by Sandi Perry
"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."
Allison made the introductions and spotted the reporter and photographer from New York. She took a deep breath and walked over in welcome, praying that she wouldn't come off as a complete fool.
"Mr. Saltz, I'm Allison Ross," she said as she extended her hand.
He shook her hand and turned back to view the paintings, occasionally checking to see if she was still there and shake his head. She stood by silently while she awaited her sentence.
"Hmm, a bold statement, launching a show in which you feature prominently. This is the first time I've ever seen this," he said.
"It isn't about me, Mr. Saltz, it's about pain and loss and the frailty of life. You see, over here in this one," she pointed at the canvas of her at the beach. "The woman is leaning on the boardwalk railing and looking pensively out into the unfathomable ocean. The sand is strewn with the remains of shells and seaweed and washed-up debris. Yet, in the background, you see the suggestion of a Ferris wheel and the fun and merriment usually associated with a day at the beach. Vince wanted to work on a series that spoke of life and he made up a woman whose features were a composite of all the women in his life. If his sister were standing here, you'd think this show was about her."
"That sounds a little far-fetched, but in any case, that doesn't make his work any less compelling or provocative. Ms. Ross, I congratulate you on your keen eye. Now, if you could introduce me to Vince and your mother, Vivienne Ross, I'll be on my way. I have two more openings to attend this evening."
"Of course," Allison breathed a sigh of relief.
After the introductions Allison took a quick look around the room to make sure all the guest were enjoying themselves and mingling nicely. Now came the delicate part of trying to sell the paintings. It seemed so self-indulgent; she didn't know where to begin. But, it had to be done—the evening could not be called a success if all the paintings remained unsold. She spotted the real estate agent she'd purchased her apartment from and was about to head over to him to talk him into a purchase when Jeremy came through the door.
She smiled and waved, "I thought you couldn't get off tonight?" she asked.
"I can't. You don't see me. I ran out, and if a patient codes while I'm here I'm in deep shit." He looked around, "Wow, this place is packed—you sure can draw a crowd. Point me in Mom's direction, please. I left the cab meter running, and I have only a minute to congratulate her on her big night."
Allison walked him over to where their mother was standing and turned back as Michael Essex came into view.
"Allison, the show is spectacular. I had no idea you had such a talented and beautiful mother," Michael said.
"Yes, she's an amazing woman."
"She fairly lights up the room. It's been a long time since I've met a confident woman who isn't self-absorbed. She's graceful and charming without even trying," he smiled.
Something in his tone made her look at him sharply, "Besides being so talented, she's an incredible mother—my incredible mother."
"Indeed."
He seemed distracted and she followed his line of vision, which was focused with pinpoint precision on her mother. He didn't seem to have heard a word she'd said.
"Sorry, I got lost for a moment. I purchased the beach scene for Kaitlin's birthday present. I thought it might appeal to her. Speaking of Kaitlin, I almost forgot. Here, she made me promise not to forget to give you these."
He handed her an envelope and disappeared into the crowd. She stood paralyzed for a second until Kenyon came up to her and gave her a slight shake, "Hey you, it's all working out spectacularly."
She nodded her agreement, her gaze set firmly on her mother and Michael Essex—flirting.
"They're a cute couple. Your mother looks enamored. And so does he, come to think of it," Kenyon said.
"They're not a couple; she's much older than him. He dates twenty-five year olds."
Kenyon smiled, "And your mom is about ten years older than him? Cougars are all the rage, now. Ashton and Demi started off a good trend."
"She's not a cougar; she's my mother," Allison bit out.
"That could be the new version of the old classic," Kenyon sang, "She's not heavy, she's my mother..."
"Here," she thrust the envelope at him. "Do something useful. Put this on my desk for me. I have some paintings to sell."
A headache was beginning to form and Allison was about to go to her office to get an aspirin when she spotted Bradley. He'd come out of his shell to a limited degree, but still had a long way to go if he was going to make it in New York. Allison thought her good deed for the year would be to introduce him around, maybe shore up his confidence with some new names to add to his contacts list.
"Bradley, thank you for coming."
He smiled, "It was nice of you to include me. I didn't expect it."
"Well, you're trying, so I am too. I was about to head into my office to get a couple of aspirin, could you walk me back?"
