However they might feel, though, few natives could afford to turn down the money the art people brought in. Including Walter Copeland, who had contributed most of his life’s savings to his only daughter’s fight to stay out of prison.
“Speak of the devil,” he said as a silver Range Rover turned into the airport and rolled directly toward them. “That’ll be Antoinette Gallinardi. She’s been pestering me all week to talk to you.”
“Who?” Rachel asked.
After he repeated the name, her father grumbled, “I thought she’d at least let you get settled in and give me a chance to broach the subject.”
“Broach what subject?”
“Ms. Gallinardi’s the director of the Blank Canvas Foundation. It’s a group dedicated to keeping Starbucks, Wal-Mart, and other—what’s it they call ’em? Oh, yes, and other ‘tasteless relics of suburban blight’ out of Marfa.”
“Oh, the horror,” Rachel said dryly. She would love a nice chai latte right about now.
Her father frowned. “They claim they want to preserve the town’s uniqueness.”
“They want to cast it in Lucite, like one of their museum pieces.”
Her dad nodded. “Gallinardi and her league of art snobs would probably think that’s a wonderful idea. But they do have a point about the changes—if they can ever get the locals on their side. People come to Marfa to escape all the sameness out there. And as many pictures as you’ve snapped of the place and people, I’d think you’d appreciate that.”
“Oh, I do. I’m just feeling contrary, that’s all.” And maybe a little bit caffeine deprived, despite the Dr Pepper. “To tell you the truth, my needle’s pushed past Contrary and is dropping fast toward Wiped Out.”
“Can’t blame you,” Rachel’s dad said. “You must’ve really pushed it to get here in—what—two and a half days?”
The journey was already fading to a bright blur in her memory: two thousand miles of mostly interstate, punctuated by fast-food pit stops and far too little sleep.
At her nod, he added, “I can ask Ms. Gallinardi to come back another time. Just try to be polite, for my sake. This lady knows everybody in the high rent circles.”
“I don’t get it,” said Rachel. “What would she want with me?” Since the trial, the only people who had sought her out had been vultures interested in getting the inside dirt on…Oh, hell. Don’t let this be about the trial.
The Range Rover slowed as it approached them. Inside, Rachel made out two forms, but could only discern the features of the passenger, a narrow-faced woman with a raven’s wing of jet hair cut in an aggressively angled bob.
The SUV came to a stop, raising puffs of dust from its four tires. Inside the vehicle, a scrawny scrap of an animal—Rachel was undecided between dog and rat—bounced wildly. A moment later, the tall, slender passenger edged out, scolding, “No, Coco. Bad Coco,” before shoving the fawn-colored creature back inside and closing the door.
She drew in a deep breath as if to regroup before turning, perfectly balanced on the three-inch heels of her black boots. Otherwise, her elegant form was swathed in charcoal gray, a beautifully tailored riding jacket over a matching wool sweater and a long skirt. Her face had an ageless, airbrushed quality, marred only by her frown at the yapping and window-scrabbling going on behind her.
She extended a slender hand that wouldn’t have looked out of place in a cocktail glove, or holding a cigarette at the end of a slim, jeweled holder. “You must be Rachel Copeland. I’m Antoinette Gallinardi. It’s such a pleasure to meet you.”
The crème brûlée smoothness of her voice had Rachel mentally rechristening her “Art Deco Woman.” The kind of woman mortal females tended to despise on sight. Rachel, however, reserved judgment.
“As always, it’s nice to see you, ma’am, but my daughter just got in,” her father explained. “She’s tired, hungry.”
Gallinardi withdrew her hand from Rachel’s. “Please forgive me. I was so eager to meet you that the moment my assistant told me you’d been seen driving through town, I asked her to bring me straight over.”
