Come Fly With Me Page 3

  Alex flashed a blinding smile as he pointed. “That’s me at the top of the list. No need to look any further.” He made himself comfortable as he crossed his legs.

  “I believe the list is alphabetical,” Allison responded.

  “Makes no bit of difference—I always end up on top,” his green eyes sparked as he spoke.

  He reached forward to take the paper as she tried to drop her hand on it. Alex was faster. It reminded her of her youth when she would play 'spit,' that crazy, fast-paced card game with her friends.

  “Now don’t they teach you how to share here in New York? Well look at that. Your name is here too—right at the bottom.”

  “Again, Mr. Coventry, I believe the list is alphabetical."

  “No need for formalities, Allison. Please call me Alex. I believe we will be working rather closely for the next little while as we smooth out the bumps to make way for my new position as CEO of RossAir Industries.”

  Allison took in his light-colored linen suit—regrettably off-season and his blonde surfer good looks and shook her head. “Are you not from around here, Alex? I detect a strange blend of accents.”

  “Born in Buckhead—that's the snooty part of Atlanta," he smiled as she nodded. "And schooled in the Northeast— Harvard, M.I.T.”

  “Of course, I might have known,” Allison half-mumbled to herself. Her father had always been a closet intellectual snob.

  “Well.” Alex rose to his full height, which was several inches taller than Allison’s five-eight plus four inches for her black Gucci patent pumps. “I joined the company just a year ago and greatly enjoyed the time I spent here with your father. He was a visionary and his loss will be felt greatly, professionally as well as personally.” He tipped an imaginary hat and quickly left.

  Allison stared at the closed door. She didn’t know what to make of his cocky, overly confident swagger. The other three names on her list were ones she recognized from years of hearing her father talk business. They were trusted, familiar, and most likely predictable in their vision for the company.

  She buzzed Natalya again. “Could you please send out a memo asking the board members to meet me in the conference room in two hours?”

  Allison walked into the conference room a short while later and looked at the six men sitting around the gleaming wood table. They ranged in age from fifty-five to sixty-three and were wearing almost identical dark suits and varying versions of power ties. Alexander Coventry was nowhere in sight.

  “Gentlemen, thank you for joining me on such short notice, as you know, the matter at hand is an urgent one. RossAir is a pilotless plane now. I will do everything in my power to see that the proper candidate is selected to steer us into the twenty-first century.” The group looked as if they might appreciate a pep talk heavy on symbolism—she hoped she was right.

  “So you don’t intend to take the position yourself?” Paul Franklin, candidate number two, asked.

  “No, Paul. As you all know, I run the Simon Ross Charitable Trust and my own gallery. My plate is full enough as it is, but I will be acting as interim CEO until I have made a decision as to my father’s replacement.”

  “Your father can never be replaced, but of course the health of this company is of greatest importance to us. We will do our best to ease the transition.” This was from John Rivers, candidate number four. Also present and silent at the moment were Martin Ross, Gary Menken—candidate number three, and two men she did not recognize. Allison

  opened the floor to air concerns anyone might have. She watched the exchanges carefully, trying to get a read on those present. She adjourned the meeting and went back to her office with the beginnings of a headache.

  She called Emily at the gallery to see how she was holding up. “We’ve had a lot of foot traffic so far today, but only one serious sale. A gentleman just bought your mother’s newest glass bowl, the one with the peacock feather swirls.”

  “Oh, Mom will be thrilled. That’s just the sort of pick-me-up she could use right now. Did you get the asking price?”

  “Sure did, he paid twenty-five hundred for it. How're things going on your end?”

  “It’s like I just stepped into an episode of Mad Men. Too bad I left my pearls at home.”

  Emily laughed. “Don’t tell me all the women are wearing Kay Unger dresses cinched at the waist and flaring out suggestively to just below the knee.”

  “Women? I’m the only one here besides for my father’s assistant, Natalya.”

  “What are you wearing?” Emily asked.

