Page 133 of Play Book

“You could have scheduled it for Sunday.”

Leave it to a kid to point out the obvious.

“Well, I thought it would be easier this way.”

“Did you and Uncle Canyon break up?”

Ugh.

“We decided the time wasn’t right for us. He has to focus on the playoffs and you, and I have the gallery and some television appearances coming up.”

“Then why aren’t you going to the game?”

“It’s complicated, Ally.”

“Did you break up because of me?”

Lovely.

Now I either have to lie or make her feel bad. And as disappointed as I am in the situation with Canyon, it’s not fair to put it on her. Canyon is the one who should have tried harder. Or maybe I should have had more patience. Either way, it’s not on the eleven-year-old who lost her mom and had her world shaken up.

“It really is complicated,” I say.

“He’s been really grumpy,” she says. “Like, more than usual.”

How am I supposed to respond to that?

“I’m sorry. He has a lot on his plate.”

“Like me.” She sighs. “I don’t mean to be so much work. I just…”

“You lost your mom, moved to a whole new place, started a new school with no friends, have a nanny?—”

“Two nannies.”

“Yes. There have been a lot of changes for you.”

“Yeah, but he wasn’t this grumpy before. And I think it’s because of you.”

Nope.

I’m not touching that with a ten-foot pole.

Time to change the subject.

The show is amazing.

So much better than I’d anticipated.

I figured the kids’ parents and a handful of friends would show up. None of my friends would be here because they were all at the Phantoms game, but Bertie showed up with half a dozen people, including Russell, and dozens of other clients stopped by. Some of them merely wanted to see my new work, but they were all polite and fussed over the kids’ pieces too.

Ally’s work drew a lot of attention, and I wished Canyon could be here to see how proud she was. It was sweet, and I was glad he’d forced her to participate. Of course, I wanted to be at the game, so I had Rage pull it up on his laptop in the back, so I could sneak back and peek at the score every now and then.

“You know your new set is mine, right?” Bertie asked me, her eyes twinkling.

“The only way you get that is if you buy one of the kids’ pieces,” I deadpan.

She nods. “Sold. Just tell me which one. That mermaid watercolor?—”

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