They made their way through the crowd and every so often Allison casually stopped and introduced Bradley. They walked into the calm of the office, and Allison breathed a loud sigh.
"I take it you're not much of a crowd person?" he asked.
"I hate crowds. I prefer my own company most of the time. And it's worse when it's self-inflicted," she frowned.
He stood awkwardly at the door, "Me too, I hate crowds."
"It isn't good."
"What isn't? What do you mean?'
"We're introverts, you and I. We spend too much time reflecting and being self-absorbed. Being in tune with yourself is a good thing, but not when it acts as a substitution for real company. I find it's easier to withdraw than deal, it seems we're similar in that regard," she said, observing him closely.
She proffered a bottle of water, but he shook his head. It was time to take a gamble. "I have some charcoal sketches here that are particular favorites of mine. I'd like to show them to you." She pulled out a flat oversized folder, laid it down on the desk, and studied his expression, as he looked them over carefully.
Finally he spoke. "There's an enormous amount of sadness in these sketches. The faces are weather-beaten and scarred. They're haunting. Did you do them?'
She looked at him, startled. "Why did you ask that?"
"I've seen some of your doodles at the office and the strokes are sure and practiced. I assumed you have some sort of talent."
She shook her head. "No, I didn't draw them, but our grandfather did."
He stiffened imperceptibly, "I think I should be getting back to the party. It's only right that I congratulate your mother on her work."
"She's your aunt," Allison said softly.
"Sorry, but it doesn't feel that way." He turned to go.
She spoke to his back, "Maybe with time you will come to feel like you're part of the family."
His response was to shrug his shoulders as he opened the door to let himself out and the noise in.
****
"A little over to the right, ahh, that's the spot," Allison was sprawled out on her sofa with her feet propped up on Kenyon's lap. He was massaging her right foot and she was in heaven. "I love high heels, but I'm crippled after wearing them for a few hours. Thanks, you're a lifesaver."
"You're welcome, and I must say I loved the dress you wore tonight. The pleated silvery silk looked like flowing water when you walked, and the bare shoulders almost made up for covering up your gorgeous sexy legs. With a thigh high slit, it would have been perfect."
"I was going for sleek and sophisticated, not Water Street strumpet."
"In any case, the evening was a smash. I can't believe every single painting sold and most of your mom's stuff went, too."
"Yes, I can't believe it turned out so well in the end. Which painting did you buy?"
"The one where you're bending in the field and smelling a sunflower."
"I was not in a field smelling a flower—you know better than most that I don't do things like that. Why'd you choose that one?"
"Maybe I was hoping you would, you know, slow down and smell the flowers."
She was taken aback. "Well, you know what, smarty pants? Maybe I will do just that."
He looked at her for a beat. "Your father would have been proud of you."
"Finally. My father would have been proud of me—finally."
"You know he loved you. That's why he pushed you so hard. He wanted you to be
a success."
"His vision of success. But you're right; I know he loved me. It's strange, we never got to have that tearful bedside good-bye. It was all so sudden, seemingly so random. I can't even recall what our last conversation was about. I know it didn't end with 'I love you.' I'm hard trying to make peace with all of it, and I think I'm getting my footing back. I'd have done things differently—said things in a different way, knowing what I know now. But I'm learning that living with regrets is not a way to live, and so..."
"And so, here we are. Trying to put one foot in front of the other," he lifted her foot off his lap. "Can I change the subject?"
She nodded her head, "Please."
"You never mentioned that Vince was a hunk," he said mischievously.
"Oh, did you get to meet him?"
Kenyon nodded.
"Did you get along?'
Kenyon nodded.
"And...?"
"We're going out for drinks Monday night."
"Well, well, well. I like that. I can see you two getting along. I can't believe I never thought of it. He's a bit temperamental as are most artistic sorts, but nothing you can't handle."
"I am definitely looking forward to handling it," he smiled. He got up and put her feet on the cushion. "I'm going—I'm exhausted. What are your plans for tomorrow?"
"I was thinking of sleeping all day. Thanks for everything, good night."
