Her Winning Ways by J.M. Bronston (34)

Allie’s fury was almost audible.

How did I allow him to talk me into this!

The little plane dropped several feet, wobbling as the pilot righted it, and a weak cry escaped from Allie’s lips. She leaned her head back and closed her eyes, her hands gripping the edge of her seat.

I should never have agreed! Adam knows perfectly well I have important projects coming up.

The tiny commuter plane pitched and slogged along its course, like a toy powered by rubber bands, and Allie’s fingers dug deeper into the seat.

Two new commissions and a couple of possible new clients. And there’s the show at the Whiscombe Gallery in July. I have no business being away from New York for the whole summer.

The bouncing plane bucked a heavy headwind, and it helped her steady her nerves to lay the blame on Adam. She had completely forgotten that the night before, when he set up this trip, she had been enthusiastic and eager to participate.

If he was right about it—and Adam was always right—it would be a real money maker. And it would be a big career move for her, too. That’s what she’d thought last night. Now, the only thing she wanted was to get this awful flight over with and be safely on the ground again.

She took a couple of deep breaths, opened her eyes and forced herself to relax and let herself look around. She hadn’t known commercial planes could be so small. The cramped cabin space wasn’t any bigger than the kitchen of her little apartment back in Manhattan. The aisle running between the nine little bucket seats was so narrow that even a slim woman like Allie had to twist uncomfortably to get to her seat and, although she was only an inch or two above average height, she had to bend her head and hunch her shoulders as she walked through.

Right in front of her, the pilot and copilot were chatting comfortably with each other, apparently at home with the mysterious panel of switches, winking lights, and quivering dials spread out before them. Allie took little comfort from their breezy manner and wished they would just pay attention to flying this little crate all the way to Cape Cod without incident. She was willing to bet that the other two passengers were, like her, clutching silently at their seats and praying that the fates would deliver them safely back to solid ground.

She forced her mind back to this scheme of Adam’s, wishing she knew more about it. Last night at dinner, he’d been pretty cagey about the details, saying that he wasn’t yet “at liberty” to disclose more than the barest outline. He’d taken her to a fancy little bistro over on the East Side that was one of his favorite places for twisting her arm and talking her into doing things she didn’t want to do. And just about all she could get out of him, over the perfectly chilled Taittinger and the exquisite caviar, was that some big-shot clients of his would need promotional artwork for a major development project. Instead of her usual portraits, he wanted her to spend the summer at his place on Cape Cod so she could put together a portfolio of seascapes.

And then he’d said an odd thing. He’d said, “You’re a good American, Allie. This project should appeal to your patriotic spirit.” And that was all she could find out.

“You sly devil,” she’d said to him, as the waiter filled their glasses. “You’ve got something up that well-tailored sleeve of yours.”

“Nothing nefarious, my dear, I can assure you,” Adam had said in that patrician way he had, as he spooned caviar onto small points of toast. “And you can turn off that suspicious glint in your gaze,” he said fondly. “Your eyes are much too gentle for such hard looks.” Adam’s cool smile always softened when he talked to Allie.

Allie brushed her bangs back. “So this scheme of yours is not at all improper?”

“No, Allie, this is straight business. The plan is still in a very preliminary stage, and all I can say at this point is that some clients of mine are interested in a land development project on Cape Cod.” He sprinkled a drop or two of lemon juice over the caviar and handed her the toast. “Have you ever been to the Cape?”

“I’m a working girl, Adam, and Cape Cod is for the rich and famous. And anyway,” she nibbled at the caviar, savoring its nutty oiliness, “I’m also a city person, born and bred. What would I do on those barren beaches and sandy, windswept shores? Without the city’s traffic and racket around me, I’d probably shrivel up and blow away.”

“You won’t shrivel up. You’ll get a little sun and some streaks in your hair.” He contemplated her honey-colored hair, reaching just below her shoulders, the full, rich waves glowing in the soft light of the little restaurant, beautifully set off by her pale silk dress and the pearls he’d given her on her birthday. “With your coloring,” he said approvingly, “you’ll look wonderful. And you’re wrong about the rich and famous. Plenty of ordinary folks live on the Cape, too. And Provincetown, up at the tip of the Cape, has been an artists’ colony for many decades. A very famous one.”