  “A fuchsia Escada sheath dress with a wide patent belt and a cropped black cardigan.”

  “Nothing says power like you in jewel tones,” Emily said.

  “Thanks for being there for me, Emily, I’m about one second from walking out the door and never showing my face here again. I don't know what the hell I'm doing.”

  “I know you’ll make it work, Allison, you always do.”

  Allison had one more thing to check off on her list before she stopped for the day. “Natalya, could you please come in here for a minute?”

  “Of course." Allison ignored the slight undercurrent of superiority as Natalya took a seat.

  “I need your two minute assessment of each of these candidates.” She handed the list to her.

  “Alexander Coventry. Have you met him?” she asked.

  Allison nodded in response.

  “He’s too young for me, but he’s the type of man worth a sexual harassment suit. Anyway, he’s brilliant and your father took to him like nothing I’ve ever seen.”

  “I'm shocked my father thought that highly of him. He'd always been more conservative in his vision for the company, unless that changed lately. He wasn’t at the meeting; I would have expected him to be on the board.”

  “It was coming up for vote next week. Your cousin, Bradley, was the most vocal against it and was trying to persuade your uncle and a few of the others to vote against him.”

  “But Bradley isn’t even a board member.”

  “Exactly. Bradley was miffed that Alex had been invited to serve on the board. He was hoping the vacant slot after Arthur Hicks retired would go to him. He didn’t hide his distaste for Alex.”

  “How did Alex respond?"

  “In his usual way,” Natalya said. “He shrugged it off. He comes across as laid-back, but behind that polite southern charm is a barracuda. He’ll get what he wants in the end.”

  “And the others?”Allison prodded.

  “Well, Paul as you know has been with your father from the start. Until Alex arrived on the scene, I would have said his chances were the best. Now I’m not so sure. The other two are interchangeable. The company will remain safe under any of the three. They're cost conscious and keep an eye on the bottom line. Just put their names in a hat and draw one out.”

  “Thank you, Natalya, this is really helpful. I see why my father spoke so highly of your abilities.” Natalya smiled genuinely. Allison wasn’t above laying it on a little thick. Making sure Natalya’s claws stayed sheathed would only expedite matters. And besides, she held a grudging respect for Natalya. Anyone who could put up with her father for the last twenty years must have a substantial set of cojones.

  Chapter 6

  Allison walked into her loft after eight that evening. She loved the Art Deco influence of the building, nestled in the heart of SoHo. Though she was too drained to notice much, as she opened the door, the aroma of delectable, homemade coffee cake hit her. She stood at the kitchen table and stared at the perfectly shaped mound of doughy cinnamon cake with its creamy glaze oozing down the sides. It was like a mirage—so starved was she for simple comfort. She touched it; it was real and still warm. The propped-up note read: EAT. CALL ME. She smiled with a fatigue that was deep within her grumbling belly. Allison kicked off her shoes and walked back to her door. She opened it and at the top of lungs called out “KENYON!”

  The other door on the floor flung open. “No need to shout, doll, you shoul
d’ve known I’d be waiting for you on your first day back home. I'm sorry I missed the funeral, but you didn't give me much time to get back from Paris. But I'm here now, so tell me all about it,” he said as he walked toward her and swept her into his six-foot two frame.

  She took big gulping breaths as she leaned into him. When she finally pulled away, she looked into his chocolate brown eyes and patted his chest, “Been laying off the Twinkies?”

  “Ah, my bitch is back. Changing the subject is your specialty. Avoidance will rear up and bite you in your firm, shapely butt.”

  “No one else could make me feel so good on the third worst day of my life.”

  “Was the office chaotic? Was it a teeming mass of testosterone gone awry? Oh, I think I just turned myself on.”

  Allison laughed, “Only you can turn a tragedy into a comedy. The company is functioning as a well-oiled machine—just what I expected. It’s the original old boys’ club. “

  “So, dish. Who are the front runners for the head honcho spot?”

