SIX

Portrait of the Artist as a

Young Heir

Allegra arrived late to the party. She had spent too long standing in front of the mirror, wondering what to wear and feeling nervous. Nothing she’d brought from New York felt right: she hated all her clothes. Charles had gone to the exhibit opening as planned. Allegra had been able to convince him she did not feel like making social chitchat that evening and preferred to stay in and catch up on her reading. Luckily, he had been too excited about the chance to see the remarkable collection of ancient South American art to press for her company. Charles enjoyed the social whirl, enjoyed basking in the attention of a worshipful Coven, and she knew he would not miss her.

The minute the door closed behind Charles, Allegra stormed her closet. The last time Ben had seen her she was sixteen years old, fresh-faced, brimming with youth and life and energy; and while she knew that five years was not such a long time, she did feel older, much more aware of her beauty and the reaction it engendered from the opposite sex. She wore her hair shorter now, cut close to the scalp, almost boy-ish, and Charles hated it—he’d adored her long golden tresses, had loved winding his fingers through the gossamer thickness.

He had been disappointed when she’d returned from the salon with her new haircut.

But Allegra loved the liberating relief: no more of that heaviness behind her neck—she had always been too hot in the summer—and no longer did traffic screech to a stop when she ran across the street, nor did heads turn when she walked down the sidewalk, her golden hair flowing behind her like a sail. She enjoyed being a little less conspicuous, a little more forgettable, a little more ordinary, almost as if she were someone else for a change. But now, as she rubbed the blunt edges of her chopped crop, she fretted that maybe Charles was right, that without her hair she did not look like herself; that shorn of her best asset, she looked dull and plain.

She decided upon an old standby, a white silk shirt, a pair of men’s Levi’s, a thick leather belt, and battered cowboy boots.

The party was in a hilltop mansion in Pacific Heights. Allegra slipped past the gilded doors and took a champagne flute from a waiter carrying a silver tray. She made her way through the good-looking, moneyed crowd—women in fur and velvet, men in Japanese-tailored jackets. The party was centered in the living room, a comfortable book-lined space with a breath-taking view of the Golden Gate and a real monet above the fireplace. Yet for all the rare antiques and remarkable art on display, it still managed to be warm and welcoming at the same time.

“You look so familiar. I’m Decca Chase. Welcome to our home.” One of San Francisco’s premier society matrons, who also happened to be Ben’s mother, smiled at Allegra. “You’re the girl in the paintings, aren’t you?”

There were more of them? Allegra wondered. She had only seen one at the gallery. “Mrs. Chase,” she said, “it’s so nice to see you again.”

“So we have met before!” Ben’s mother said with delight.

She was tall, like her son, and shared his all-American, rangy good looks, and was impeccably dressed in swaths of white cashmere. Allegra recalled something her prep-school roommate had told her, that Ben’s mother was an heiress to a great San Francisco fortune, and his middle name came from his mother’s side of the family.

“I went to school with Ben. At Endicott,” Allegra explained, feeling a little intimidated by her friendly host.

“Of course you did! He’ll be glad to see an old friend.”

Decca Chase swiveled through the party, holding Allegra’s hand, and finally stopped in front of a tall boy in a shabby blue jacket who was regaling a large and adoring crowd with a fas-cinating story that had them snorting into their cocktails.

“Look who I found,” she said triumphantly.

Allegra suddenly felt very self-conscious and wished that she had attended that museum opening with Charles. What was she doing here? She didn’t belong here. His mom was being so nice it was painful. maybe she could simply disappear from the party and no one would ever remember she was there. But she felt rooted to the spot, and Ben was turning around to greet her.

He looked exactly the same—tall and golden-haired, with the same friendly, happy grin, the same sparkling blue eyes, his entire personality as clear and sunny as a summer afternoon. “Legs!” he said. It hurt Allegra to hear that old nickname a little, and to hear him use it so easily. He gave her a hearty embrace and a quick peck on the cheek, as if they were just old schoolmates and nothing more…. As if she had never marked him, had never taken his blood and made it hers.

She wondered what had possessed her to come tonight.

Why had she come? What had she feared? Had she come to see whether he was ruined somehow—whether she had destroyed him? Was she disappointed to find she had not? No.