“Well, of course I know that, Adam.”

How could she explain to Adam? Any place with even a whiff of wealth felt forbidding to her.

“All right, Allie. You know you can trust my judgment.” He leaned back in his chair, sipping his wine and smiling expansively at her.

It was true. In the ten years that Adam Talmadge had been her agent—ever since he’d discovered her, a raw sixteen-year-old at the Art Students’ League—he’d not been wrong once. That’s a tough record to beat, she admitted to herself begrudgingly.

“If this works out as I anticipate,” he continued, “it’s going to be very good for you and, just incidentally of course, at fifteen percent of your fee, it’s going to be good for me, too.” Then he had sketched out his proposal: She was to spend the summer on the Cape, painting seascapes. She could return, as necessary, to the city, to keep up with prior commitments, commissions already agreed to, and for her show, coming up at the Whiscombe Gallery in a few weeks. It was only an hour’s flight by commuter plane between Provincetown and the Westchester County airport, just north of New York City. She could prepare a portfolio of studies suitable for use in a Cape Cod development project, paintings full of the clear air, the sandy stretches of beach, the sea gulls, the sailboats.

“But, Adam—”

“You’ll enjoy this scheme of mine,” he said, in a placating tone. “And don’t worry. I’ll explain fully when it’s jelled a bit more.”

“But, Adam—” Allie was running out of objections.

“Allie, it’s a great place, right on the beachfront. There’s some space in the house where you can paint. The caretaker will meet you at the airport in Provincetown.” Adam had been so sure she’d agree, he’d already made all the arrangements. “Here’s a card with his name on it. And here’s the plane ticket. You leave from Westchester airport at three o’clock tomorrow afternoon, so go home and pack a few things”—he smiled affectionately at her—“and you can stop being so obstinate!”

Obstinate, indeed.

Well, Allie knew it was true. She couldn’t help it. She had a quick flash point and couldn’t stand being bossed. But there were good reasons. And right from the beginning, Adam had understood. Adam Talmadge didn’t get to be number one in his business without having a super-sharp sensitivity to people in general and to artists in particular, and he recognized, in Allie Randall, an unusual combination of fine artistic temperament and hard-nosed practicality.

And, because he always made it his business to know everything about his clients, he knew what no one else did. He knew how Allie had learned, much too early in her life, that she would not survive unless she had an absolute self-reliance, an utter assurance that she could rely on her own resources. And because he knew the terrible origin of Allie’s fierce independence, he was always careful not to trample on it. With the smooth-talking skill that worked so well on patrons, dealers and gallery owners, he knew how to get around her stubborn spirit while still reassuring her that she wasn’t giving up any of her hard-won self-reliance.

So, by the end of their dinner, Allie had agreed to spend the summer at Adam’s place on Cape Cod; and by the time Adam’s driver had dropped her off at her apartment in the Village, her mind was racing ahead, making plans for the summer.

She had run up the four flights to her apartment, stopping on her way down the hall to knock on her neighbor’s door. She wanted someone with a sympathetic ear to keep her company while she packed her things, and Maria, her neighbor and best friend for the last seven years, had the most sympathetic ear in New York City.

“Come on, Maria. Come on.” Allie barely waited to explain as Marie got all the bolts and locks on her door opened, and stuck her dark, curly-topped head out into the hall. “I need some help packing. Come on!” Allie was already down the hall, unlocking the door of her own apartment. “I’ll tell you all about it.” Maria dropped everything. She told her husband, Steve, to mind the baby and joined Allie in her apartment.

Allie packed her suitcase as though she were throwing darts at a board, scooping her clothes out of dresser drawers and closets and flinging them at the suitcase. Maria smiled indulgently as she retrieved the jeans and shirts and underthings that Allie tossed about, and she repacked them in neat stacks. She listened patiently while Allie told her what little she knew of the revised plans for the summer and complained about being bossed around. She made Allie a cup of tea and got her to sit down for a bit.

“You know, Allie,” she said, reassuringly, “a summer in a house on one of America’s most beautiful beaches is not exactly a bad thing.”

