father. He bought her a Warhol lithograph, an exquisite Tiffany lamp
with signs of the Zodiac, and an Aubusson rug in shades of powder blue
and pink. For the week he stayed in town, he dropped in daily with a
new present. She couldn't stop him, and after seeing the pleasure it
gave him, stopped trying.
They gave their first party on the night before he left for London.
Packing crates stood on the priceless rug. The Tiffany graced the card
table. There was food both in plastic bowls and in the fragile Limoges
Marianne's mother had shipped to them. The radio had been replaced,
thanks to Johnno, by a wall-trembling stereo unit.
A handful of college students mingled with musicians and Broadway stars.
Dress ranged from denim to silks and sequins. There were arguments and
laughter, all drowned out by the music blasting against the windows.
It made Emma nostalgic for the parties she remembered from her youth,
the people sprawled on the floor, on pillows, the bright and
beautiful discussing their art. She sipped mineral water and, as she
had always done, watched.
"An interesting soir6e," Johnno stated, swinging an arm around her
shoulders. "Got any beer left?"
"Let's see."
She steered him into the kitchen. There wasn't much left in the fridge
but a bottle of jug wine and part of a six-pack of Beck's. Emma opened
a bottle and handed it to him.
"Just like old times," she said.
"More or less." He sniffed the glass in her hand. "What a good girl you
are."
"I'm not much of a drinker."
"That doesn't require an apology. Bri's enjoying himseIL" He nodded
over the wall to where Brian was sitting on the floor and, like a
traveling minstrel, plucking an acoustic guitar.
When she looked at him, strumming, singing for himself as much as for
the group surrounding him, the love poured through her. "He enjoys
playing like this as much as in any stadium or studio."
"More," Johnno said before he tipped back the beer. "Though I don't
think he knows it."
"I think he's feeling better about all of this now." She glanced around
at the mix of people crowded into her home. Her Home. "After all, he'd
had a security system put in that would make the queen's guards at
Buckingham Palace look like pikers."
"Annoying?"
"No. No, really it's not. Of course, I don't remember the code numbers
most of the time." She sipped, content to stand in the kitchen a
half-wall away from the crowd and the laughter. "Did Luke tell you that
he sent my portfolio over to Timothy Runyun?"
"He mentioned it." Johnno cocked his head. "Problem?"
"I don't know. He's offered me a part-time job, as an assistant."
He took a little tug on the hair she'd pulled back in a ponytail.
"There are pitiful few who start at the top, Emmy luy."
"It's not that. It's not that at all. Runyun is one of the top ten
photographers in the country. Starting out with him as a janitor would