her big, blank canvas unable to paint a stroke. It seemed to her that the wish had stopped up her creativity with the worst case of imagination constipation she’d ever had.
Creative inspiration. Goddamn it, why had she done it?
Because of Marc. Because things with Marc had been going so great, that’s why. Because everyone else in Book Club had done it, too. They’d all made wishes—for fame and fortune, success. Maybe she should call Lindsay, or Gail, to see if their second wishes were coming true. To see if their second wishes were going as badly as their first wishes had gone well.
Jill whacked away at her mahogany board, scraping it hard, trying to squeeze the paint out from between the minute grooves of wood the way you might try to squeeze the last bits of pulp out of a lemon. It serves me right for letting it go as far as I did, for not staying with my gut. Her stomach contorted again thinking about it. She should have walked out of that second witchy meeting when Lindsay and Mara had conned them all into wishing for Tippy. Tippy, the diabetic cat with the retarded name, for chrissakes.
Jill stopped her scraping. But what about Marc, then? It couldn’t just be a coincidence that he’d turned up the next day, the day after she’d made a wish for a perfect man. He’d told her he’d signed the lease at 4400 North the night before he’d moved in—after having spent the day torn between this studio and one down in Bucktown. How could that be a coincidence? She’d wished for him the night before.
Jill craved a drink and a cigarette. She needed to call Greta—and Lindsay or Gail. She wanted to run downstairs to Marc. She felt pulled in so many directions she couldn’t move at all. Glaring up at the big canvas, she fantasized about slashing at it, raging against the 10 duck with an X-acto knife until it hung in shreds. Jill shook, her heart pounding with the thought. She’d never let
so much emotion boil up, come so close to boiling over. The hand she was using to scrape the paint was shaking. She tried a deep breath. When the anger faded, she thought for a moment she might start to cry, but then, what would that solve?
Another deep breath and then, suddenly, she knew what she had to do. She knew it as clearly as if she’d had a vision—the first creative flash she’d had in weeks. It was as if a ray of sunlight had broken through a hole in a layer of stratocumulus clouds and touched her forehead. Giving her a plan.
Jill wiped her hands on the Turpenoid-saturated rag she’d started to clean her board with and grabbed her jacket from the hook behind the door. She hurried out of her studio without turning down the heat or turning off the lights. She left without even making sure the lock on her door clicked shut behind her.
Chapter Nineteen
Minted berries with Grand Marnier sauce
Apple cake with preserved lemon and cinnamon streusel
Vanilla-bean crème brûlée
Tiramisù
Hazelnut gelato with raspberry reduction
Lindsay scanned her clipboard, stymied. She needed to choose the dessert for the Women’s Foundation Spring Fashion Show Extravaganza from the list the Metron catering staff had given her, and she was terrified she would make the wrong choice. Her intuition was telling her to go with the minted berries. Certainly not the streusel—yawn. Same for tiramisù and crème brûlée. But the hazelnut gelato. Hmm.
It had to be perfect.
She picked up her clipboard and walked down the hall to Evelyn Cantwell’s Foundation office. Evelyn’s door was open, and Lindsay entered before realizing Evelyn had the phone to her ear and was nodding silently to whoever was on the other end of the line. Lindsay froze on the spot. Damn. She should have at least pretended to knock, rapped her knuckles on the door a couple of times as a courtesy to announce her presence and request permission to enter. What a boneheaded mistake. Damn my nerves.
Evelyn looked up and Lindsay silently mouthed sorry before starting to back herself out the door, but Evelyn waggled her hand at Lindsay, signaling it was okay for her to come in. Hugging the clipboard to her chest, Lindsay waited just inside the doorway while Evelyn talked on the phone.
“I am so sorry to hear that, love.” Pause. “You know a lot may change between now and then. There’s still a couple of weeks.” Pause. “Well, we certainly are going to miss you, but of course we understand that family comes first.” Pause. “Yes, love. Now you take care of yourself, too, and let us know when you get back to town. Don’t worry about a thing, now. We’ll get it covered.” Pause. “Of course, love. Give Stafford my love, same to the girls. Buh-bye.”
Evelyn clicked the phone off and set it down on her desk, her hand still holding it.
“I am so sorry I barged in—”
“Oh nonsense, nonsense, love.” Evelyn held the phone out in her hand and gestured to Lindsay with it. “That was Nancy Blades. Her mother’s taken ill in West Palm and she’s had to extend her winter. She won’t be back until May at the earliest.”
“Oh. That’s terrible. It must be serious.”
“Well, shingles, which I hear can be awful, but then you know how melodramatic the Bladeses can be.” Evelyn gave Lindsay a conspiratorial wink. It looked to Lindsay like the kind of wink Evelyn seemed accustomed to giving, although Lindsay had never received one before. Lindsay had to stop herself from bouncing up on her toes.
“What is it that you needed, love?” Evelyn glanced down at the clipboard Lindsay held over her chest.
“Dessert.”
Evelyn raised an eyebrow.
“I’d like your opinion on which dessert to pick for the fashion show.”
Evelyn smiled. “Well now, that makes more sense, because certainly, it seems that someone I know has been actively avoiding dessert lately.”
“Oh, well. Yes.” Lindsay looked down at her waist, tipping one heel off the ground in spite of herself.
“Let’s see what we’ve got there.” Evelyn motioned for Lindsay to show her the clipboard and Lindsay walked around to her side of the desk and leaned in, so they could look at the choices together.
