Free Always and Forever by Cynthia Freeman Page B

elevator in the turn-of-the-century building where his father had moved the manufacturing section of the firm twenty years ago. The Kohn Furs retail store was a huge expanse of lush decor up on Madison Avenue, but the old man spent most of his time here, though he made a habit of summoning favored models from the store to his office. “To model the new styles for me” was the way he put it, Phil recalled. Most of their modeling was on the maroon velvet sofa that dominated one wall of his office.
    Riding up in the ancient elevator, Phil remembered how his father had brought him into the ostentatiously furnished office on his sixteenth birthday and pointed to a tall, rather flat-chested young model sitting on the sofa with her legs crossed so high he could see velvety white skin between stocking top and lace-edged panties.
    “Phil, this is Daisy,” he’d said with a wink. “Daisy, my son. It’s his birthday—be good to him.”
    Dad didn’t know that he’d been pulling up skirts since he was fourteen. Still, it was fun to do it with a high-class model ten years older than he was. She’d been surprised that he wasn’t exactly inexperienced.
    He walked from the elevator onto the huge floor, deserted now because the workday was over. As far back as he could remember, Dad made a point of bringing him into the work area three or four times a year, showing off “my only son.”
    For a moment he hesitated before the closed door to the office. Was he interrupting a little something? Then with a shrug he lifted a hand and knocked.
    “Come in.” Expectancy in his father’s voice. He opened the door and walked inside. “What took you so long?” Julius Kohn reproached, but he was on his feet and rushing to embrace his son. “I thought you’d be here this morning.”
    “I didn’t say what time,” Phil reminded, always uncomfortable when his father kissed him. “We just docked. You know what traffic is like this time of day.”
    “I told Wally to hang around at the garage until I called him to come and get us.” He dropped an arm about Phil’s shoulders and prodded him toward the sofa. “Well?” he asked with a sly grin. “You brought back my paintings?”
    “Right in here.” While his father watched, he reached into his duffel bag and brought out the tightly wrapped parcel.
    “Thirty thousand bucks and I don’t even get frames?” Julius lifted his eyebrows questioningly.
    “Dad, you didn’t expect me to smuggle them out of the country in the frames?” he demanded. “These are two old masters. If I’d been caught, you’d have one hell of a time bailing me out.”
    For a few moments they were silent while Phil ripped open the parcel, brought out the two canvases, then spread them on the floor.
    “That’s worth close to a million?” Julius was dubious.
    “In ten years they’ll be worth more,” Phil surmised. “When the museum realizes it’s lost for good. You can’t brag about them all over town,” he warned.
    “I just want to hang them in the house,” Julius soothed. “And show them to a few neighbors.”
    “If it ever comes out that you have them,” Phil pointed out, “you’ll have to pretend to believe they’re copies. You bought them from some refugee who came into the shop,” he said, instructing him.
    “It’ll be worth thirty thousand to show some of our bastardly neighbors,” Julius said complacently.
    “Did you tell Mother about them?” Phil asked.
    “Am I nuts? She’d be worried to death that you’d be caught and thrown into jail. We’ll tell her tonight after dinner.”
    On the drive toward Greenwich Phil debated about the best time to tell his father about Kathy. Meanwhile he listened to the latest Greenwich gossip.
    “You wouldn’t believe the housing boom out here. Houses that went begging at $7,500 five years ago are selling for $20,000 now. Everybody who can afford it wants to live in Greenwich and commute to Manhattan.”
    “What’s happening with that