Come Fly With Me (45 page)

"The
builder?
Doesn't
he
have
his
own
team
of
architects?
He's
got
buildings
going
up
on
every
corner
of
the
city."

"Well,
he
doesn't
like
for
his
staff
to
know
his
personal
business.
He's
having
us
draw
up
plans
for
a
huge
mansion
in
South
Hampton,
and
he
came
by
to
check
on
the
progress."

"Send
him
my
way
when
he's
up
to
his
eyeballs
in
blank
wall
space,"
Allison
said.

"Funny
you
should
say
that.
He
wants
to
meet
you—he
was
taken
with
your
'Rachel'
painting
that
he
saw
in
my
office,"
Ken
replied.

"Oh,
brother,
not
you
too,"
she
half-mumbled
to
herself.

"When
are
you
going
to
let
yourself
off
the
hook?
Eighteen
years
is
enough
time
to
be
carrying
around
guilt
for
something
you
aren't
even
guilty
of."

"I
have
to
hang
onto
my
guilt;
I
owe
it
to
my
Jewish
heritage."

"Anyway,
Mr.
Essex
has
a
daughter
and
that
painting
reminds
him
of
her.
He
would
like
you
to
paint
her
portrait.
She's
twelve
and
he
wants
to
capture
her
youth
and
innocence
before
she
turns
into
a
sex-crazed
hormonal
teenager."

"I
don't
do
portraits,
that
would
be
like
the
nightmare
of
my
world,
trying
to
get
a
young
girl
to
cooperate."

"I
gave
him
your
number."

Allison
put
down
her
fork
and
stared
at
Ken.
"I'm
satisfied
with
my
little
gallery
and
my..."

"Your
what?
What
is
your
life,
Ally?
You're
so
busy
hiding
from
it,
it's
any
wonder
you
even
admit
to
your
own
name!
When's
the
last
time
you
went
on
a
date,
allowed
someone
new
into
your
life,
or
even
made
a
new
friend.
You're
twenty-nine
years
old
in
the
most
exciting
city
in
the
world
and
you
might
as
well
be
some
girl
working
the
family
farm
in
Iowa.
You
can't
play
it
safe,
life
doesn't
work
that
way—it's
messy,
even
stupid
sometimes
and
glorious
at
others.
But
it's
all
we
have
and
you're
letting
it
slip
right
through
your
fingers."

"You
could
at
least
have
waited
until
I
ate
my
dessert
before
you
laid
all
this
on
me.
I'm
not
sure
I
have
an
appetite
left."

"I'll
wrap
the
cobbler
for
you,"
he
huffed.

Allison
sat
silently
as
she
moved
the
one
remaining
potato
around
on
her
plate.
It
was
soaked
with
gravy
and
made
intricate
swirl
patterns
as
she
spun
it
in
concentric
circles.

"Stop
playing
with
your
food,"
Kenyon
said.

She
smiled,
"Wow,
you're
mean
when
you're
not
getting
any."

"I
love
you,"
he
said.

"I
know.
And
I
love
you,
too.
But
I
can't
take
it
when
you
yell
at
me."

"That
wasn't
yelling.
That
was
gentle
admonition
combined
with
extreme
frustration
and
the
beginnings
of
irritation,"
he
ran
his
fingers
through
his
hair
as
he
said
this.

Her
eyes
followed
his
hand's
movement,
and
she
was
mesmerized
by
her
thoughts
as
to
how
simple
life
could
have
been
for
her,
if
only...

"Ken,"
she
whispered.
"I
don't
know
how
to
turn
off
the
tough.
My
father
taught
me
how
to
stand
up
for
myself
and
have
my
voice
heard.
Now,
he's
gone,
and
I
don't
know
how
to
stop
fighting
everyone.
Myself,
included."

"You
need
to
go
back
to
when
it
all
started."

"What
does
that
mean?"

"It
means
you'll
figure
it
out."

Several
days
later
Michael
Essex
came
by
the
gallery.
Allison
recognized
him
immediately,
even
as
she
realized
that
the
tabloid
pictures
didn't
do
him
justice.
He
was
taller
and
younger-looking
in
person.
His
suit
under
his
cashmere
coat
had
the
cut
of
English
tailoring.
It
was
easy
to
see
why
he
was
a
magnet
for
the
sophisticated,
urbane
women
of
New
York.

"Mr.
Essex,"
she
stepped
up
and
greeted
him
warmly,
hoping
her
nerves
didn't
give
her
away.
She
offered
her
hand
and
continued,
"Kenyon
James
said
you
might
be
stopping
by.
Are
there
any
pieces
in
particular
that
you
had
in
mind?
We
just
got
a
large
canvas
from
an
upcoming
artist
here,
at
the
other
end
of
the
gallery—"