“But all my plants. What about all my plants?” Allie was digging under her bed, searching for her old deck shoes.

“Leave me a key. I’ll keep them watered.”

“You’re a doll.” Allie sat up, brushing at her dusty hair and tossing the retrieved shoes into the suitcase on the bed. “And in an emergency, call Adam.” She grabbed a scrap of paper and wrote on it. “Here’s his number. He’s got a key to the apartment, too. If there’s any problem, call him. He’ll know how to reach me.”

Finally, the suitcase was packed. Allie’s nervous excitement was a little bit soothed and Maria left, taking Allie’s extra key and promising to be in touch with Adam, if necessary.

And now, as she clung nervously to her seat, Allie tried to think ahead, to the summer that lay before her. She wouldn’t have to do a thing except work. The man who took care of the house when it was empty would meet her at the airport, and he’d keep an eye on things for her.

Allie pulled her bag out from the clutter she’d just created and rummaged around in it until she found the business card Adam had given her in the restaurant.

Zachariah Eliot. Now that’s a good name for a caretaker, she thought. Nice and trustworthy. A good Yankee name. Sounds like he stepped right off the Mayflower. Allie leaned her head back and closed her eyes again. Well, that’s all right. If he’s got an interesting face, maybe I’ll do his portrait sometime this summer, behind Adam’s back. She told herself that it would be a welcome change from painting the rich and powerful.

 

On the ground, Zach Eliot waited for the flight from New York. Cindy, at the desk in the little terminal building, had told him the plane would be arriving soon, so he’d come outside to watch for it. Looking out over the silver tops of the scrub pine trees that surrounded the airfield, he narrowed his eyes against the sun, searching impatiently for some sign that the plane was arriving.

He looked at his watch. Damn, he said to himself. I don’t have time for this. At this time of the year he was needed down at the harbor, and the plane had already been delayed a couple of hours, really messing up his plans for the day. He leaned his long frame back against the white-painted cinder block wall of the terminal and looked at his watch again, trying to control his irritation.

He knew, of course, what was really bothering him, and it wasn’t that he had to get back to the boats. It was that he’d been sent to pick up this woman who was on the plane. Not that he cared who Adam had in his house. That was entirely Adam’s affair, and if Adam wanted to have a girl there, it was all right with Zach.

But ever since this other thing, this damned project, Zach had been in no mood to accommodate anything or anyone associated with Adam Talmadge. When Adam’s secretary had called to notify him that this woman—what was her name? Allie Randall—was going to be on the three o’clock plane, he’d been about to tell her that Adam could go screw himself.

But he’d held his tongue. There was going to be plenty of trouble over this development scheme of Adam’s, and the time for the real fight between them was still down the road. When that time came, there would be many changes, and this old arrangement—providing transportation from the airport—would be ending. In the meantime, he would continue to honor it. The Talmadges had set it up with Zach’s father when they first started to rent their house on beach, back when Zach was just a kid, and he didn’t like to terminate an old custom.

He looked at his watch one more time. Damn! Well, he couldn’t do anything at this minute to stop Adam and that bunch of barracudas he was representing. And there was also not a damn thing he could do to bring that plane in any sooner. Zach thrust his hands deep into the pockets of his jeans, rested his head back against the wall and closed his eyes, letting the sun warm his face.

 

Bad weather in the New York area had delayed their take-off from Westchester for more than two hours, and heavy winds still buffeted the plane as it made its way above Long Island Sound. Allie watched in fearful fascination as the plane’s wings rocked on either side of her like a seesaw.

Pressing her forehead against the window, she stared down at the water, three thousand feet below her, the wind-whipped whitecaps visible on the surface even at this height. Through thick, swirling patches of cloud, she could see the little towns along the Connecticut coast, and, in their harbors, the bright clusters of sailboats, jerking at their moorings in the choppy water, the rough waves breaking up against the shoreline.

Abruptly, as though she’d been slapped, Allie recognized the real source of her anxiety. A wash of terrible memory clutched deep inside her body.

Of course. The recognition came with heart-wrenching clarity. Of course.

