Ideal Image: Snapshot, #2

by Freya Barker

  Well, that something has turned into a huge silent auction and dinner fundraiser. Through some of Isla and Ben’s connections, we managed to get a Durango art gallery to donate artwork, and the Strater hotel in Durango is donating the space.

  Isla worked on me for months, but I finally conceded to let her use me as a subject for a series of art photographs, showing the beauty of imperfection. It was an interesting experience. Other than a quick peek here and there at the digital screen on Isla’s camera, I haven’t seen any of the shots, let alone the edited ones.

  To say my curiosity is piqued is putting it mildly.

  “Yes. The whole series from what I understand,” I confirm.

  “She picked certain shots for that, yes. She shot over three hundred images though. There are plenty more.” Jen leans forward on her desk and lowers her voice. “I want to do a photo book with a selection of the leftover images,” she whispers, but immediately rears back with her hand up when she sees the concern on my face. “Isla wanted to do one herself, and was crushed when she was in here earlier this week that she wouldn’t have the time to tackle it before the event. So I thought I would do it for her,” she says hopefully. “With your help, of course.”

  “I don’t know...” I begin, a feeling of panic threatening at the idea of having my face, my body, in a book. I mean a few exclusive original prints in the hands of a few people are one thing, having a book full of my pictures for anyone to buy is another.

  “I get it,” Jen quickly states. “Which is why I need your help. I need to know which images you’d be comfortable with including.”

  “Your macchiato?”

  The blonde girl provides the perfect interruption, allowing me a moment to settle myself down. By the time she’s put the extra large cup, almost overflowing with whipping cream, on the desk in front of me and backs out of the office, I’m a little more in control of my thoughts.

  “Where are the pictures?” I ask, lifting my cup to my mouth and slurping off the best part of my coffee, as Jen flips open her laptop and turns the screen around.

  I’M SURPRISED WHEN I note the clock as I walk out of Jen’s office. Over two hours have passed, and I’ll have to hustle to get back home in time for my eleven o’clock conference call. I have a standing appointment with the Denver lawyer I’m doing some freelance research for.

  In my hurry to get home, I fly out of my spot outside the coffee shop, nearly ramming a gray Audi just pulling into the parking lot. I barely manage to slam on the brakes in time, as the driver lays on the horn. I raise my hand in apology and edge forward, so he can pull in around me.

  I start rolling down my window to apologize in person when I recognize the person getting out of the car, and instead slam the gear in reverse and hightail it out of there.

  Nicholas Flynn.

  A man so eager to snag me for his firm when he discovered a former ADA might be settling in town, he almost hounded my brother for my number. He never got so far as to contact me. Instead he very obviously reconsidered whatever offer he was going to make me when we were introduced at Ben and Isla’s wedding. Mr. Flynn got his first good look at my damaged appearance and could barely look at me. Needless to say, I never heard from the man.

  That was one of the reasons I decided to try and find some work to do from home, at least until I was ready to talk to the plastic surgeon about possible next steps.

  I’m in pretty decent shape financially, especially since the sale of my place in Albuquerque, but it doesn’t hurt to have a little extra coming in. Hence the research from home.

  Resolutely pushing a certain tall, bald, well-dressed asshole and his shiny car out of my mind, I park the car on the dirt shoulder outside of my yard and rush inside, snatching the ringing phone off the counter.

  NICK

  Normally I hit the coffee shop on my way into work at around seven a.m.

  This morning I’m running late, because one of the horses got tangled up with some barbed wire. Not sure where the damn wire came from, since we don’t use it on the small ranch my dad and I own just out of town, but her front leg was pretty mangled and we had to call in the vet early this morning.

  Dad and I bought the place maybe six years ago, after my mother passed away suddenly. Mom had always been the driving force behind the large farm we had not far from Durango. It was too much for Dad to manage on his own, since ironically Mom had been the healthy one of the two of them. Of course, all eyes had been on me to drop everything and take over. The truth is, as much as I enjoy a bit of physical labor, I knew in the long run, farming wouldn’t have been enough to satisfy me.