  “Let’s eat this cake while it’s still warm.” She reached into the cabinet and pulled out a couple of plates.

  “That hot, huh? And I don’t mean the cake.”

  “Not talking about it.”

  “Tall? Blonde? He has to be very smart.”

  “I’m ignoring you,” Allison sing-songed.

  “Evading question number two. And now going for the Triple Crown—who’s his tailor?”

  “He desperately needs a makeover and the directions to Barneys.”

  “So he’s smokin’,” Kenyon sighed.

  “Seriously, Ken, I love you dearly, but cut the cake right now or I’m sending you back down the hall. Your job is to calm me down, not rile me up.”

  “I’m not the one doing the riling,” he muttered under his breath. He put a chunk on a plate as Allison went to put on the coffee.

  “My hearing is excellent,” she called over her shoulder. He was sitting as meek as a mouse when she pulled out a chair and plopped down. She reached for his hand. “You’ll have your fun—but not today.”

  “I know. I’m just trying to keep it light.”

  “And I love you for that. You’re the best fairy godmother, ever.”

  “You just be careful who you’re calling a fairy.” He laughed good-naturedly.

  She took a bite of cake. Tears sprang to her eyes. “It’s my Bubby’s recipe!”

  “Of course it is. We’ll worry about the calories next week, for now, you need the comfort only fattening food can provide.”

  “I knew you’d put those recipes to good use. No one bakes with real butter anymore.” She sat silent for a few minutes. A thousand images flared up in her mind. The summers in Maine—her beloved grandparents, those memories competed with the present and the stress of the last few days. The combination brought out a vulnerability that she hadn’t given into in many years.

  “I’m not sure I can do this, Ken,” she whispered.

  “I am. It’s just the exhaustion talking now. And when people offer to help, surprise yourself by accepting it. You don’t have to be the hero. Just text me your request for baked goods in the morning, so I’ll make sure to have all the proper ingredients.”

  She managed a watery smile.

  “Let me tuck you into bed.”

  “Would you please? My legs have turned into jelly.”

  He gently guided her toward the partitioned rear of the loft that served as bedroom space. He pulled a tank top and p.j. bottoms from a drawer and handed them to her. He turned his back.

  “Are you sure you can’t do this for me? I’m dropping.”

  “No way. I’m only going to undress you when I know you’re awake enough to enjoy it.”

  “You know, bi-sexuality was a fictitious invention of the eighties when closeted gay people were afraid to venture too far out of the closet.”

  Ken turned around with a big smile on his face. “I can assure you, bi-sexuals are alive and well. The only reason you don’t hear about them is that gay people nowadays are afraid to admit they like to switch hit. It sounds disloyal.” He pulled back the fluffy duvet and plumped her pillow.

  “Why are all the good men gay? I must be really tired if I’m speaking in clichés.”

  “You’re actually speaking in your sleep. Good night wee one,” he said as he shut the light. He walked into the kitchen area, wrapped up the remains of the cake, popped it in the freezer and let himself out.

  *****

  An eleven-year-old Allison was sitting at the top of the ten-foot cliff, the waters of Bar Harbor swirling softly below. She clapped her hands together.

  “Do it again! Do it again!”she urged excitedly. But this time it was her father taking the plunge.

  “No!” she shouted, waking herself up. Her heart pounded, and she felt drenched in sweat as she jumped from the bed. She raced around the loft switching on the lights. It had been many years since she’d had the nightmare. She pulled on a sweatshirt and made a fresh pot of coffee. Her hands shook as she took a few calming sips from her favorite Hershey's mug. Her nerves sang as she aimlessly walked around the loft in a futile attempt to quiet them. When the worst of it had passed, she climbed the flight of stairs to the top floor of the building. The only place that gave her that inner tranquility she desperately sought had four large skylights that were just waking up with the dawn. She turned on her iPod in its dock and was soothed as Miley's nasally twang caressed her. The canvas was almost finished, she noted absently as she lifted her paintbrush and gave herself over to the dark, moody swirling waters.

