accepting compliments, and she didn't like being the center of attention. It put too much pressure on her. And, she was naturally shy. Good looks didn't necessarily make you gregarious.
"Like some coffee?" Andi said. "I made it, so it's safe to drink. Ted's is like car oil."
Jenny shook her head. "No, no thanks, I'll just sit down over here if you don't mind."
"Ted's running late with his sitting." Andi said. "I'll go tell him you're here. That'll hurry him along."
There was a door in the corner. Andi opened it and disappeared.
Instead of sitting down, Jenny walked around the reception area. The walls were filled with examples of his portraiture. He made things pretty, Ted did; too pretty, actually. But that was why people paid him so well, because he could deceive them into believing that they were something they were not. The overweight banker became the General Patton-like adventurer; the somewhat worn society matron became the ageless belle of whatever ball she attended. "I make them pay through the nose for their lies," Ted said mockingly to her once. It was the only side of him she didn't care for: the harsh, cynical side. She wasn't sure who he hated most-his clients or himself.
Fortunately, she rarely saw this side. Most of the time, Ted was the amusing, even dashing artiste who lived his life exactly as he wanted. He was her father-confessor. She'd told Ted things she hadn't even confided to her mother. He could bind you up with his tenderness. He could make you feel all right about yourself-something not even a long line of shrinks had been able to do most of the time.
The funny thing was, when she waited for him out in the reception area this way, she always got butterflies, as if she was about to have a date she didn't know very well. She knew why. She wanted him to like her, and she was afraid she'd disappoint him in some way.
Andi came back. "He said ten more minutes, max."
"Thanks."
She sat down next to a table filled with magazines about photography and art. A copy of this morning's newspaper lay across several magazines. She scanned the headlines above the fold. The phone rang. Andi answered it and began chatting with somebody. Jenny turned the newspaper over to see what was on the bottom of the fold.
DEAD MAN DISCOVERED IN MOTEL
Jenny had an image of an ax being buried in the precise center of her forehead. The headache was that visceral. She grunted so sharply with the pain that Andi looked up, cupped the phone, and asked, "Are you all right?"
But instead of answering, Jenny staggered to her feet, grabbed her purse, and hurried to the front door. The bathroom was down the hall. It was a large room with a dusty skylight. The fixtures were new and the paint was fresh. She went into the first of the two stalls and threw up.
She was terrible at throwing up, and always had been. It terrified her. She felt she was going to choke and die. Her mother had always been there to hold her, to comfort her, to reassure her. But Jenny was too old for that now, of course.
It took two passes, kneeling next to the new white toilet bowl, to empty her stomach.
She stood up and walked shakily to the twin white sinks and the long mirror that stretched out above them. She opened her purse and took out a plastic toothbrush holder, a tube of Colgate white, a tiny vial of Chanel Number 5, and a bar of beauty soap. She spent ten minutes working on herself. She wanted to be perfectly fresh for Ted.
The headache had subsided but not her dread of what she'd read in the newspaper. Twice now a reference to the Econo-Nite Motel had made her head erupt with blinding pain. But why should it? What did she have to do with what had happened at the Econo-Nite Motel? Nothing.
But she couldn't recall eight days and nights of her life…
She swallowed two aspirins, then hurried
"Like some coffee?" Andi said. "I made it, so it's safe to drink. Ted's is like car oil."
Jenny shook her head. "No, no thanks, I'll just sit down over here if you don't mind."
"Ted's running late with his sitting." Andi said. "I'll go tell him you're here. That'll hurry him along."
There was a door in the corner. Andi opened it and disappeared.
Instead of sitting down, Jenny walked around the reception area. The walls were filled with examples of his portraiture. He made things pretty, Ted did; too pretty, actually. But that was why people paid him so well, because he could deceive them into believing that they were something they were not. The overweight banker became the General Patton-like adventurer; the somewhat worn society matron became the ageless belle of whatever ball she attended. "I make them pay through the nose for their lies," Ted said mockingly to her once. It was the only side of him she didn't care for: the harsh, cynical side. She wasn't sure who he hated most-his clients or himself.
Fortunately, she rarely saw this side. Most of the time, Ted was the amusing, even dashing artiste who lived his life exactly as he wanted. He was her father-confessor. She'd told Ted things she hadn't even confided to her mother. He could bind you up with his tenderness. He could make you feel all right about yourself-something not even a long line of shrinks had been able to do most of the time.
The funny thing was, when she waited for him out in the reception area this way, she always got butterflies, as if she was about to have a date she didn't know very well. She knew why. She wanted him to like her, and she was afraid she'd disappoint him in some way.
Andi came back. "He said ten more minutes, max."
"Thanks."
She sat down next to a table filled with magazines about photography and art. A copy of this morning's newspaper lay across several magazines. She scanned the headlines above the fold. The phone rang. Andi answered it and began chatting with somebody. Jenny turned the newspaper over to see what was on the bottom of the fold.
DEAD MAN DISCOVERED IN MOTEL
Jenny had an image of an ax being buried in the precise center of her forehead. The headache was that visceral. She grunted so sharply with the pain that Andi looked up, cupped the phone, and asked, "Are you all right?"
But instead of answering, Jenny staggered to her feet, grabbed her purse, and hurried to the front door. The bathroom was down the hall. It was a large room with a dusty skylight. The fixtures were new and the paint was fresh. She went into the first of the two stalls and threw up.
She was terrible at throwing up, and always had been. It terrified her. She felt she was going to choke and die. Her mother had always been there to hold her, to comfort her, to reassure her. But Jenny was too old for that now, of course.
It took two passes, kneeling next to the new white toilet bowl, to empty her stomach.
She stood up and walked shakily to the twin white sinks and the long mirror that stretched out above them. She opened her purse and took out a plastic toothbrush holder, a tube of Colgate white, a tiny vial of Chanel Number 5, and a bar of beauty soap. She spent ten minutes working on herself. She wanted to be perfectly fresh for Ted.
The headache had subsided but not her dread of what she'd read in the newspaper. Twice now a reference to the Econo-Nite Motel had made her head erupt with blinding pain. But why should it? What did she have to do with what had happened at the Econo-Nite Motel? Nothing.
But she couldn't recall eight days and nights of her life…
She swallowed two aspirins, then hurried
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