The bad weather, the rough waters below her. How could she not feel fearful? Inevitably, like cold hands over her face, it all came back.

Who can say why it was that Allie found her own comfort in the little sketches that began to fill her notebooks? What moved her to capture the radiant beauty of the color-filled sky and the shifting tints and hues of the trees and houses around her? In the evenings, when her schoolwork and her housework were done, the lonely little girl painted pictures of everything she had seen that day – the sky and the bridges and the people on the streets. It was almost enough to make up for the loss of a normal home and family. Almost. But she could never put aside her fantasies about the others, the girls at school who, she was sure, went home to ideal families, to warm kitchens and happy laughter and loving parents. Too proud to allow anyone to know the sad circumstances of her life, she learned to move unobtrusively among her classmates, drawing little attention to herself, making no close friends, and becoming an observer rather than observed. Like so many lonely and neglected children, she watched from outside the circle of other girls’ popularity. But for Allie, this was not the sad place of isolation and resentment that it might have been. With the clear eye and the exquisite sensitivity of the skilled artist she was becoming, it brought her profound pleasure to pay close attention to the ways emotion and character were revealed in faces and body language, to feel her talent and her art as they gathered strength inside her and built a force against the demons of envy and self-doubt that are so often the results of poverty and isolation. Gradually, the pages of her sketchbooks filled with drawings of people from the world around her, faces seen in the school’s lunchroom, in home room, on the streets of her neighborhood, and in the shops where she bought her groceries: brilliant portraits, quickly captured.

Inevitably, her teachers recognized her talent and with their help, before her junior year, Allie was granted a full scholarship at an exclusive prep school where her talent would be properly developed. It was a prize plum, rarely awarded.

But there are no pure pleasures, and the price Allie paid for her scholarship was the ostracism by some of her new classmates; rich kids who, with their privilege and a meanness of spirit, tried their best to make her miserable. Their message was clear. She should understand that despite her scholarship and her presence in their midst, she was an intruder; there were doors that would never open for her, there were worlds that would never welcome her, there were places where she would never belong. Though they couldn’t break her spirit and they couldn’t take away her talent—for that became still more powerful as her sword and shield—they did make wounds that her later maturity and experience could only veil but never fully heal. The damage had been done.

 

The cool window of the plane felt good against Allie’s forehead. She lifted her gaze from the water below, and stared straight out into the sky, empty except for misty clouds, empty except for the memories of that cold night, the cold morgue, her father’s body cold on a gurney. Memories of her life after Mike Randall’s death.

Her years of managing home and finances and her obvious independence and competence made it easy for the union staff to provide for her legal guardianship for the few months remaining until her eighteenth birthday, so she was able to stay at home and continue at her school. There’d been a small insurance policy, enough to get her through a year or two and, as she stood by her father’s drowned body, Allie offered up a sort of truce to her many losses. She would not let self-pity hold her back. She was determined to use the grace period the insurance money provided to begin to build her own life on the twin pillars of her talent and her stubborn independence.

She rarely thought now about those hard times. Success was becoming a reality, and she was beginning to enjoy the fruits of her hard work. Adam had encouraged her to concentrate on portraits, and she was already being recognized as one of New York’s most gifted young portrait painters. There were many blessings to count and she was grateful for each of them.

She sighed deeply once or twice, and closed the door again on the bad memories. With both hands, she brushed her ragged bangs back from her forehead and looked around her – and realized, as the plane continued on to Cape Cod, that her anxiety had disappeared..

 

The plane swung out over the ocean to make its approach to the windswept landing strip outside Provincetown. Allie watched, fascinated, through the front window, over the pilot’s shoulder, as they flew low over the blue ocean, over white waves at the shore’s edge and then over pale yellow beach fringed by green-tipped dunes. The runway lay straight ahead of them, flat and bare in the intermittent sunshine and a strong crosswind bounced the little Cessna up and down as it made its wobbling descent onto the field. To her amazement, the pilot looked totally unconcerned, making a perfectly smooth landing and taxiing the plane up to the terminal building as gently as a grandma wheeling a baby’s stroller through the park. After the door opened, Allie let the other passengers leave ahead of her, and took a minute to catch her breath, glad to be on solid ground.

