From the current Vogue, he sketches patterns replicating a boot-length skirt and matching vest of plum-colored suede and a forest green velvet floor-length evening gown, with its faintly medieval-looking sleeves and squared neck. Then Palazzo pants and long tunic ensemble. Russet perhaps. Offset by an ochre turtleneck.
The work focuses him, tamping down the undercurrent of terror beneath the strata of craft and confidence. He jumps when Marty raps on the door. When he sees the sketches on the floor Marty does a little Zorba dance.
“Good for you, kiddo!” The mild exertion leaves him a little breathless and he plops down in a chair. “So? How are things?”
Vince notices dried egg, like pollen dust, flaking from the old man’s shirtfront. And the wrapped cigar in his breast pocket. “I’m makin
