“And her eyes?”
“They’re brown.”
“Limpid chocolate brown, or dark-corners-of-the-soul brown?”
I shrug. “Warm brown, like honey. And her mouth…”
“Like this?”
Rapscullio shows me a tiny bow, lips pursed together, but that’s not Delilah at all. Her mouth is always on the verge of a smile. It makes her look like there’s something amazing she needs to tell me, even when it’s justhello.
We continue in this fashion long after the next batch of cookies has burned to a crisp, as I suggest and tweak and correct Rapscullio’s portrait. “Hurry,” I say, wondering how much time I have before Delilah opens the book again and all this hard work is lost.
“Genius takes time,” Rapscullio says. But he finally turns the pad around so that I can see it. And sure enough, there is Delilah, staring straight back at me.
“Yes,” I say, nodding.
Rapscullio is pleased with himself. “So what’s the rush?” he asks. “What did she do?”
“Do?” I say.
“What crime did she commit?”
Then I remember the ruse I’ve used to get him to draw Delilah. “She’s a thief,” I say.
It’s not really a lie, after all. Because she’s totally, unequivocally stolen my heart.
