The Truth About Delilah Blue Read Online Free PDF Page B

his seat, obviously worked up about something. “You’re not going to believe it.”
    “Believe what?”
    Standing up, grim faced, Victor buttoned up his suit jacket, then smoothed his hair and motioned for her to follow him outside, his polished brogues lapping softly against the brick floor as he marched, toes pointed outward and knees slanted in.
    “What? Where are we going?”
    “You’ll see.” He started up the cement steps that led to the road.
    “Why all the secrecy?”
    “You’ll see.”
    After trotting up the rest of the steps, he stomped across the gravel parking pad to where a white Prius sat tucked close to his beloved car. With eyes averted as if it were simply too painful to look, he waved toward the driver’sside door. “Did you ever?”
    The parking pad was built too wide; an open invitation for neighbors and their visitors to squeeze their cars right next to her father’s 240Z. This car was his most beloved possession, and the tiniest ding or scratch inflicted by a careless driver drove him to madness. As long as she could remember, no matter what the weather, he’d parked in the very farthest corner of the lot at the mall, in the spot even the mall designers probably mocked. Not only that, but he always positioned the car on a diagonal, lest anyone intrepid enough to join them out in the badlands considered parking nearby.
    It wasn’t a good time for Victor’s invisible car drama. She itched and crawled and ached to stand under a scalding hot shower and cleanse her skin of the afternoon’s humiliation. Instead, she peered closer to where he was pointing, to a spot just to the left of the door handle. “What am I looking for?”
    “This. See this?”
    “That speck?”
    “White paint. From the Prius. I’ve calculated the trajectory of its passenger door. And if you look closely, you’ll see chipped paint on the edge of the Pruis’s door—exactly the same height where it struck mine. And it’s much bigger than a speck.”
    “You need to stop obsessing and come back inside.”
    He leaned over at the waist and ran a finger along the side of the car. “ Jesus . The metal is damaged. Dented right in! It’ll have to be punched out, buffed, probably even painted.” He began scrubbing at the car door with the heel of his hand, his jacket sleeve brushing against the paint.
    “Dad!” She reached out to stop him. “Your jacket.”
    He examined his now grimy cuff. “It’s not too bad. The cleaner should be able to get it out, don’t you think?”
    “Hopefully, but you should be careful with it. It’s your leading-man suit, remember?”
    It was twelve years ago, a short while after they’d arrived in California. They were late for a movie in West-wood— Beethoven —to be followed by burgers and shakes at Hamburger Hamlet. Victor was not yet familiar with Los Angeles and had parked the Datsun—in its more pristine, prespecked days—too far away and, with only ten minutes to spare before the film began, he had taken hold of his daughter’s hand and begun to jog.
    Even through the eyes of an eight-year-old, Victor looked overdressed, marching flat-footed the way he did along the city streets on a Saturday, dressed in his impeccably cut navy suit and white shirt, with jacket tails and chartreuse tie flapping behind him as he rushed. But Victor was Victor—ever the preener. No occasion was too casual to risk being underdressed. Besides, he’d lost weight from jogging through the hills and was thrilled he could fit into the indigo Hugo Boss he hadn’t worn in years. It played up his blue eyes, his brand-new California tan.
    He’d slowed down at an intersection, unsure if they were headed in the right direction. As they waited forthe light to change, a couple dressed in matching pastel T-shirts, carrying maps and cameras, stopped and whispered to each other with great excitement. They moved closer and the husband said to Victor, “I know you.”
    Lila would never forget the way her