Authors: Sandi Perry
"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.
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.