She had done right in leaving Endicott when she had, after she’d been warned by the vision. Look, he was better off without her. He was the same old Ben, with his ruddy cheeks and dimpled smile. He was wearing a frayed rep tie as a belt—still the same old preppie. The jeans were nattily paint splattered, of course. But if there was any pretense or calcula-tion, she could not find it in him. He was natural and friendly, so hard to dislike, one of those boys whom everyone loved, which was why Charles had loathed him from the beginning.

“Ben, hi,” Allegra said, returning his kiss on the cheek, her smile masking the riot of emotions she felt under the surface.

“No one calls me that anymore,” he said, taking a sip from his beer glass and regarding her thoughtfully.

“No one calls me ‘Legs’ either, but you,” she said faintly.

Ben grinned. “I’m only teasing. Call me whatever you want. Or don’t call me at all,” he joked. The crowd around him dispersed, as it was obvious the gorgeous new girl—and Allegra should never have doubted; she was still stunning even with the short haircut—had his entire attention.

“Well, you kids get reacquainted. I should go see what your father is up to; make sure he hasn’t eaten all the caviar puffs,” Decca Chase said, looking contentedly at the two of them. Allegra had forgotten his mother was there. She and Ben watched her move easily through the crowd, pinching an elbow here, laughing at a joke over there, the consummate hostess.

A waiter slid by to refill Allegra’s champagne glass, and she was glad for the distraction. She did not know what to say to Ben. She still didn’t know what she was doing here. Only that the opportunity had arisen to see him again, and she had grabbed it, like a drowning man reaching for a life preserver.

“Your mom is cool. You never said she was cool.” She remembered that he’d said his parents didn’t have much time for him growing up. Perhaps they were making up for it now, with this splashy party.

“I forgot to mention it.” Ben grinned. “Oh, right. I did give you the Poor Little Rich Boy act, didn’t I?”

Allegra laughed. He could always make her laugh, and she had missed their easy camaraderie. “Nice house,” she said, raising her eyebrows at the Picasso above the dining table.

Ben rolled his eyes. “My parents,” he said. “The worst thing about having money is that I don’t get to be a starving artist.”

“Is it that bad?” Allegra said, with a slightly mocking tone.

“Oh, it’s the worst,” Ben said cheerfully. “I get to eat well, and my mom uses her connections to get everyone to write about me or buy my work. It’s rough, I’m telling you.”

Allegra smiled. Ben’s background was just part of him. He was not responsible for who his parents were—he was just lucky to be their son.

Ben looked at her closely. “You cut your hair,” he said, his brow furrowing.

“Thought it was time for a change,” she said, trying to feel brave. God, he hated it, she could tell. Why had she ever cut her hair? What was she thinking?

“I like it,” he said with a nod of approval. “By the way, the gallery told me you bought a painting.”

“I did.” She nodded, noticing that there was a group of people hanging around them, waiting for Ben to release her so they could pounce on him.

“Good, I need the money.”

“Liar.” She motioned to his adoring crowd. “I think I’m keeping you from your fans.”

“Ah, screw them.” Ben grinned. “It’s really good to see you, Legs,” he said warmly. “You want to come by the studio tomorrow? See a couple of other things? I promise I won’t try to sell them to you. Well, maybe not all.”

He wanted to see her again. Allegra’s heart skipped a beat. “Sure. Why not.” She shrugged nonchalantly, as if she would only stop by if she had nothing better to do.

His face lit up and he looked downright jolly. “Great! I’ll have the gallery give you the address.”

Finally, one of the hovering guests, an older gentleman with a trimmed beard, grew tired of waiting. “Stephen, excuse my interruption, but you must meet one of our best cli-ents—he’s thrilled with your work and is insistent on buying the entire collection.”

“One sec,” Ben told his dealer. “Sorry about this,” he said to Allegra. “Work calls. But stay. Enjoy the party. Some of the old crowd is here—a bunch of Peithologians, at least. You’ll find them at the bar doing shots. Old habits die hard.”

Then he was gone, taken away by his guests who had come to celebrate his success.

Ben was happy, friendly, fine. He was fine. Allegra resolved to feel happy for him, and glad that she had done the right thing in nipping their little affair—whatever it was—right in the bud. As she wandered in the direction of the bar to find her old friends, she couldn’t help but smile to herself. She was glad he’d liked her hair.