Disturbed that the woman’s assistant would recognize her—how closely had people here followed the media coverage from Philadelphia?—Rachel glanced at the figure still seated in the vehicle. She was unpleasantly surprised to recognize Terri Parton, who had been just a year ahead of her in school. Which wasn’t nearly far enough for Rachel’s taste. Though Terri had put on weight with the years, she’d kept her trademark blonde locks, which were even longer and more silvery than they’d been when she had run the cheerleading squad like her own petty fiefdom. She shot Rachel a look that said time hadn’t softened her opinion of the geek-girl she and her friends had considered far beneath their notice. Or maybe she was remembering the day Rachel had buzzed the picnic, an act that drew attention to the private party Terri had been conducting in the backseat of her Chevy with the soon-to-be-ex band director.
Surely, Terri would have moved past the fallout from that old scandal by this time….
“I believe the two of you went to school together,” Gallinardi said. “Terri Parton-Zavala?”
“Sure, I remember her.” Rachel guessed that Terri must have married Cristo Zavala, a trombone player—a self-styled ladies’ man who had liked to run around asking girls if they’d enjoy the honor of blowing his horn. If those two had hooked up, they deserved each other.
“But I don’t understand,” Rachel added. “Why would you rush over here to meet me?”
Dumb question, she thought bitterly. For months, she had been fending off not only anonymous callers and obnoxious reporters, but acquaintances eager to pick the story’s bones. Had she really gone to her apartment with Kyle Underwood a few, short weeks before his murder, as witnesses had testified despite Rachel’s denial? Had there been more to those pictures of the two of them than the salacious details that came out during the trial?
Whether Terri had put Gallinardi up to it or she’d come of her own accord, Rachel couldn’t allow that garbage to get a foothold here in Marfa—even if it meant cutting off Art Deco Woman at the knees.
Gallinardi looked at Walter, her sleek black brows arching in surprise. “You haven’t told her?”
He grimaced. “I haven’t had the chance yet.”
Splashes of pink suffused fashionably gaunt cheeks. “I see I’ve made a mess of things, Ms. Copeland. But please, let me assure you, it’s your talent that’s made me overeager. The work you did for Nouveau West—the images of the Marfa of your childhood were breathtaking.”
Terri Parton slipped out of the vehicle but took care not to let the frantic dog escape. “Rachel,” she said with an unenthusiastic nod.
Rachel returned it and lied, “Nice to see you, Terri,” though her head was spinning with Art Deco Woman’s words. Talent. Over eager. Breathtaking.
“You saw my…photos?” Rachel had given up on anyone from the art world noticing her work by the time the magazine had bought the rights to print her Marfa series. For years, she’d had an online gallery featuring images she had taken before leaving and on her infrequent visits home, along with a great deal more work she’d done along the East Coast. For years, her sales were barely enough to cover the cost of maintaining the online storefront and camera supplies. To survive, she’d turned to bridal portraiture—never her favorite—and teaching classes at a community college just outside of Philadelphia. Which had put her squarely in the path of a student named Kyle Underwood.
The crack of her old handgun reverberated through her mind, and her throat closed at the memory of hot spray against her chill skin. Along with her stark-naked stalker, her burgeoning career had died that night, too. Or so Rachel had thought.
Art Deco Woman nodded. “Oh, yes. Everyone in the foundation agrees you have a very fine eye.”
When Terri—who’d grown even heavier than Rachel had first realized—reddened and pursed her lips, Rachel was fairly sure she’d gone from hell to heaven.
“Those photos for
m an extraordinary chronicle of how art has changed, perhaps even saved, this community,” Gallinardi went on.
Rachel resisted the urge to argue about her choice of words. For one thing, Gallinardi was at least partly correct that the attention of the art world had saved Marfa. But even more importantly, Rachel was soaking up every drop of praise like a parched desert drinking in the rain. Pathetic, yes, but after the year she’d had, it was all she could do not to wag and whimper at the woman’s feet. If Terri weren’t there bearing witness, Rachel probably would have slobbered just a little. Instead, she managed, “Thank you,” trying to sound modest but not unused to such praise.
Stick that up your megaphone, Terri “Let’s Make GeekGirl’s Life a Living Hell” Parton.
