Chapter 16
She made chili for supper—a big pot. She threw crackers and cheese on a plate, and dinner was ready.
"I love chili," Jackson said when he finished his second bowl and headed to the stove for more.
"You've loved every single thing she's cooked," Woodrow pointed out to him.
"Hey, it beats pizza or cold cuts most nights."
"But you guys both know how to cook, and you have that gorgeous kitchen." Lily put more crackers on the table for Jackson. He crumbled them on top of his chili.
"We can cope in a kitchen," Woodrow admitted. "But we're talking burgers, hot dogs, and ramen noodles. Nothing fancy."
Lily frowned. "Then who remodeled the kitchen? And why?" It couldn't have been Woodrow's uncle. He barely tolerated most people and sure wasn't the type who'd entertain.
"It was never meant to be used," Woodrow said. "My uncle installed the pine cupboards and floor to show to customers. It was a display. We ate at Nancy's every night."
"Seven nights a week?"
"Going to Nancy's is like going home to me." Woodrow pushed himself to his feet and began to tidy up the table. Lily went to help him rinse plates and put them in the dishwasher. As they worked, he said, "Jackson told me you got an order for new dolls."
"Then you already know that Cornell Cross ordered them. They're for two of his patients."
"Jackson said one of them worries you more than the other."
"Cross wanted me to rush Blair's. That's never a good sign."
"Not every order is fun to make." Woodrow brought their drinking glasses over from the table. "Some of my memory boxes are hard to work on, but that's why we're professionals. Art isn't just about inspiration. It's challenging too."
She looked up at him. "You're telling me that I did the right thing saying I'd make the dolls."
"It's what you do."
Relief flooded her, and she felt her shoulders relax. "This girl looks sad. I hope the doll helps her."
"Me too. Has it given off any vibes yet?"
"It's too soon. I just got the head and shoulders molded. They're drying now."
"How long does that take?"
"Two days. Then I can paint the face. Mom stopped working in the middle of painting Sunny. I think that's when she connected with the doll somehow and things got weird."
Woodrow nodded. "If you need me, call."
"I will, and thanks."
Jackson hesitated before he followed Woodrow down the stairs. "About this afternoon…."
"I hate waiting too," Lily told him.
Jackson smiled. "Thanks, Lil. See you tomorrow."
Tomorrow. A school day. Back to the usual routine. Lily listened until the front door closed behind the men, and then she walked to the TV and flipped it on. Masterpiece Theater was airing a new Agatha Christie. Her freshman year, she'd read every single mystery the woman wrote, trying to solve the puzzle before the detective did. This was the perfect way to end a Sunday, but she frowned when a victim's death was staged to look like suicide. Easy to predict in fiction, but maybe not so easy in real life. Her thoughts turned to Sunny. How would a person ever really be sure?
Stupid! She gave herself a mental shake—Sunny was never stable. She returned
her attention to the TV show. Her mother always told her that silly thoughts came late at night after a busy day, the sign of a tired brain. But when she flipped off the TV and crawled into bed, Sunny's image returned to her. She remembered those last bursts of energy before she jumped. And the fear Sunny felt. Overpowering fear.
Lily stared at the ceiling. She could picture Sunny standing by an open window when a hand gave her a sudden, hard push. Surprise. Anger. Fear. Then plummeting down, down, down until the manic energy built to a pitch. Lily pressed her eyes shut, tight, against the visions. She hit her pillow to plump it up and turned onto her side. Time for sleep. She was letting her imagination run wild. Still…. She vowed to work even harder and faster on the Blair doll. She wanted it out of the house as soon as its paint dried.
Chapter 16
She made chili for supper—a big pot. She threw crackers and cheese on a plate, and dinner was ready.
"I love chili," Jackson said when he finished his second bowl and headed to the stove for more.
"You've loved every single thing she's cooked," Woodrow pointed out to him.
"Hey, it beats pizza or cold cuts most nights."
"But you guys both know how to cook, and you have that gorgeous kitchen." Lily put more crackers on the table for Jackson. He crumbled them on top of his chili.
"We can cope in a kitchen," Woodrow admitted. "But we're talking burgers, hot dogs, and ramen noodles. Nothing fancy."
Lily frowned. "Then who remodeled the kitchen? And why?" It couldn't have been Woodrow's uncle. He barely tolerated most people and sure wasn't the type who'd entertain.
"It was never meant to be used," Woodrow said. "My uncle installed the pine cupboards and floor to show to customers. It was a display. We ate at Nancy's every night."
"Seven nights a week?"
"Going to Nancy's is like going home to me." Woodrow pushed himself to his feet and began to tidy up the table. Lily went to help him rinse plates and put them in the dishwasher. As they worked, he said, "Jackson told me you got an order for new dolls."
"Then you already know that Cornell Cross ordered them. They're for two of his patients."
"Jackson said one of them worries you more than the other."
"Cross wanted me to rush Blair's. That's never a good sign."
"Not every order is fun to make." Woodrow brought their drinking glasses over from the table. "Some of my memory boxes are hard to work on, but that's why we're professionals. Art isn't just about inspiration. It's challenging too."
She looked up at him. "You're telling me that I did the right thing saying I'd make the dolls."
"It's what you do."
Relief flooded her, and she felt her shoulders relax. "This girl looks sad. I hope the doll helps her."
"Me too. Has it given off any vibes yet?"
"It's too soon. I just got the head and shoulders molded. They're drying now."
"How long does that take?"
"Two days. Then I can paint the face. Mom stopped working in the middle of painting Sunny. I think that's when she connected with the doll somehow and things got weird."
Woodrow nodded. "If you need me, call."
"I will, and thanks."
Jackson hesitated before he followed Woodrow down the stairs. "About this afternoon…."
"I hate waiting too," Lily told him.
Jackson smiled. "Thanks, Lil. See you tomorrow."
Tomorrow. A school day. Back to the usual routine. Lily listened until the front door closed behind the men, and then she walked to the TV and flipped it on. Masterpiece Theater was airing a new Agatha Christie. Her freshman year, she'd read every single mystery the woman wrote, trying to solve the puzzle before the detective did. This was the perfect way to end a Sunday, but she frowned when a victim's death was staged to look like suicide. Easy to predict in fiction, but maybe not so easy in real life. Her thoughts turned to Sunny. How would a person ever really be sure?
Stupid! She gave herself a mental shake—Sunny was never stable. She returned
her attention to the TV show. Her mother always told her that silly thoughts came late at night after a busy day, the sign of a tired brain. But when she flipped off the TV and crawled into bed, Sunny's image returned to her. She remembered those last bursts of energy before she jumped. And the fear Sunny felt. Overpowering fear.
Lily stared at the ceiling. She could picture Sunny standing by an open window when a hand gave her a sudden, hard push. Surprise. Anger. Fear. Then plummeting down, down, down until the manic energy built to a pitch. Lily pressed her eyes shut, tight, against the visions. She hit her pillow to plump it up and turned onto her side. Time for sleep. She was letting her imagination run wild. Still…. She vowed to work even harder and faster on the Blair doll. She wanted it out of the house as soon as its paint dried.
