The Magnolia Palace(2)
Then again, if they hadn’t been living in Mr. Watkins’s dumpy building, crowded in with all the other tenants, maybe her mother wouldn’t have gotten sick.
Mr. Rossi came back carrying two cups of coffee and handed her one. She stepped down from the model stand and reclined in a practiced move on one of several sofas that were scattered at odd angles around the space. She recognized the shabby pink one.
“You got that from Lukeman, right?”
Mr. Rossi studied it, confused. “I suppose. When I first set up here, I found a number of castoffs in the basement. Lukeman’s studio is two floors up, so I wouldn’t be surprised.”
“I posed on that sofa for Memory.” She waited for his reaction.
“Which is that one?”
For goodness’ sake. “The Titanic memorial? In memory of Ida and Isidor Straus?”
Mr. Rossi gave a vigorous nod. “Of course. I’ve heard of it but never seen it. I haven’t been here long, you see. There’s a lot of the city that I haven’t visited yet.”
She’d enjoyed modeling for Lukeman, even though the position had been a challenge, lying across the couch sideways, one leg dangling over the edge. Before they’d started, the sculptor and Kitty had talked about how important the memorial was, commemorating the wealthy couple who had died together on the Titanic after the wife gave up her seat in the lifeboat to her maid, choosing instead to die with her husband. They’d been last seen sitting on deck chairs together as the ship sank into the icy waters. The completed statue, Lukeman explained, would stare down at a reflecting pool, and as she posed, Lillian lost herself in imagining the joy of the couple’s love, the sadness of their terrible demise. The result was one of her finest portrayals, of which she was most proud.
And Mr. Rossi hadn’t even seen it.
“It’s beautiful,” she said. “A true work of art.”
“Whenever you’re ready, I’d like to begin again.”
She’d only taken a couple of sips. “Do you mind if I finish my coffee first?”
“Look, Angelica. We’ve already taken two breaks.”
“What are you saying? That I’m stalling?” She had been, of course. Every fifteen minutes was another eighteen cents.
His mustache twitched as he crossed his arms.
He’d been warned. The other sculptors must have told him, after he’d already booked her for the job, that she was yesterday’s news, no longer the darling of Bohemia.
Maybe if he saw Memory, he’d soften and truly appreciate all that she’d accomplished. “I suggest, Mr. Rossi, if you have the time, that you take one morning off and view it. It’s not far uptown, on West End and 106th Street.”
“I don’t have time to take a morning off. I have to work, I have commissions to fulfill.”
“Oh, now, I’ve been working steadily for years, and trust me, you can always ask for more time. Artists are often accommodated by their patrons that way.”
“Right. I hear you’re an old hand. How many years have you been at this?”
“I began when I was fifteen.”
“Of course. I am in awe of all of your past likenesses. You were an inspiration to so many.” His gaze drifted to her hips.
Past tense. Were.
He sighed. “Why don’t we stop for today? You look tired.”
“No, I’m fine. Really.” She headed back to the stand, tripping on the drapery. She recovered quickly and climbed up, waiting for instruction. She couldn’t lose this job. If she lost it, she wouldn’t have enough for groceries, never mind rent.
“It’s not right, I’m afraid. I can pay you for your time, of course, but I may need to step back and rethink this piece.”
“Please, Mr. Rossi. I’m sorry.” She was trying not to beg. If Kitty were here, they’d all be laughing together, her mother flattering him about his thick mustache and strong hands, teasing him as he blushed.
She wanted her mother so badly right now. In the weeks after Kitty’s death, the job offers had come in one after another as the news had spread and the artists had reached out in support, making sure Lillian was all right. But in those cold, dark days, she’d been unable to leave the apartment other than to fetch the bare necessities. She’d lain on the lumpy sofa covered by a quilt, sometimes sleeping, sometimes staring up at the cracked ceiling, and ignored every entreaty. Without her mother to smooth out life’s rough edges, Lillian had faltered, wallowing in her sadness in a way that Kitty would never have tolerated, which only made her sadder. After years of blaming her mother for being too controlling and protective, including the raging fight they’d had right before she’d fallen ill, Lillian’s ceaseless, brittle ennui was proof that she was lost without her.
She wished more than anything to be able to once again witness the infinite ways her mother used to drive her batty: the tinny laugh, the way she hummed under her breath as she dried the dishes. To have one last look at those almond-colored eyes—a mirror of her own—but edged with a spiderweb of wrinkles. Together, they’d made a remarkable team. Watching her mother unravel over the course of her illness, from a force to be reckoned with to a frail, childlike creature, clutching at Lillian’s wrist and whimpering in pain, had been her undoing.
Unable to force one more appointment from Mr. Rossi, Lillian headed to the luncheonette across the street from her building. She was starving, craving a bowl of potato soup and a slice of pie. Her mother would never have allowed such decadence.