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* * *
Samantha walked slowly around the exhibition with a nervous Jessica just a pace behind.
“What do you think, Mom? Will anybody buy one?”
“Well, I will for a start.”
“That’s a relief. I don’t want to be the only girl who couldn’t sell a picture.”
Samantha laughed. “I don’t think that will be your problem.”
“Do you have a favorite?”
“Yes, number thirty-seven. I think it’s the best thing you’ve ever done.” Samantha was still admiring My Father when Miss Tomkins came up and placed a red dot next to it. “But I was hoping to buy that one,” said Samantha, unable to hide her disappointment.
“I’m so sorry, Mrs. Brewer, but all of Jessica’s pictures were sold within a few minutes of the show opening.”
“Are you sure?” asked Jessica. “I put a price of five hundred dollars on that picture to make certain nobody would buy it because I wanted to give it to my mom.”
“It was also the gentleman’s favorite,” said Miss Tomkins. “And the price didn’t seem to bother him.”
“What was this gentleman’s name?” asked Samantha, quietly.
“I’ve no idea. He came just before the show opened and bought every one of Jessica’s pictures.” She looked around the room. “But he seems to have left.”
“I wish I’d seen him,” said Jessica.
“Why?” asked Samantha.
“Because then I could have filled in the face.”
* * *
“How much?” said Ellie May in disbelief.
“About a million and a half dollars,” admitted Cyrus.
“That must be the most expensive one-night stand in history, and
I’m damned if I’m going to let the little hussy get away with it.”
“But she’s a lady,” said Cyrus.
“She won’t be the first lady who recognizes a sucker when she sees one.”
“But there’s still a possibility that little Freddie is mine.”
“I have a feeling,” said Ellie May, “that little Freddie isn’t even hers.”
“So what are you going to do about it?”
“Make damn sure Lady Virginia realizes she hasn’t got away with it.”
* * *
Hakim drifted out of a shallow sleep. He blinked, pressed a button in his armrest and his seat straightened up. Moments later a stewardess offered him a warm flannel. He gently rubbed his eyes, forehead and finally the back of his neck, until he felt half awake.
“Would you like some breakfast, Mr. Bishara?” the stewardess asked as she removed the flannel with a pair of tongs.