  So, seeing as I wasn’t ready to give up my practice in Cortez, and my dad wasn’t quite ready to give up on farming, we managed to work out a compromise. Dad sold the farm, I sold my place in Cortez, and together we put in on this small ranch in the Dolores River valley. My father brought a few of his horses and we have some chickens for fresh eggs, so with their daily care and the vegetable garden he likes to grow, Dad keeps himself busy.

  The ranch house is all one level, with a central living area and kitchen right off the foyer, and a hallway going off on either side. One runs behind the kitchen to a separate bed and sitting room with bathroom, which my Dad claimed as his space. He liked being closer to the kitchen. On the other side, behind the living room, are two smaller bedrooms, a bathroom and a den. I guess Dad’s staying in what was originally the master suite, and I have one of the smaller bedrooms on the other side, but I also have my home office in the den.

  The layout makes it so we don’t have to be in each other’s space all the time; we retain our independence, yet at the same time, I know I’m around whenever Dad needs me. Like this morning when he found his favorite mare injured.

  The arrangement works for us.

  My mind is still chewing over how that tangle of barbed wire could’ve gotten in one of the pastures when I’m almost sideswiped by a late model, navy Subaru SUV. I lay on the horn, which clearly alerted the driver, since the car abruptly comes to a halt, but my heart is beating in my throat. That was close. I could’ve cared less about another ding on my own pickup truck, but Dad wanted it to check along the fence lines today. I’m driving Dad’s prized possession. The one indulgence he allowed himself after selling the farm.

  It would’ve been a blow if his pretty baby got scratched up, and I’d never live it down.

  I manage to pull around the back of the SUV and step out of the car, turning toward the rolled down window. I barely have a chance to register who’s behind the wheel before they back out and fly off with squealing tires.

  “Was that Stacie Gustafson?” I ask Jen when I walk up to the counter.

  “Morning to you too, Nick,” she fires back smartly.

  “Morning, Jen,” I dutifully respond, trying not to roll my eyes too loudly. “May I have an extra large please? And by chance, was that Stacie?” I try again.

  “You may, and it was.” She turns her back without elaborating, and I grit my teeth, knowing I’m being toyed with. “You’re late this morning?”

  “One of Dad’s horses got injured. I spent most of the morning trying to get her corralled and waiting for the vet to get there. It’s gonna be a late one tonight. Hence, the extra large,” I explain.

  “She going to be okay?” Jen wants to know as she sets my coffee on the counter in front of me.

  “She should be, pending any complications. Doc cleaned and stitched the wound, gave her a tetanus shot and wrapped her up. Dad’s keeping an eye on her in the stable.”

  “Good.” Jen nods, tilting her head to the side, a twitch at the corner of her mouth. “Stacie was here to do some work on the gala. Have you two met?”

  “We met briefly in April. Haven’t really had a chance to talk to her, though.”

  “Odd,” she concludes with a twinkle in her eye. “I would’ve thought the two of you have tons in common. You both practice law, you’re both involved with the foundation, funny your paths haven’t
crossed more often.”

  I don’t bother telling her that as far as I know, Stacie is not even aware of my minimal involvement in the Children’s Burn Foundation. All I did was help set up the original framework for the organization a few years ago, since then my involvement had just been through my support and donations.

  I also don’t want to let on that I’ve purposely avoided Ms. Gustafson these past months. Ever since I got my first glimpse of her at Ben and Isla’s wedding. Instead I pull my billfold from my back pocket, toss a five on the counter and grab my coffee.

  “Doesn’t matter,” Jen says, breaking through my thoughts. “You’ll get your chance in two weeks, at the fundraiser.”

  “I guess I will,” I concede, with a friendly smile as I back out of the door.

  The smile is gone the moment I turn toward the car. I haven’t quite figured out how to avoid her at an event I’m supposed to be hosting. That had been Isla’s idea, and I said yes before I knew her sister-in-law was deeply involved in the fundraiser.