Terri, for her part, affected boredom by averting her eyes and sliding her tongue against the inside of her cheek, a habit Rachel remembered from their years in grade school.
“We were hoping,” Art Deco Woman went on, raising her voice to be heard over her dog’s noise, “that you might allow us to license some of your earlier images for our campaign and that you’d consider photographing some of Marfa’s local artists at their work.”
Terri’s sly smile forced Rachel to slow down and consider.
“What sort of campaign is it?” she asked.
“We’ll be sending press releases, with copies of your images, to various news outlets, along with art and travel magazines. We’ll use them to promote a showing of works produced by other local artists and offered up for sale. And we’d very much like for you to be the featured artist at the exhibition.”
Rachel barely caught her jaw before it swung open like a loose hinge. This was…this was beyond imagining. A well-publicized showing, for a pariah like her? Sure, she’d had a few successes, from commercial gigs to the Nouveau West series to acceptance of her work in a couple of prestigious art photography shows, but never before had she achieved the kind of . . .
Never before had she been notorious: a woman accused of sleeping with a very young—almost criminally young—man. A woman who had been tried for killing him. Quite a curiosity…and Terri’s amused look confirmed that there was something beyond the foundation members’ admiration in play.
Was the wreckage of her life the honey sweetening this deal, forming the newsworthy “hook” this Blank Canvas group was seeking to publicize its goals? Rachel’s face burned at the thought, igniting the short fuse of her temper. Even worse was the idea that Terri might have been the one to suggest this appeal to Geek-Girl’s vanity.
“And of course, there’ll be remuneration,” Gallinardi added, darting a frown over her shoulder toward the small dog’s histrionics. “Or should I discuss your fees with your agent?”
The flame sparked ever closer toward detonation. Sure, Rachel could expect to be compensated for the work used to illustrate articles or publicize the event, but this wasn’t a real art show. If it were, she’d be expected to pay a jury fee even to be considered. Competition for display in such shows was fierce, not so much for the modest prizes of a few hundred or perhaps a thousand dollars, but for the prestige of winning and the boost it would give one’s studio. Rachel knew she was good, but she was honest enough to know her work was not so special or well-known that she could expect to circumvent the rules.
Apparently annoyed by her hesitation, Terri interjected, “Oh, come on, Rachel. Don’t play coy. You can’t possibly be mulling better offers.”
The ice-blonde woman’s employer shot a stern look in her direction. “Perhaps you could go back and see to Coco, before she chews her way through my upholstery.”
“Uh, yes, ma’am. I’ll do that.” With a look of pure resentment, Terri stalked off to do her boss’s bidding.
The moment the SUV’s door slammed, Art Deco Woman’s expression shifted from angry to contrite. “Please accept my apologies. I can promise you, I will speak to her about that display of rudeness.”
“What’s this about, Ms. Gallinardi?” Rachel asked her. “And I mean really, not whatever cover story you and Terri have trumped up.”
“Rusty,” her father warned before he looked pleadingly at the gaping woman. “Please forgive my daughter. She’s not herself right now. The long drive—and then, the other thing. She’s been under a great deal of stress.”
Gallinardi blanched, teetering on her spiked boot heels. “I’m aware there have been…difficulties, and my assistant’s comment was unfortunate. But clearly, my timing has been—”
“No coincidence?” Rachel finished for her, which earned her another alarmed look from her father.
She closed her eyes and dragged in a deep breath to clear her head. These art people brought in business for her dad, and more than that, they’d become a real presence in this town. If they chose, they could make her father’s life incredibly unpleasant. For his sake, she could at least pretend to think about the woman’s offer.
“I—I’m sorry I snapped,” Rachel managed. “It’s just—this is a little overwhelming.”
Gallinardi visibly relaxed.
“I was wondering,” Rachel asked Art Deco Woman, “do you have a card? I’d like to call—to have my representative call you to discuss this. But it’s been very nice to meet you.”
