Come Fly With Me (87 page)

"It's
been
a
hard
few
months;
take
the
weekend,
it's
a
good
idea,"
Emily
said.

"Thanks,"
she
said
as
she
threw
her
cell
in
her
bag.
"You
know,
I
frankly
didn't
see
the
need
for
all
the
rituals
at
the
beginning,
but
you
know,
they
began
to
make
sense
and
comforted
me."
She
took
a
final
look
around,
"Anyway,
I'm
finished
here,
and
I'm
going
to
run
past
RossAir.
I'll
see
you
Sunday,
Emily,"
she
hugged
her
friend.
"I
can
never
express
to
you
how
valuable
your
friendship
has
been
to
me
these
past—has
it
really
been
five
years?"

Emily
nodded,
"Stop,
Allison,
please."

"No,
you
need
to
hear
how
special
you
are,
and
you
know
what?
You're
a
hundred
Bettys
to
my
Veronica—I'd
be
so
lost
without
you."

She
went
to
the
curb
and
hailed
a
cab.
On
the
way
to
the
office,
her
BlackBerry
pinged.
Scrolling
down
to
her
work
e-mail,
she
was
shocked
to
see
a
response
to
an
ad
she'd
sent
out
many
months
earlier.
With
her
heart
hammering
wildly,
she
called
Scott
to
file
a
flight
plan
and
directed
the
cabdriver
to
continue
on
to
Teterboro
airport.

Allison
stood
on
the
cliff
overlooking
Frenchman
Bay
in
Bar
Harbor.
The
water
was
sparkling
serenely,
the
late
April
sun
sending
crystals
of
light
skipping
across
it.
She
smiled
as
she
saw
the
whale-watching
boat
come
back
in
to
dock.
If
she
had
been
around
earlier,
she
would
have
told
the
intrepid
watchers
that
a
pair
of
very
sturdy
sea
legs
was
a
requirement
for
the
rough
open
waters.
She
had
thrown
up
practically
non-stop
the
first
time
she
had
attempted
it.
The
kayakers
were
enjoying
some
smooth
rowing
a
bit
closer
to
shore.
She
turned
away
from
the
water
and
looked
over
at
the
cottage
where
it
sat
further
up
the
embankment.
She
couldn't
believe
her
father
had
kept
it
up
all
these
years.
She
steadied
her
breath
and
walked
up
the
hill
and
around
to
the
front.
Mr.
Treumann,
the
property
manager,
was
to
meet
up
with
her
shortly
to
give
her
the
keys.
She
stood
on
the
open
porch
a
short
while
until
a
car
pulled
up
the
gravel
driveway.

"Ms.
Ross?"
A
balding
man
wearing
a
blue
shirt,
khakis
and
a
windbreaker
made
his
way
toward
her,
hand
outstretched.
"I
was
deeply
saddened
to
hear
of
your
father's
death.
I
have
a
set
of
keys
for
you
and
some
instruction
as
to
general
upkeep.
And
of
course,
our
services
are
available
for
the
winter
months,
should
you
choose
to
remain
with
us."

"Thank
you,
Mr.
Treumann,
that
won't
be
necessary.
I'll
be
selling
the
cottage,
but
I
will
forward
the
information
to
the
new
owner."

His
face
fell,
but
he
quickly
caught
himself.
"So,
if
there's
nothing
else,
I'd
best
be
going.
Oh,
I
almost
forgot.
Everything
is
in
good
working
order,
but
there's
no
electricity.
You
might
be
needing
this,"
he
handed
her
a
flashlight
with
his
company's
logo
on
it.
"We
tend
to
get
a
lot
of
power
outages
around
here,
so
we
generally
offer
them
to
our
clients
as
a
small
gesture.
Good
luck,
now,"
he
waved
good-bye
and
left.

Wow,
are
people
just
friendly
here?
She
wondered.
Or
are
those
only
the
people
that
you
pay
to
be
friendly.

She
unlocked
the
front
door
and
took
a
deep
breath
before
she
tentatively
crossed
over
the
threshold.
Heading
straight
for
the
kitchen,
she
stood
still,
reverently
stroking
the
cool,
smooth
limestone
countertops.
Uncle
Joey
used
to
sit
on
the
counters
and
her
Bubby
would
shoo
him
off.
"Ach!
That's
for
food—use
the
chairs,
there
are
eight
of
them,"
she'd
say.
Then
he'd
jump
off,
pull
her
into
a
waltz,
and
she'd
playfully
bat
him
away
with
a
huge
grin
on
her
face.
How
she
remembered
the
argument
when
her
father
had
told
her
he
was
redoing
the
kitchen.
Her
father
had
wanted
her
Bubby
to
have
state
of
the
art
equipment
so
she
could
do
her
favorite
things,
which
were
cooking
and
baking
enough
to
feed
an
army.
Allison
almost
laughed
aloud
when
she
recalled
her
Bubby
responding,
"I
thought
you
brought
me
here
for
a
vacation,
and
now
you
want
me
to
stand
around
in
a
boiling,
hot
kitchen
all
day!"
Her
Bubby
had
been
nothing
if
not
dramatic.