Come Fly With Me (34 page)

"Don't
let
the
apron
fool
you—my
father
can
be
ruthless.
He
didn't
double
the
family
fortune
in
five
years
by
giving
out
lollipops
to
children,"
Alex
said
as
he
leaned
forward
into
her
space.
"Why
don't
you
sign
your
paintings?
Why
won't
you
share
your
talent?"

Allison
was
surprised
at
the
direction
of
the
conversation
but
was
determined
not
to
act
defensively.
She
thought
about
Brett's
advice
of
jumping
in
with
both
feet,
eyes
shut
tight.

"When
I
was
eleven,
my
Uncle
Joey
died,"
she
said.
"For
many
years,
I
thought
that
I'd
killed
him.
He
was
a
change-of-life
baby
for
my
Bubby.
I
never
knew
what
that
meant
until
later;
I
only
knew
that
everyone
used
to
say
it."

She
shook
her
head,
"He
was
so
vibrant,
so
alive,
and
always
ready
to
try
something
crazy.
My
grandparents
were
clueless
how
to
deal
with
that
kind
of
energy.
We
had
been
at
the
cottage
in
Bar
Harbor
that
summer,"
she
took
a
deep,
shaky
breath.
"Uncle
Joey
and
I
were
all
the
way
down
at
the
other
end
of
the
property,
near
the
cliffs
that
line
Frenchman
Bay.
He
loved
an
adrenaline
rush.
He
wanted
to
jump
off
the
cliffs
into
the
water.
I
told
him:

"'Gramps
and
Gran
would
be
real
mad,
they
always
tell
me
and
Jeremy
to
stay
real
far
away
from
the
edge,'
I
said.

"'And
they're
right,
because
you're
so
little.
But,
I'm
twenty-one
and
six-feet
tall.
It's
different
for
me,'
he
said
as
he
started
peeling
down
to
his
bathing
suit."

She
shook
her
head
in
memory.
"He
took
a
running
jump
and
landed
with
a
large
splash.
I
ran
to
the
edge,
as
close
as
I
dared,
and
he
waved
from
down
below.
It
was
a
forbidden
rush
for
me.
He
was
always
doing
one
crazy
thing
or
another.
I
looked
guiltily
over
my
shoulder
at
the
adults
that
were
specks
in
the
distance.
It
took
him
a
little
while,
but
he
climbed
back
up."

"'Do
it
again!
Do
it
again!"
I
urged.
He
winked
at
me
and
leaned
over
to
kiss
me
on
my
forehead,
and
then
he
took
another
running
jump,"
her
voice
quavered.

"I
waited
a
long
time
for
him
to
wave
up
at
me,
but
he
never
did.
That
was
the
last
time
I
would
ever
s
ee
him
alive.
I
tried
to
tell
my
Bubby
during
the
Shiva
that
I
had
killed
him,
but
she
shushed
me.
'Mamaleh,
you
don't
know
what
you're
saying,'
she
said
to
me,
'you
must
never
say
that,
ever
again.'
I
never
told
another
soul
about
how
I
had
urged
him
on.
My
parents,
of
course,
saw
my
personality
change.
I
had
gone
from
a
lively,
fun
child
to
a
quiet,
serious
one
overnight.
They
took
me
to
counseling
and
naturally,
I
didn't
say
a
word
there,
either.
The
psychologist
suggested
Art
Therapy.
They
bought
me
a
sketchpad;
then
they
bought
me
canvasses.
I
become
someone
else
when
I
paint.
I
never
sell
my
paintings—it
somehow
would
feel
wrong."

"That's
an
enormous
burden
to
be
carrying
around
all
these
years."
Alex
leaned
back
as
he
spoke
and
shook
his
head.
"That
must
be
the
reason
you
keep
everyone
at
arm's
distance.
I
knew
it
had
to
be
something."

"I
don't
keep
everyone
at
arm's
distance."

He
cocked
an
eyebrow
in
her
direction,
"Yes.
You
do,"
he
reached
out
to
touch
her,
and
she
flinched.
"See?"
he
said.

"Don't
psychoanalyze
me.
It's
not
sexy."

"And
your
uncle's
death,
as
tragic
as
that
was,
is
not
the
reason
you
don't
sell
your
paintings.
You're
afraid."

"What?
Afraid
of
what?
That's
so
ridiculous,
I
don't
even
know
what
you're
talking
about.
You
don't
even
know
what
you're
talking
about..."

"Your
work
is
excellent.
It
has
emotion;
the
passion
shows
through.
You're
afraid
that
others
won't
think
your
work
is
good
enough.
You
don't
believe
in
yourself."

"That
is
such
a
crock..."

"Don't
interrupt
me
just
because
you
don't
like
what
I'm
saying.
Who
put
you
down?
Allison,
who
told
you
that
you
weren't
good
enough?"