Wish Club (20 page)

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.

“I need to…I…” Jill was on the verge of tears.

Marc stood up and turned around. “Cinnamon?”

She’d been watching them, her blue eyes not missing a thing. “Yeah?”

“We’re done for today. You can go ahead and get dressed.”

Cinnamon stood still for a moment, as if she hadn’t quite heard him, before she turned and languidly walked toward the Japanese screen at the back of Marc’s studio. The wool sweater that had been hanging over the top of the screen slid down and disappeared on the other side when she stepped behind it. The pair of jeans disappeared next.

Cinnamon was back on their side of the screen so quickly, it occurred to Jill she must not be the kind of woman who bothered with the tedium of underwear. The way her nipples flounced under her sweater seemed to confirm it.

“We can pick this up tomorrow. Ten o’clock again?” Marc said.

Cinnamon replied with a slow tilt of her head. “Sure.”

“See you tomorrow, then.”

She walked passed Marc, her eyes boring into Jill’s.

Jill hadn’t interrupted anything, but clearly Cinnamon wanted to imply that she had.

When they were alone, Marc asked her again, “What’s the matter, Jilly?”

Jill hesitated. She wasn’t so sure, now that she was here, that she really wanted to go through with it, confess to him.

“I’m stuck,” she said finally. “I’m totally blocked. My show is in less than two weeks and I’ve got so much to finish and I can’t…” It felt as if her eyes might start to well up again. She looked up at the ceiling to stop them. “I feel like I’m going crazy. I’m so…so upset. I’ve never had anything like this happen to me before—ever.”

“You’ve never been blocked before?”

Jill shook her head and sniffed.

“Jeez, Jilly girl. Where’ve you been? Everyone gets blocked. Especially before a show.”

Jill had to admit there were times, and usually right before her shows, when her nerves seemed to get the best of her. Sometimes she’d fuss and fuss with a painting, trying to get it just right, until she’d add that one final stroke—the one that just ruined it. But that wasn’t being blocked. That was nerves. This was different.

“I can’t paint a thing. I just stare at the canvas. I—”

“You are putting wa-a-a-y too much pressure on yourself. You need to re-lax.” He walked over to his sink and started washing his hands. “C’mon. Have a seat. We’ll talk this through.” He nodded at his couch under the window.

Jill gave him a look. It’s where they usually had sex.

“Not that kind of re-laxing.” He smiled and held up two dripping hands, palms out. “I promise. Just talking. We’ll fix this for you, get you back on track.”

“Okay, so you’ve gotten a lot of good advanced publicity, right?” Marc said, sitting down on the couch next to her after he’d finished washing his hands. “And that’s a good thing, isn’t it?”

Jill shrugged, looked up at him with a frown.

“Well, it is usually, anyway. Okay, sure, I know it adds a little pressure, but you’re my Jilly girl…” He gave her his disarming smile, but Jill couldn’t bring herself to smile back. “Hey…c’mon. This isn’t as dark as you think. You still have enough for a show, right? Even if Gretel—”

“Greta.”

“—if Greta says it’ll be a little thin, so what? What’s the trouble? The show’s gonna go on. And if you don’t break out—then you don’t break out this time. No biggie. You do it next time. Right?

“So here’s the thing,” he continued. “Here’s what you need to try. It’s what I do when I get stuck. I
pretend
there’s no pressure.” He leaned back and raised his eyebrows at her as if to say,
brilliant, huh?

Jill just looked at him.
What’s he talking about?
He seemed somehow younger to her right then.

“I pull out a canvas with no plan and just paint. No pressure. It’s not
for
anything, I tell myself—it’s
not
for a show or even for anyone to see. It’s just to paint. It’s for the alley. The landfill. Nothing. No pressure. Just get something down. And you know what happens?”