“I was thinking the minted berries would be the best choice, but I wanted a second opinion.”
Evelyn picked up a pen and ran it down the menu choices, tapping it against each selection.
“I just think tiramisù and crème brûlée are just, so—been there done that. And the streusel,” Lindsay humphed her opinion on such a pedestrian dessert. “I like the sound of the berries, but the gelato could be nice.”
Evelyn had stopped looking at the list. She held the pen in two fingers, touching the end to one side of her mouth. She was staring at Lindsay.
Which made Lindsay nervous. “But of course, anything you—I would imagine they’re all good, of course, it being the Metron, after all.” Lindsay laughed.
Evelyn stared.
“Of course,” Evelyn said. “Why didn’t I think of it sooner?” She pointed the pen at Lindsay while continuing to stare. “It makes perfect sense.”
“The berries?”
Evelyn looked surprised. “The berr—? No, love. You.”
“Me?”
“Yes, of course. You. You should take Nancy’s place in the fashion show.” Evelyn leaned back in her chair, one arm crossed under her bosom, the other holding out her pen as though it were a cigarette. “Without her we’re out one model and I couldn’t think of anyone better to take her place, at least not anyone we could get on such short notice. And, you look fabulous.” Evelyn’s eyes dropped down to scan Lindsay’s body, then came back up to meet Lindsay’s.
Lindsay was speechless. Evelyn Cantwell had just asked her to model in the Women’s Foundation Spring Fashion Show Extravaganza. This was her dream come true. She wanted to pinch herself. Laugh. Cry. Bounce up and down. This was the invitation, the welcome into society. Her lifelong dream was coming true right here, right now.
Or perhaps, she should say, this was her wish coming true. Lindsay’s right hand started shaking and she tucked it under her other arm to hide it from Evelyn. Don’t act too eager. Don’t blow this chance. Don’t pull a Claudia.
Lindsay had finally, finally lost the weight that had plagued her throughout her life. She was down nearly twenty pounds since she’d made the wish; was this all it took? Was her big butt the only thing that had been holding her back all these years? They hadn’t wanted her because she was chubby? Her gut reaction to this thought was disgust—which must have played across her face because Evelyn asked, “What’s wrong, love? Don’t you want to do it?”
“No. I mean YES. I’d love to do it, Evelyn. This is like a dr—I mean, of course I’d love to be in the show. Love to. It would be an honor.” Lindsay gave Evelyn what she hoped appeared to be a calm, pleased smile. “Anything I can do to help out.”
“Well, plan on it then. Talk to Marla about what Nancy was going to wear; see if there needs to be any adjustments made, size-wise, that sort of thing. But I doubt it. Nancy’s such a skinny-binny, and well, frankly, now you are too. You know, truly—now that I think of it—is everything okay, love? You have dropped an awful lot of weight lately, and so quickly. James is good? Everything with the two of you?”
“We’re fine. No, everything is fine.” Lindsay absently ran her hand over her flat stomach. This was diet and exercise. There was nothing wrong. This was a wish come true.
“Excellent then. And you’re sure you don’t mind taking on the extra responsibility—what with your organization of the luncheon and everything?”
“No.” Lindsay thought she might have said it too suddenly. “The luncheon is completely under control. Being in the show would be fun—the icing on the cake.”
“Well, excellent, love. Excellent. I’m thrilled you can help us out.” Evelyn gave her a brief, knowing smile before turning back to the dessert menu. “And I think your choice of the minted berries is flawless. I couldn’t think of a more perfect complement to the
meal. Certainly not the streusel.” Evelyn laughed and Lindsay joined in with her. Ha. Ha. Streusel—how ridiculous.
Lindsay bounced out of Evelyn’s office, floating all the way back to her own. She was going to model in the show. Lindsay Tate-McDermott and her brand-new size-six butt, walking down the runway at the Chicago Women’s Foundation Spring Fashion Show Extravaganza. It was like the perfect cap to a wonderful day, like dessert after an excellent meal. The icing on the cake.
Jill knocked on the door to Marc’s studio. When he didn’t answer, she knocked a little harder, no longer afraid of it opening up on something she’d rather not see. She waited. If he didn’t answer soon, Jill thought that she might lose her nerve, that she might not be able to go through with her plan—to ask him for help. Not for help lifting a heavy box or stretching a big canvas; she needed the kind of help she never asked for, the kind that was personal.
She tried the knob. It was locked. Oh, this was stupid. It was a dumb plan, anyway. I don’t need a shoulder to cry on, I should just—
“Hang on, hang on. I’m coming,” Marc yelled from the other side of the door.
When he opened it, she could see his model putting on her thin cotton robe with a glance back at Jill. A glance that shot daggers through her.
Jill ignored it. “I didn’t mean to interrupt you, but I really need to…I just wanted to talk to you.” She looked down at the floor, took a breath, and closed her eyes for a moment and tried to steady her nerves.
Both of Marc’s hands were coated in wet, flesh-toned paint. One still held a brush. “It’s okay. We were just about to wrap up for today anyway.” Marc bent his knees, bringing his eyes level with Jill’s. “Hey. What’s up?” He reached a hand up for her shoulder, then, apparently thinking better of it, wiped it on his paint-covered jeans. “What’s the matter?” He tried to get her to look him in the eyes.
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