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Mac Davis, while retired now, was a music professor at NYU. He also played saxophone in a jazz band for most of my life and is an expert on the piano.
The only time music isn’t playing in this house is when he’s sleeping. Miles Davis, Billie Holiday, Bach, Frank Sinatra, and Led Zeppelin, I heard them all for the first time because of him.
His tastes are about as eclectic as they can get, and there is no doubt his love for all things music was passed on to me. Ever since I was a little girl, music has had a pivotal presence in my life. My first true love.
“You know, I sure do miss seeing you play,” my dad says softly, and my heart clenches tight in my chest.
I don’t respond, but he’s too lost in whatever memories flit about inside his mind to see my visible discomfort.
“I don’t think I’ll ever forget the night you graduated from Julliard and the New York Orchestra found out you were something special.” His words are wistful and sad at the same time.
Tears threaten to prick my eyes, but I discreetly pinch the skin of my thigh with my thumb and forefinger to distract myself from the emotional pain even the idea of playing publicly brings me.
“I hope one day I’ll get to see you play again, Indigo,” my dad adds before he eventually drops the subject altogether and turns on the nightly news on the television.
I wish I could tell him he will.
But I can’t.
The tragic truth? I don’t know if I’ll ever be that girl again.
Ansel
I’ve only managed to get half of my body into the front office of my studio when Lucy holds out her hand and wiggles her fingers, demanding, “Give me your phone.”
She’s obviously been waiting on my arrival for a while, but she’s going to be waiting even longer for me to follow orders she barks at me.
Like, however long it takes for hell to freeze over.
“No.”
“Seriously.” She purses her silicone-filled lips. “Give me your phone.”
“Seriously, no,” I emphasize.
Luce is unaffected, and apparently, willing to take her life into her own hands because, without care or caution, she reaches into the pocket of my jacket and grabs my phone herself.
What. The. Fuck.
“Jesus Christ. You’re fired!”
My anger is an inconvenience to her, and she shows it through a scowl. “Someone named Lily Davis has been demon-dialing the studio, and I’m literally done trying to avoid her and her obnoxious calls. You need to speak with her because I’m positive she is going to drive me insane until you do.”
“Who is this woman?”
“A columnist with the New York Press.”
“Luce,” I growl, but she ignores me completely and uses one dramatic, red-painted fingernail to tap send on the call.
“Talk to her,” she orders, placing the phone to my ear.
“You really are fired,” I mouth as it rings.
She rolls her eyes in the face of my glare and steps away—out of reach.
Probably a smart idea.
I’m about to end the call when a woman answers. “This is Lily Davis.”
I’m still half tempted to hang up, but if Lily is even half as dogged as Luce claims she is, she’ll just call back. This time, thanks to my soon-to-be ex-assistant, on my personal phone.
“Hello,” I say as I glower at Luce. “This is Ansel Bray.”
“Wow. What a pleasant surprise,” she replies. “I’ve been trying to schedule an interview with you, but your assistant is the opposite of accommodating.”
“Tell me about it.” Luce sure as hell didn’t accommodate me when she saddled me with this phone call.
“What?”
“Never mind. What is it you want me to do for you?”
“An interview.”
Jesus Christ.
“I went to your exhibition on opening night, and I’d really love the opportunity to sit down with you.”
An in-person interview? Fuck, I can barely tolerate them on the phone.
“I’m not much for interviews.” I sigh heavily into the receiver. “And, no offense, but I doubt you’re going to ask me anything that hasn’t already been asked.”
“Well…” She pauses and clears her throat. “I mostly want to know why you’re painting portraits of my sister.”
I furrow my brow. “I’m sorry, what?”
“The girl in your painting could be my sister’s doppelgänger.”
Her words reach out and slap me across the face with déjà vu.
“Your sister’s doppelgänger?”
“Yes,” she answers without the slightest bit of nervousness or hesitation. “It’s nearly identical to her.”
“What did you say your name was?”
“Lily Davis,” she tells me, and a soft laugh leaves her lips. “I have a feeling your assistant will probably never forget my name with how many times I’ve called your studio over the past few days.”
“My assistant is incompetent at best,” I comment, and I’m rewarded with a middle finger right in front of my face.
My heart rate kicks up ten notches, and I’ve never been more interested in getting an interview on the books than I am right now.