  At least this time I know what to expect. I had no idea that Ben’s sister, an assistant district attorney, was her. The first name threw me off. Stacie Gustafson was not necessarily an uncommon or exotic name.

  Anastasia was.

  CHAPTER 2

  Stacie

  “Thanks for doing this, Al.”

  Isla’s uncle looks up from his great nephew’s bassinet and smiles.

  “Happy to have Mak help me watch this little guy. He’s growing so fast, I’m afraid he’ll be running circles around me soon.”

  Mak and Al got pretty close over last Christmas. Other than Ben, she hasn’t really had any male figures in her life, so she took to Al, a gruff but kind and decent man, like a fish to water.

  “Can you help me with this?” My big brother Ben walks into the joint living room of their suite, fussing with his bow tie. I bite down a chuckle, because the only other time I’ve seen him in a suit, of any kind, was the day he and Isla got married.

  My brother is more a jeans and T-shirt kind of guy, with his tattoo-covered body and his new, edgy, gray goatee. He looks pretty fantastic in a tux, though.

  “You look cute, Uncle Ben,” Mak says, and I have to bite down a grin at the instant look of horror on his face. No matter how ornery my daughter can be with me, she absolutely worships the ground her uncle walks on.

  “In a totally manly, handsome way. Right, Mak?” Isla rubs her husband’s bicep soothingly as she walks in with a big smile for my girl.

  “Right,” she responds eagerly, and I miss having the look of adoration she bestows on my sister-in-law directed at me.

  “Done,” I whisper at Ben, tugging the loops of his tie so it lies flat against his throat. “And she’s right,” I add, under my breath. “You do look kinda cute.” I laugh at the low, ominous growl he responds with.

  “We should get going,” I announce. “Jen is probably already waiting for us downstairs.”

  The Strater is a beautiful historic hotel in downtown Durango, which is serving as the venue for our charity dinner and auction. Rather than make the two-hour drive back to Dolores tonight after the event, we decided it would be simpler to just all stay here. More convenient for Isla for sure, since she’s still nursing Noah. They have a two-bedroom suite that houses Al as well, and Mak and I have an adjoining room.

  I’m eager to get Isla downstairs, because Jen was adamant she wanted to show her the beautiful photo books she picked up from Southwest Printing just this afternoon. It had been a collaborative effort and a mad rush to get them all done, but when Jen phoned me earlier she said they were beautiful. The book will be a surprise for Isla.

  Truthfully, I’d rather be the one to stay up here with Mak and Noah, but I know I can’t. I committed myself to this event, to this cause, and although the temptation to run and hide is overwhelming, I couldn’t do that. I couldn’t do it to Isla and Jen, who’ve put so much of their time into this project, because of me.

  Mostly I have to do this for my girl. I have to show her that I’m stronger than that. Stronger than the looks, the whispers, I encounter every time I’m out and about. She’s not stupid; she’s seen the way I hide away so I don’t have to be strong. That’s not a lesson I want to leave my daughter with, though.

  Mak was the first one to see right through the scars and the bandages, straight through to the soul of me. Oh, she’ll look at my scars from time to time, but in such a purely clinical and matter-of-fact way, that it doesn’t feel rude or invasive. She looks at them like she would at a new haircut or a fresh manicure: as a part of me, but not defining me.

  Jen is waiting right there, the moment the elevator doors open on the main floor.

  “Hurry,” she urges us down the hall to the Henry Strater Theater, which has been converted into a large banquet room. She leads us to a table butted up against the stage, which is covered with a white sheet.

  “What’s all this?” Isla wants to know.

  “I...I mean, we thought...you were so busy...” Jen stammers, for once at a loss for words. Finally she just throws up her arms and grumbles, “Oh, why don’t you just have a look?”

  Isla pulls the sheet off the table and immediately her hands come up to cover her mouth. I have to admit, I have tears burning my eyes when I look at the beautiful job Jen has done on the cover.

