Come Fly With Me (77 page)

Allison's
lips
were
pursed,
"It's
an
awful
idea;
I'll
be
the
laughingstock
of
the
artists'
community.
I'm
praying
for
a
snowstorm
tonight.
Have
you
heard
the
forecast?"

"Clear
and
forty-five.
But
surely
you
knew
about
these
paintings.
Didn't
you
see
some
sort
of
renderings?"

"I
was
too
busy
to
check."

"That
doesn't
sound
like
you,
Allison.
You're
usually
so
in
control
of
everything.
No
detail
ever
gets
by
you—what's
going
on?"

"I've
been
juggling
too
many
plates,
but
guess
what?
It
won't
be
a
problem
after
tonight,
because
most
of
those
plates
are
about
to
come
crashing
down
and
then
my
decision
will
have
been
made
for
me.
I
guess
I'll
end
up
working
for
RossAir."

"A
decision
by
default?
And
you're
going
to
stand
by
and
allow
everything
you've
worked
for
come
down
around
you—while
you
stand
around
and
watch?
That
doesn't
sound
like
the
Allison
I
know.
The
daughter
that
I
know
fights
and
fights
until
she
gets
her
way.
It
isn't
like
you
to
accept
defeat
graciously—
before
it's
even
happened!"

Allison
shrugged,
"Maybe
I'm
just
exhausted."

"Sweetheart,
you've
suffered
a
trauma
and
you
haven't
recovered.
Your
father
was
a
strong,
force
of
life
and
that
life
was
snuffed
out
in
a
moment.
Everyone
feels
vulnerable
and
uncertain
after
something
like
that
happens.
But
it's
time
to
snap
out
of
it
and
resume
control
of
your
life."

"Are
you
also
psychoanalyzing
me?"
she
gasped.

"Er,
no...Yes.
Yes,
I
am,"
her
mother
said
defiantly.

"Well,
join
the
club,
it
seems
to
be
a
growing
trend,"
Allison
muttered.

"Now,
listen
to
me
young
lady,"
her
mother
said
sternly.

"Oh
no,
not
the
young
lady
speech,
please,
I'll
do
anything.
I'll
feed
homeless
people,"
Allison
begged.

"You
go
to
your
room...er,
office,
and
you
don't
come
out
until
you
have
a
firm
plan
for
turning
this
mess
around."
She
stood
with
her
hands
planted
firmly
on
her
hips
while
Allison
skulked
her
way
to
her
office.

Emily
came
running
over,
"Mrs.
Ross,
were
you
just...scolding
Allison?"

"Yes,
Emily,
and
she
deserved
it.
Now,
let's
get
to
work.
It
looks
like
I
got
here
just
in
time."

****

There
was
a
pleasant
hum
to
the
room
as
Pete
Huttlinger
played
Stevie
Wonder's
classic,
"Isn't
She
Lovely"
on
his
acoustic
guitar.
The
champagne
was
flowing
and
bangle
bracelets
and
swinging
earrings
added
a
musical
tinkle
to
the
atmosphere.
Allison
spotted
Vince
as
he
entered
the
gallery
and
glided
over
to
greet
him,
a
warm
smile
pasted
on
her
face.

"
Ma chere, mon amour
!
You
are
as
stunning
as
ever,"
Vince
gushed.
"The
gallery
is
pulsing
with
positive
energy—you've
done
it
again!"

"Vince!"
Allison
cooed.
As
she
leaned
in
for
a
double-cheeked
kiss
she
whispered,
"You're
so
dead."

He
looked
puzzled,
"Darling
Allison,
I
was
afraid
you
would
not
like
my
idea,
but
when
I
didn't
hear
from
you,
I
assumed
you
were
okay
with
it."

"Well,
I
have
no
choice
now
but
to
make
the
best
of
it,"
she
responded.

He
whispered,
"It's
some
of
my
best
work.
I've
known
you
for
the
last
three
years,
but
I've
never
been
able
to
see
inside
you.
For
the
first
time,
I
see
the
real
woman."

Now
it
was
Allison's
turn
to
look
puzzled.
She
walked
closer
to
the
wall
and
looked
at
the
paintings
closely.
There
she
was,
well,
suggestions
of
her:
at
the
beach,
on
a
busy
street,
as
an
outside
observer,
her
face
in
deep
repose
as
if
thinking
through
life's
most
profound
and
unanswerable
questions.
She
hadn't
really
looked
at
the
paintings,
at
all.
She
turned
back
to
face
Vince.

"I'm
sorry
if
I
ever
doubted
you.
Once
again,
I'm
so
swept
up
in
my
own
drama
that
I
can't
even
see
what's
right
in
front
of
me."
She
linked
her
arm
through
his.
"Come
with
me
so
I
can
introduce
you
to
my
mother,
the
other
featured
artist
of
the
evening.
She's
a
big
fan
of
yours."