Part 91 (1/2)

thunderous chords, then an experimental noodling of notes, and the

chords again. Emma took her board from him to prop it against the wall.

”They're back here.” After a moment's hesitation, she took Michael's

hand and led him down the wide white hallway.

He'd never seen a house like it, though he was too embarra.s.sed to say

so. Arched doorways opened on room after room where abstract paintings

were slashes of frantic color against white walls. Even the floors were

white so that Michael was unable to shake the feeling he was walking

through some kind of temple.

Then he saw the G.o.ddess, the portrait of the G.o.ddess above a fireplace

of white stone. She was blond and sulky-mouthed, wearing a white

sequined dress that skimmed dangerously over the globes of her lush

b.r.e.a.s.t.s.

”Wow.1)

”That's Angie,” Emma told him. Her nose wrinkled quickly,

automatically. ”She's mained to P.M.”

”Yeah.” He had the oddest feeling that the portrait's eyes were alive

and fixed on him hungrily. ”I, ah, saw her last movie.” He didn't add

that after he had, he'd experienced fascinating and uncomfortably erotic

dreams. ”Man, she's something.”

”Yes, she is.” And even at not-quite thirteen, Emma was aware what that

something was. She gave Michael's hand an impatient tug, then continued

on.

It was the only room Emma felt at ease in-the only room in the mausoleum

of a house where she imagined P.M. had been given a chance to express

his own taste. There was color here, a mix-match of blues and reds and