After Allison let him out, she remembered the envelope Michael had given her earlier that evening. She fished it out of her purse and looked through the pictures that Kaitlin had sent over of their afternoon together. She fanned them out on her sofa and got down on her knees as she shuffled them around. When she had four good ones arranged in a square, she leaned back on her heels. She studied the grouping for a long while. Then she jumped up, dashed into a hot shower and got out her comfiest pajamas. She put on her fluffiest terry robe and crocs with the precision of a general preparing for battle. The coffeemaker beeped its signal that a full pot was on standby. Allison took a bag of mint Milano cookies out of the pantry and clamped it between her teeth. Putting the pictures in her robe pocket, a mug in one hand and the thermal carafe in the other, she marched up the steps to her studio loft. She settled in and put up the heat. She rummaged around for a large canvas and lightly drew four quadrants in pencil on it. She sought out several tubes of oil paint in primary colors, channeled her best inner Warhol and worked steadily until dawn.
Chapter 37
Allison ran up the subway steps shortly before nine Friday morning. In the corner coffee shop, she ordered her usual poppy bagel with a shmear and a large coffee. She always made sure to be well fortified before she went up to the offices at RossAir. She'd been going in all week and so far had not run into Alex. She had a feeling though, that her luck was about to change and mentally steeled herself for what would surely turn into a confrontation. As she waited for her order, she checked her BlackBerry and saw three missed calls from her mother. She speed dialed her and was relieved when she came on the line, sounding fine. Ever since that awful phone call back in October, Allison's heart always skipped a beat when she saw repeat missed phone calls. As she collected her change from the cashier, her pulse returned to a steady rhythm.
"Mom, sorry I missed your calls earlier—I was in the subway. Sure, I can meet you around two; let's say at My Most Favorite Dessert Cafe? Great. Wow, this is the second time you've coming into the city this week. Can't wait to hear all about it. Okay, see you then."
She hurried across the street before the light changed and walked through the revolving doors, balancing her coffee cup precariously while elbowing the doors to keep them moving along. Revolving doors were supposed to make things easier. Actually, taking coffee from the office machine would have been easier, but they had a menu of flavored coffees and firmly believed coffee should taste like coffee, not like a liquid cinnamon bun.
After gathering her messages from Natalya, she made her way down the hall to her office, soon to be her former office—she was counting the days. She looked forward to the day when she didn't have to take into account Natalya's mood. She came to the elementary conclusion that when Natalya wore black her heart was black as well. No minor misstep escaped her eagle eye. If her clothing were pastel, it meant she'd had a good round of sex the night before
with her husband and she would be mellow. Give me crazy, vase-throwing artistic divas any day, she thought. At least their idiosyncrasies come from a creative outlet.
Allison sat at her computer and worked steadily for an hour. A sharp knock brought her head up; she was dismayed to see Alex at her door.
"Yes?" she asked.
He walked in and sat down, "I've been thinking about our conversation last week, and I think I might have been a little harsh," he said.
"Really?" she said. "And I meant to call and thank you. It made me realize that I've been tolerating a lot of static in my life. In the past, I never tolerated unproductive, irritating people, but somehow over the last few months, I lost my footing." She got up from her seat and came around to perch on her desk. "So, I apologize. It won't happen again. I'm working on my statement to the board, outlining the future of this company. The board will convene shortly after and a CEO will be named. So, I need no longer be a concern of yours and frankly, you are of no concern to me any longer—you've been flushed."
"I've been what?"
"You heard me, flushed," she made a twirling motion with her hand. "You can leave now."
"I'm not leaving. I have no idea what you're talking about.
"I hear noise, oh that must be the static I thought I was eliminating from my life. But lo and behold," she looked pointedly at him, "it's still here."
"You're not making any sense."
"You see, Alex, that's the exact problem; I make sense to everyone but you. I'll say it again, you can leave now."
He sat still and watched while she sat down again and entered her report on the computer.
"Can we please go somewhere to talk about this like two adults? Maybe for drinks after work?'
"Ha, as if."
He grimaced, "Pretty please, with a cherry on top?"
"I have a big birthday bash tonight. Don't you know that Michael Essex is throwing a BIG party? Oh, that's right, of course you don't know, because you don't exist. You are no longer relevant—sort of like vinyl records and boom boxes."
He sighed loudly, "You're sounding foolish, making up excuses like phantom parties—like you even know Michael Essex."