Page 118 of Flirting with Forever

“Jesus.”

“Peter has to leave.”

“So go back to visit him. You know,” Jeanne added in a whisper, “Amazon. I mean, it looks like you’ll have the time.”

“Can’t. They’re taking my mode of transport away. And anyway, he’s going back to a new life. It’s a long story, but he was only in 1673 for an assignment. He’s really supposed to be in the Afterlife, waiting to be assigned a new life. Oh, Jeanne, I’m afraid I love him.”

Jeanne stopped so fast some of her drink sloshed over the rim of the glass. “Love? Oh, Cam. You really love him?”

“I must. Otherwise I’d kill him.”

“Have you thought about refusing? Holding him hostage? Packing yourself in his luggage?”

Cam shook her head. “No. He’s in the running for a good next life, and if I interfere—” She made a raspberry sound.

“Jeez, this is harder than I Survived a Japanese Game Show. Well, don’t give up. There’s always a way.”

“Not this time.” Cam sensed a fat tear quivering in her vision and hurriedly wiped it away. “And now I have to find Ball and tell him his two-point-one-million-dollar gift is worth about as much as a really nice Van Gogh poster.”

“Man, this is not your day.”

“Have you seen him?” Cam looked past Jeanne’s head, down the hall.

“Ball?”

“Either of them. Ball or Peter.”

“Peter’s here?”

Cam nodded. “Guest of Ball’s.”

“Well, Ball was in the east gallery, like, five minutes ago.”

“East gallery, then. Wish me luck.”

“Here’s my vodka tonic. I think that’ll work better.”

* * *

Cam navigated the buzzing patrons. Everyone looked so happy and carefree in their finery. Ball wasn’t in the first gallery or the second. By the third, the crowds had thinned, and at the fourth, the one that held her favorite selections from the “Behold: Love Through the Eyes of the Artist” exhibit, she was one of only three or four people.

Morose, she walked the length of the space, peering into the adjacent rooms, but found herself slowing as the paintings exerted their usual influence over her. Two Alex Katz works, both adoringly painted portraits of his wife, Ada. In the first, she’s a young mother with striking dark hair and gentle eyes, and her mouth is hidden behind the head of her young son, whom she’s kissing. In the second, she’s older. Her gray-streaked hair is draped over her shoulders, and those gentle dark eyes are edged with lines. Katz had painted Ada dozens and dozens of times in his career, each time with unmistakable affection.

“Lovely,” a voice said.

It was Peter, smiling. He looked magnificent, and Cam wanted to throw her arms around him, but found herself unexpectedly shy. She contented herself with catching a corner of his sleeve.

“It’s Ada.”

“I see that,” he said, tilting his head toward the painting’s title card. “Is that her as well?”

“Yes, both. The artist, her husband, Alex Katz, painted her over and over.”

“One woman, two ages, and he still sees the same thing when he looks at her. The effect upon the viewer is unchanged. That’s remarkable.”

“We have one of yours, you know.”

“Do you?”