  Chapter 7

  Late Thursday afternoon, Allison approached Natalya’s desk. “Natalya you’ve been a lifesaver this week—thank you very much.”

  “You are most definitely welcome,” she said as she took off her reading glasses and smoothed down her black pinstriped suit.

  “I'm leaving now for the day, I have to get to the gallery and put in a couple of hours before we close. I won’t be in tomorrow, either. My assistant and I will be preparing the items for the We Care auction on Saturday evening.”

  “Yes, of course, I’ve heard about that. Will you be going out to L.A. on Monday morning?” Natalya asked.

  “What’s in L.A. on Monday?”

  “Oh, I'd have thought Bradley would've mentioned it.” Natalya looked displeased. “Your father had assigned Bradley the responsibility of working with the interior design team to streamline the interiors of the new fleet of jets."

  "Wow, I'm impressed that Dad gave him such an important responsibility."

  "It turned out to be short-lived because Bradley bungled the job. He accused the head designer of misappropriation of funds." She set her reading glasses down on her desk. "It turned out to be a simple bookkeeping error that hadn’t been caught until the ugliness came to light. Your father was beside himself. He had an exclusive and long-standing relationship with that team of interior designers. He had arranged to fly out there to smooth the ruffled feathers himself."

  "I would imagine he was furious," Allison added.

  "Actually, you just reminded me your father argued with Bradley quite loudly that morning of the accident. He had given Bradley the chance to prove himself in order to please Martin and ease the bite of selecting Alex to serve on the board over him, but it backfired. He accused Bradley of trying to sabotage the company," Natalya finished.

  “I'd assume it wasn’t the first time my father was involved in a shouting match at the office. He had a volatile nature. But this sounds like cause for concern. Did you tell this to the police?”

  “No, I didn’t make the connection until this minute,” Natalya replied slowly.

  Allison fished out Detective Fitzsimons’ card and handed it to her. “Please make the call.”

  “Of course. Right away,” she nodded.

  Allison felt unnerved as she rode down in the elevator. Once again, the stress of the last two weeks threatened to overtake her. She had never thought of hersel
f as a weak person, but this new development threw her. She looked at the time; it was nearing four o'clock, and she was anxious to get to the gallery. Allison remembered when her father had pitched the idea of her joining the company back when she was still in college. He had driven up to Brown University one fall Sunday afternoon on the guise of foliage watching. He took her out to lunch and tried to tell her she had a head for business. Her major was still undecided at the time, but she knew sitting at a desk or in front of a computer would be stifling to her.

  "Dad, what would you say if I told you I was considering declaring Art history as my major?"

  "Art isn't a major," her father said. "It's a hobby."

  "It's more than a hobby to me, Dad. I could run a gallery or work on preparing exhibits for museums."

  "Brown isn't the place for that kind of pseudo-degree, and besides, I didn't drive all the way up here to listen to your fantasies."

  "You said you drove up here to see the leaves."

  "I drove up here to make sure my daughter doesn't have any foolish notions of how the world runs. Your mother let me know me that you weren't considering accounting as your major."

  "That's right," Allison responded. "You were the only one considering it; accounting was never interesting to me."

  "Allison, you're brighter than you give yourself credit for—you got into Brown. I will not allow you to throw away an Ivy League education on art."

  "Meaning?"

  "If you want to stay, then declare accounting as your major."

  She shook her head even as she caved, "Of course, Dad, whatever you say."

  As much as she hated to admit it, her accounting degree turned out to be invaluable when she'd taken over running the family charitable foundation and her own business. I guess my father did know a thing or two. I’m glad I listened to him at least once in my life, Allison smiled to herself. She was in better spirits as she entered the gallery and spotted Emily chatting it up with a customer. Emily was as close to a best friend as she was ever going to get, besides Kenyon, of course. Shared gossip, usually a mainstay of many friendships didn't interest Allison.