Gallinardi smiled, nodding, and produced an elegant, dove-gray card from a stylish black purse. “Certainly, Ms. Copeland. And I sincerely hope we’ll have the chance to work with you. There’s a bit more to it than we’ve discussed, but we can talk about the details later.”
Once Gallinardi climbed back inside her Range Rover and headed for the exit, Rachel’s father said, “Nice recovery. You had me worried for a minute.”
“Sorry,” she said simply, not wanting to alarm him with her suspicions until she had a better handle on the offer.
“And I didn’t know you had an agent for your photos,” he added.
Her dad looked so impressed that she couldn’t help smiling. His idea of a photographer was still the department store guy who distracted howling babies with rattles long enough to snap a few shots.
“I don’t,” she said, “but I know where I can hustle up a reasonable facsimile in short order.”
“And here I was, worrying they’d knocked all the starch out of you this past year.” He gently popped the side of her arm. “That’s my Rusty. That’s the girl who always knew how to set this town on its ear.”
Rachel’s mood darkened as she thought, Unfortunately, Marfa’s always had a way of setting me on my ass in return.
CHAPTER THREE
Man, like a light in the night, is kindled and put out.
—Heraclitus
Monday, February 11
Zeke spotted her first as he rode in off the desert: a lean woman in faded jeans and a brown leather jacket standing by his paddock. As he watched, she reached across the fence to stroke the new mare’s thin neck. Though the horse, a brown-and-white pinto fuzzy with her winter coat, looked pleased with the attention, Zeke felt only irritation. A glance in the direction of the shrouded sun told him it was maybe eight thirty or nine, no later. Too damned early in the morning to have to talk to customers.
He puffed out a breath that rose like dragon smoke on the cold air. Dealing with people shattered the calm he’d built by seeking out wood, an early-morning ritual in which he imagined the twisted, skeletal forms of dead trees expressed as chairs and tables, headboards and smaller pieces that followed nature’s lines. Today had been a good day; amid a powdered-sugar swirl of snow flurries, he’d found some particularly high-quality mesquite, a hard, durable, and ancient specimen in a deadfall he’d somehow missed on earlier forays. Before he’d finished cutting it and loading Gus, his pack mule, the flurries ended without chilling either man or beast too badly.
Leading Gus, Zeke nudged his oversized mount, Cholla, into a jog. Pricking his ears forward, the buckskin clattered over hard-packed soil with big, shod hooves as black as his long stockings. When the pinto whinnied a greeting to her two pasture mates, the woman turn
ed in his direction, jolting him with recognition. Rachel Copeland waved and smiled, though he hadn’t seen her face-to-face since their first meeting in the café almost a week earlier. This morning, her unbound hair flamed redder in the sunlight, so he hadn’t recognized her from behind.
Which was pretty damned ironic considering that he had dreamed of her just last night—a dream from which he had awakened cursing and questioning his reasons for remaining celibate.
Too dangerous, getting close to anyone, let alone a woman. Too unfair to pull her into something I can’t risk explaining.
Zeke’s breath caught, the jagged edge of his attraction slicing deep. He needed to steer clear of this woman even more than most. Lust was one thing. He could deal with that. But her presence, considering her recent troubles, had stirred up old memories, sleeping dogs that rose, snarling, with their glittering teeth bared.
She gave the mare a final pat and said, “Hi there. I was worried I might miss you. Patsy told me you go out riding in the morning, but she didn’t know the time.”
He couldn’t guess how Patsy had gleaned even that much information. He barely spoke to her, at least no more than he had to. When people talked, they let their guard down. They let things slip that ought to be kept private.
He swung down from his horse’s back and led the buckskin to the hitching post.
“What do you need?” His words came out blunter than he had intended. But instead of apologizing, he let the question ride.
“Relax. I didn’t come for small talk.” She smiled, as if she found him amusing. No flinching today; the little lioness had recovered. Gesturing toward her camera case, she added, “Just a few photos, if you’re willing.”
His turn to spook now, taken aback by the idea.
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