In the last months that she was living with Wayne, when her affair with James was all-consuming, Jessica sometimes heard her mother’s voice in her head, trying to talk her out of the path she had begun to think of as inevitable.
Think about Owen, Linda Terry’s voice would say.
“I am, Mom,” Jessica would say back. “This will be good for him too.”
You know that’s not true, her mother would answer. Divorce is never good for kids. It teaches them that love can end, and they fear that might be true of your love for them too. Why do you think I stayed with your father all those years?
“Hopefully, by leaving an unhappy marriage, I’ll teach Owen that he has the power to make himself happy. To show him what a loving marriage looks like,” she answered.
Jessica never for a second believed that she’d persuaded her mother in this imaginary debate. But the rightness of leaving Wayne for James was reinforced every time she saw James, including early that afternoon when she paid him a visit at his office.
“What a pleasant surprise,” he said. “And your timing is impeccable. My last appointment just left, and it ended very well.”
“Is that so? Well, I was, as they say, in the neighborhood. I thought we could get lunch. And now there seems to be something to celebrate.”
“Sadly, I’m not hungry,” he said with a smile that told her exactly what he meant.
“Then how will we ever fill the time?”
8
Allison Longley called James later that afternoon, while he and Jessica were in flagrante delicto in the bedroom in James’s office. He phoned her back after Jessica had left and he’d showered.
“I think there are some real opportunities for you and me,” Allison said, sounding much more like a character out of a 1940s femme fatale movie than an art expert.
“Is that right?”
“I have clients. You have access to Pollocks. What’s the phrase? This sounds like the beginning of a beautiful friendship.”
“Like I told you, your client bought our entire inventory of the Pollocks.”
She laughed. “Yes. That’s what you told me. What kind of an art person would I be if I believed that? But, look, if you have the other Pollocks earmarked for other buyers, then there’s no need for me to take you for drinks so we can talk further about making some serious money.”
He paused for a moment. Jessica was cooking tonight. She wanted to have a family dinner to cheer Owen up. Still, landing this business opportunity would be far better for Owen than lasagna.
“I never turn down an offer to make serious money,” he said at last.
“Good. Meet me at the Flora Bar. Let’s say six.”
He was about to hang up when she made a second request. “Just you, James. Don’t bring your partner.”
The Flora Bar was the newest place to be seen among the players in the New York City art market. It was located in the basement of the Met Breuer. Happy hour began at 5:30 p.m., and everyone certainly looked happy when James walked in. He immediately saw Allison at a table in the corner, a drink in her hand.
She had changed her outfit. This morning she’d worn a suit—gray flannel, if James recalled correctly. There was nothing remotely businesslike about this evening’s ensemble, however. Black, tight, and low cut.
“Twice in one day,” James said as he approached.
“I’m tempted to say, ‘That’s what she said,’ but I won’t.”
“But you just did.”
She laughed. “Touché.”
A waiter was on them fast. “Can I get you something from the bar?”
“Jack Daniel’s, neat,” he said.
As soon as the waiter left to fetch his drink, James said, “I trust that Noah’s over the moon with his new acquisition.”
“He is. Not every day you have an original Jackson Pollock to call your very own.”
“How’d you two meet, anyway? Last time I dealt with Noah it was . . . I don’t know, a year, maybe two years ago. I sold him a very nice Miró. I remember he said it reminded him of his dog.”
“Yes, that about sums up Noah’s art expertise right there.”
James took note that she had not answered his question about how they’d met. That likely meant that they had been at one time lovers, or still were.
The waiter returned with James’s whiskey.
“To Jackson Pollock,” he said, raising his glass.
“And to making money,” she answered before clinking.
“You’re quite direct and more than a little mercenary,” James said. “Most of the art dealers I encounter like to talk about the beauty of the pieces before getting to the real reason we’re meeting.”
“Well, you should learn this about me right now: I’m not a beat-around-the-bush kind of girl. I tell it straight. And when I want something, I go straight for it. No hesitation.”
It was becoming readily apparent to James that the Pollocks weren’t the only thing that Allison Longley wanted out of this meeting. “Cheers to that,” he said, and they both took another swig.
She was nearly finished with her drink. “Catch up, will ya?” she joked. “I never talk business until the second drink.”
She flashed a temptress’s smile if ever James had seen one. Openmouthed and inviting, with a subtle show of tongue between the teeth.
“Then you’re going to have to make small talk because I never rush a glass of whiskey.”
“Challenge accepted. Let’s start with you. I see you’re married,” she said, looking down at his wedding band.
“Yes. Just celebrated my one-year anniversary last week, in fact.”
“So does that mean that there are no children yet?”
“I have a seventeen-year-old stepson.”
“You’re already surprising me. Why did I think your wife would be in her twenties?”
He laughed. “Because you’re apparently the type of woman who jumps to unfounded conclusions about men. And you? I don’t see a ring on your finger.”
“And you never will. I’m not the marrying kind. But don’t get me wrong. I have nothing against married men. In fact—”
“Some of your best friends are married men?”
She laughed. James finished
