and around her eyes.
“That’s all for today,” Viv said, stepping up from the back of the room, rushing to the model to cover her up with a velour robe as if suddenly distressed by her nudity. Viv rubbed the model’s shoulders as if consoling a victim, a woman exposed. Deedee had known Viv since college, and she’d always appeared scrappy and unflappable, all her anxiety funneled into her artwork. Deedee glanced over at Viv’s own easel, the model depicted in pieces, the arms, the legs, the hands disconnected, floating as if in a bottle of formaldehyde.
“Viv’s off,” Deedee said. “These last few weeks she’s seemed so nervous.”
“She has a stalker, Mom,” Naomi said, packing up her pastels and paper to store in the cabinets that lined the wall. “You’d be a little on edge too.”
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