  I had no part in that; I simply selected images I thought were beautiful. It was difficult. Looking at the new version of yourself and trying to find beauty there is a challenge, to say the least. But what really strikes me is the image Jen picked for the cover.

  A starkly contrasted close-up of my face, partially covered by my hands. It looks like I’m slowly revealing the new, scarred, me.

  Rebranding Beauty, is the title Jen came up with and it is perfect.

  “I don’t know what to say,” Isla sniffles, stroking her fingertips over the cover. “I love it so much.” Suddenly she swings around to me. “Were you in on this? Are you okay with this?” I just nod, smiling wobbly.

  “It’s all Jen though,” I confess. “I just helped select the images.

  After hugs, tissues, and quick makeup repairs, Isla does a final round of the space, before opening the doors to the already well-filled foyer.

  WHEN I FINALLY FIND my way to the table I’ve been assigned to, I’ve had it up to my eyeballs with the sympathetic, and often pitiful, glances and smiles.

  I keep wanting to shift my head so that they’re forced to look me in the eye, instead of avoiding my face altogether.

  Christ, I’m not that hideous.

  The edge of anger feels good. Better than the shame and occasional self-pity I sometimes find myself overwhelmed with.

  Too bad for Nicholas Flynn, who finds himself in the unfortunate seat right across the table from me. When his eyes travel my body from the top of my head to where my legs disappear from vision under the table, it’s like someone poked me with a cattle prod.

  “They’re still there,” I snap at him. “They haven’t disappeared in the past few months since the first time they repulsed you.”

  Whoa.

  I blanch at my own vitriol. Not quite sure he deserved that kind of lashing, but it was out of my mouth before I could put a lock on it. Judging by the stunned look on his face, he’s as shocked as I am. Before I can say or do anything in apology, the rest of the table guests start arriving, and the moment is gone. Or more honestly, I grasp at the distraction my tablemates provide.

  I manage to avoid looking in his direction during most of dinner, although the few times I do, I find his eyes on me. I can’t quite figure out whether he is scrutinizing me, like a bug under a microscope, or simply assessing me curiously. Regardless, even when I don’t look, I can feel the heat of his eyes on me.

  “Dance with me?” I startle at the weight of a hand on my shoulder and the determined invite in my ear.

  I smile my apology at Ryan DeGroot for the interruption. He is the gallery owner who has donated several pieces of a
rt for the silent auction, which I was in the middle of discussing with him.

  “Excuse me,” I tell Ryan before dropping my napkin on my plate and turning around to address Nicholas.

  His face is much closer than I’d anticipated and I’m surprised at the warmth I see in his eyes. That’s not what I was expecting. I’m so taken aback, I don’t have a chance to formulate my excuse before he takes my hand in his and pulls me right out of my seat.

  “Actually...” I try, but it’s too late, he’s already dragging me to the dance floor.

  Rather than make a scene that will only result in more people staring at me, I drop my chin to my chest, and let him lead me. I try not to curl into his big body when he lifts our linked hands to his chest and slips his other arm around the small of my back, pulling me close.

  It’s hard not to feel drawn in by his gentle sway and the touching words of Sarah McLachlan’s, ‘In The Arms Of An Angel’.

  NICK

  I’d known last week when I almost ran into her—or rather she almost ran into me—that my attempts to avoid her wouldn’t last.

  What I didn’t expect was the sharp tongue-lashing I got.

  Not entirely underserved, as I realize after the initial shock wears off. After all, I did rather rudely avoid looking at her at the wedding, although that was more out of self-preservation than anything else. She’s still fucking gorgeous, and as expected, my IQ dropped significantly in her presence.

  To her, I’m sure, it would have come off as rude, to say the least, but I’m shocked to find she assumed I found her repulsive. Nothing could be further from the truth.

  I observed her during dinner; mulled about how impossible it would be to continue to try and ignore her. Finally deciding that perhaps the right way to look at this would be to see it as a very fortuitous second chance. The one thing Mom told me, time and time again, was that if you weren’t open to possibilities, opportunities would pass you by.