She had to scrunch down to step through the low doorway onto the steps that were suspended from the plane’s door opening, and she grasped the frame to steady herself as she stepped onto the tarmac. Then she stood up straight and shifted her carry-on bag by its shoulder strap to be more comfortable. A shaft of sunlight broke through the cloud cover, and a light breeze sent a strand of hair across her brow. She lifted her hand to brush it back. She paused and looked around.

Zach heard the plane’s engine as it taxied down the runway, coming to a stop not far from the terminal building. He opened his eyes and watched as Sonny Boardman, the mechanic, ran out to the plane and opened its little door, letting down the attached steps. A couple of passengers got out, but neither of them could be Adam’s guest. He recognized the first person out of the plane, Jim Sargent’s girl, Molly, back from school for the summer. The second was a businessman carrying a briefcase and two tennis rackets, probably coming up to the Cape for a long weekend.

A few moments passed and, through the plane’s windows, Zach could see that only one passenger remained. At last she came through the door and down the steps. As he watched her from across the field, she stopped and shifted her bag on her shoulder. There was a sudden break in the cloud cover, and a shaft of light fell on her as she lifted her arm and brushed her hair back from her eyes.

Zach Eliot was stopped dead in his tracks.

He had the extraordinary sensation that the sunshine had come with her, breaking across the field just as she’d stepped from the plane, bathing the tarmac and the trees and the terminal building, and yes, Zach himself, with its warmth. As though it was for his benefit alone, the wind lifted her hair, and she brought up a hand to hold the strands away from her face, displaying, with that simple gesture, a lithe femininity that sent a tightening quiver through Zach’s body. She was looking away from him, toward the trees that surrounded the field, and she seemed to be savoring the light and the sweet summer scents that filled the air.

The late afternoon sun, glowing behind her, lit the thick waves of her honey-gold hair, and the light breeze moved it gently away from her shoulders. In her slim figure, clad in white pants and jacket, poised against the breeze, with one arm raised, Zach saw gentle grace and quick energy combined in one lovely form.

He was totally stunned. It wrenched his gut to admit it, but damn it, Adam Talmadge had found himself an absolute knockout. With an effort, Zach forced himself into motion. He straightened up and walked across the field to meet her.

 

Allie looked around the airfield, made a quick study of her new surroundings, and understood immediately why artists liked to work here. The light across the field was flat and clear, as if it came up from the ground instead of down from the sky. She liked the way it lit up the undersides of the low trees that surrounded the field. She liked the way the wind blew in from the ocean and lifted the hair away from her face.

And she had seen something else she liked right away. He was tall and slim and had a comfortable way of leaning against the wall of the terminal building. Allie had sketched hundreds of gorgeous male bodies in her art classes and her professional eye saw immediately that the body inside those tight jeans and denim work shirt was as lean and hard and healthy as any of them. He had strong hard-working muscles and a kind of easy, masculine grace that, even at a distance, had a surprisingly stirring effect on her.

He was walking across the field now, and she had a chance to get a good look at him in the bright sunlight. Now, that, she said to herself, is an astoundingly good-looking man! She let her eyes run over his body as he walked toward her, liking the look of his legs in the smooth jeans, the easy strength of his well-formed forearms, exposed by the rolled-up sleeves of his work shirt. With the experienced eye of a first-rate portrait artist, Allie did a quick inventory of his face. He had blue eyes set deep under strong black eyebrows, and black hair, cut short, trimmed close at the temples, where the gray was beginning to show. His mouth was wide and full, humorous; between deep furrows in a face so darkly tanned she knew he must spend most of his time outdoors.

She was especially attracted to that mouth. It was a mouth that would be quick to smile, quick to laugh. She recognized strength and poise reflected there. But there was something else, something she could not clearly identify. It was Allie’s business to be especially sensitive to the emotions that were revealed—or concealed—by faces, and in this one there was evidence of a deep sorrow. But she saw also the self-control in this handsome, mature face, and she knew he’d be slow to reveal to anyone what lay behind that sorrow.

Her examination of him was brought to a sudden halt. To her surprise, he stopped in front of her and spoke her name: “Miss Randall?”

