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how to make money as a drawing artist

datatime: 2022-12-03 21:51:24 Author:rUKpIWVo

He checked the luminous dial of his watch. 'It's only a few minutes past nine. I'm going to try to see another of the families tonight.'

Georgine Delmann herself answered the door. Joe recognized her from her photo in one of the Post articles about the crash. She was in her late forties, tall and slim, with richly glowing dusky skin, masses of curly dark hair, and lively eyes as purple-black as plums. Hers was a wild beauty, and she assiduously tamed it with steel-frame eyeglasses instead of contacts, no makeup, and grey slacks and white blouse that were manly in style.

Although he'd finished more than half of his second drink, Joe felt no effect from the 7-and-7. He had never seen a picture of Nora Vadance; nevertheless, the mental image he held of a faceless woman in a patio chair with a butcher knife was sufficiently sobering to counter twice the amount of whiskey that he had drunk.

As Clarise and Bob followed him onto the porch, Joe said, 'When they found Nora, was the photograph of Tom's grave with her?'

Clarise said, 'What'll you do now, Joe?'

When the 747-400 fell, the Delmanns lost their eighteen-year-old daughter, Angela, who had been returning from an invitation-only, six-week watercolour workshop at a university in New York, to prepare for her first year at art school in San Francisco. Apparently, she had been a talented painter with considerable promise.

The metropolis glowed, a luminous fungus festering along the coast. Like spore clouds, the sour-yellow radiance rose and smeared the sky. Nevertheless, a few stars were visible: icy, distant light.

'I know what you're thinking,' Clarise said. 'If she was going to kill herself, why bother with breakfast? It's even weirder than that, Joe. She'd made an omelette with Cheddar and chopped scallions and ham. Toast on the side. A glass of fresh-squeezed orange juice. She was halfway through eating it when she got up and went outside with the camcorder.

A minute ago, the night had seemed gracious, and he had seen nothing to fear in it. Now it loomed, and he repeatedly checked his rear-view mirror.

When the 747-400 fell, the Delmanns lost their eighteen-year-old daughter, Angela, who had been returning from an invitation-only, six-week watercolour workshop at a university in New York, to prepare for her first year at art school in San Francisco. Apparently, she had been a talented painter with considerable promise.

When Joe told her his name, before he could say that his family had been on Flight 353, she exclaimed, to his surprise, 'My God, we were just talking about you!'

When the 747-400 fell, the Delmanns lost their eighteen-year-old daughter, Angela, who had been returning from an invitation-only, six-week watercolour workshop at a university in New York, to prepare for her first year at art school in San Francisco. Apparently, she had been a talented painter with considerable promise.

For a moment they were silent, pondering the imponderable.

Although he'd finished more than half of his second drink, Joe felt no effect from the 7-and-7. He had never seen a picture of Nora Vadance; nevertheless, the mental image he held of a faceless woman in a patio chair with a butcher knife was sufficiently sobering to counter twice the amount of whiskey that he had drunk.

He checked the luminous dial of his watch. 'It's only a few minutes past nine. I'm going to try to see another of the families tonight.'

When Joe told her his name, before he could say that his family had been on Flight 353, she exclaimed, to his surprise, 'My God, we were just talking about you!'

They shook hands. The handshake became a brotherly hug.

'We found it on the table when we arrived from San Diego,' Clarise recalled. 'Beside her breakfast plate.'

As though they were friends of long experience, Clarise put her arms around Joe and hugged him. 'I hope this Rose is a good person, like you think. I hope you find her. And whatever she has to tell you, I hope it brings you some peace, Joe.'

Joe was surprised. 'She'd eaten breakfast?'

'I know what you're thinking,' Clarise said. 'If she was going to kill herself, why bother with breakfast? It's even weirder than that, Joe. She'd made an omelette with Cheddar and chopped scallions and ham. Toast on the side. A glass of fresh-squeezed orange juice. She was halfway through eating it when she got up and went outside with the camcorder.

The woman you described on the video was deeply depressed or in an altered state of some kind. How could she have had the mental clarity or the patience to make such a complicated breakfast?'

The woman you described on the video was deeply depressed or in an altered state of some kind. How could she have had the mental clarity or the patience to make such a complicated breakfast?'

The Delmanns were physicians. He was an internist specializing in cardiology, and she was both internist and ophthalmologist. They were prominent in the community, because in addition to their regular medical practices, they had founded and continued to oversee a free clinic for children in East Los Angeles and another in South Central.

Bob and Clarise were still standing on the porch, side by side, watching Joe as he drove away.

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