“Yes, I’m Allie Randall.” How did he know her name? Then, abruptly, she realized that this very good-looking, sexy man must be the one Adam had said would meet her. She’d been expecting a much older man. Certainly no one who looked like this! “You must be Mr. Eliot. Mr. Talmadge told me you’d be meeting my plane. I do appreciate your picking me up.”

His response puzzled her. Some men had a way of undressing a woman with their eyes. Allie knew what that felt like and she knew how to handle it. This was different. This man was almost caressing her with his gaze, and yet, at the same time there was something angry in his expression. And his words, though polite, were just barely so, his tone unnecessarily brusque.

“No problem, Miss Randall,” he said curtly. He took Allie’s carry-on bag out of her hand and, with a quick gesture, slung it over his shoulder. “As soon as your things are off the plane, I’ll get them out to the truck. I’ll be able to drive you to the house but I can’t take any more time to show you around.” The irritation in his voice was unmistakable. “The harbor master’s waiting for me down at the dock.”

What’s the matter with the man? She wondered. And what’s the matter with me? If I’d known he was going to be so rude, I wouldn’t have given that handsome face a second look, much less such a thoughtful analysis. A “deep sorrow,” indeed! Allie could feel her own defensiveness spring up protectively around her. She’d barely arrived on Cape Cod, and already the natives were hostile.

“I realize you must have a very busy schedule, Mr. Eliot,” she said, as coolly as she could.

“Well, as a matter of fact, ma’am, at this time of the year, what with setting the moorings in the harbor and getting the boats in the water and all, we do get a little pressed for time.” His tone matched hers for coolness. They both waited silently while her luggage was unloaded from the plane’s wing lockers and set down next to where they were standing at the terminal door.

“It’s all mine,” Allie said, pointing to the suitcase and the several boxes of art supplies and easels. “I’m going to be working while I’m here.”

“Working for Mr. Talmadge?” He bent to pick up her suitcase and Allie tried to keep her gaze away from the strong muscles of his back and arms, apparent even through the soft denim shirt.

“In a way. I’ll be doing some work in connection with a project he’s interested in.” The words were barely out of her mouth when she remembered; Adam had said not to talk about it.

She was startled by the intense look he gave her, peering darkly at her from under those black brows, as though something she’d said had angered him. “Adam’s project, hm?” He paused momentarily, and then said, “I’ll show you where the truck is out in front, and then I’ll come back and get the rest of your things.”

She followed him through the little terminal building, aware that, although she’d been infuriated by this irritating man, she felt a powerful impulse as she walked behind him to reach out and touch his back, to stroke that shoulder, to run her fingers down that strong arm and along the tanned skin that was exposed by the rolled-up sleeve.

Embarrassed by her sudden, confused feelings, she stuffed her hands into the pockets of her jacket.

Zach opened the door of the terminal and walked over to a heavy-duty green Ford pick-up that was parked at the curb. He dropped her suitcase into the bed of the truck and then opened the door for her. Allie’s breath caught momentarily as she took his hand, needing his help to step up to the passenger seat. His grip was firm and the touch of his rough skin, warm against the palm of her hand, sent a hot current running through her. She could feel the flush rising in her cheeks and, as she sat back on the seat, she turned her face away from him, afraid that he’d see her reaction. But he had already left, gone back to the field to get her boxes.

Allie needed a minute to regain her composure. She took a couple of deep breaths, letting the breeze that was blowing in from the ocean cool her off, bringing back her usual self-control. And while she waited for Zach to return with the rest of her things, she studied the interior of his truck, comparing it with the elegant, dark gray leather interior of Adam Talmadge’s sleek town car. On the seat next to her, there was a large flashlight and a short coil of rope. A couple of screwdrivers and a long wrench had been tossed on top of the dashboard, along with a yellow paperback volume that had Eldridge Tide and Pilot Book printed on its cover. She rifled through the book, but its contents, full of tables and charts, were a mystery to her, and she returned it to the dashboard.

She ran her hand lightly over the screwdriver, the wrench, the tide book.

But something’s making him mad, and it seems to be me.