by Nora Roberts
Decisive moment, Mac knew, when everything the woman felt reflected on her face.
Then it passed, and Alison glanced over.
“I didn’t expect to feel this way. I’m so happy. I’m so in love with Rod, so ready to marry him. But there’s this little clutch right here.” She rubbed her fingers just above her heart. “It’s not nerves.”
“Sadness. Just a touch. One phase of your life ends today. You’re allowed to be sad to say good-bye. I know what you need. Wait here.”
A moment later, Mac led Alison’s grandmother over. And once again stepped back.
Youth and age, she thought. Beginnings and endings, connections and constancy. And, love.
She snapped the embrace, but that wasn’t it. She snapped the glitter of tears, and still, no. Then Alison lowered her forehead to her grandmother’s, and even as her lips curved, a single tear slid down her cheek while the dress glowed and glittered behind them.
Perfect. The blue butterfly.
She took candids of the ritual while the bride dressed, then the formal portraits with exquisite natural light. As she’d expected, Alison was game to brave the cold on the terrace.
And Mac ignored Parker’s voice through her headset as she rushed to the Groom’s Suite to repeat the process with Rod.
She passed Parker in the hallway as she strode back to the bride. “I need the groom and party downstairs, Mac. We’re running two minutes behind.”
“Oh my God!” Mac said in mock horror and ducked into the Bride’s Suite.
“Guests are seated,” Parker announced in her ear moments later. “Groom and groomsmen taking position. Emma, gather the bridal party.”
“On it.”
Mac slipped out to take her stand at the bottom of the stairs as Emma organized the bridesmaids.
“Party ready. Cue the music.”
“Cuing music,” Parker said, “start the procession.”
The flower girl would clearly be fine without the nap, Mac decided as the child nearly danced her way down the staircase. She paused like a vet at Laurel’s signal, then continued at a dignified pace in her fairy dress across the foyer, into the enormous parlor, and down the aisle formed by the chairs.
The attendants followed, shimmering silver, and at last, the maid of honor in gold.
Mac crouched to aim up as the bride and her father stood at the top of the stairs, holding hands. As the bride’s music swelled, he lifted his daughter’s hand to his lips, then to his cheek.
Even as she took the shot, Mac’s eyes stung.
Where was her own father? she wondered. Jamaica? Switzerland? Cairo?
She pushed the thought and the ache that came with it aside, and did her job.
Using Emma’s candlelight, she captured joy and tears. The memories. And stayed invisible and separate.
CHAPTER TWO
SHE WORKED AT NIGHT BECAUSE SHE HAD A FULL DAY OF APPOINTMENTS. And because she liked working at night—alone, in her own space, at her own pace. Mornings were for coffee, that first intense, blood-surging hit of it, and days were often for clients, for shoots, for meetings.
Nights, alone in her studio, she could focus entirely on images, how to select, to improve, to enhance. Though she worked almost exclusively digital, she retained the darkroom mind-set when it came to creating the print. She layered, highlighting, shadowing; she removed blemishes or hot spots to create her base for her master print. To this she could refine specific areas, alter density, add contrast. Step-by-step she would shape the print, sharpening or softening to suit the mood, to create an image that expressed that moment in time, until she felt what she hoped the client would feel.
Then, as she did most mornings, Mac sat down at her computer to check her thumbnails and to see if her morning self agreed with her night self.
She huddled over them in her flannels and thick socks, her bright red hair a forest of spikes and tufts. And in the utter quiet. At a wedding she was most often surrounded. By people, by chatter, by emotion. She blocked it or used it as she searched for the right angle, the right tone, the right moment.
But here, she was alone with the images, ones she could perfect. She drank her coffee, ate an apple as a concession to the previous morning’s Pop-Tart, and studied the hundreds of images she’d captured the day before, the dozens she’d finessed during the night session.
Her morning self congratulated her night self on a job well done. More to do yet, she mused, and when she had the best of the best for the clients to consider, she’d give them one more going-over before scheduling an appointment with the newlyweds to view the images in slide-show format and make their choices.
But that was for another day. In case her memory proved faulty, she checked her calendar before going up to shower and dress for her first appointment.
For a studio shoot, jeans and a sweater would do, but then she’d have to change for the consultation scheduled that afternoon at the main house. Vows policy demanded business attire for client consultations.
Mac pushed through her closet for black pants, a black shirt. She could toss on a jacket after the shoot and meet the dress code. She played with jewelry until she found what suited her mood, slapped on some makeup, and considered the job done.
The studio required more attention than the photographer, in her opinion.
Elizabeth and Charles, she thought as she began the setup. Engagement shot. They’d been firm, she recalled, at the consult. Formal, simple, straightforward.
She wondered why they didn’t just get a friend with a point-and-shoot to take it then. And she recalled now with a quick smirk, that those words had nearly come out of her mouth—before Parker had read her mind and shot her a warning glare.
“Client’s king,” she reminded herself as she set her backdrop. “They want boring, boring it is.”
She hauled in lights, positioned a diffuser—boring could at least be pretty. She brought out her tripod, mostly because she felt the clients would expect equipment. By the time she’d chosen her lenses, checked her lighting, draped a stool, the clients knocked at her door.
“Right on time.” She shut the door behind them and blocked a blast of frigid wind. “Brutal out there today. Let me take your coats.”
They looked perfect, she thought. Barbie and Ken for the upper-class set. The cool, every hair in place blonde, the handsome, polished, and pressed hero.
Part of her longed to muss them up, just a little, and make them human.
“Can I get you some coffee?” she asked.
“Oh, no, but thank you.” Elizabeth granted her a smile. “We’d really like to just get to it. We have a full schedule today.” As Mac dealt with their outdoor gear, Elizabeth glanced around the studio. “This used to be the pool house?”
“That’s right.”
“It’s . . . interesting. I suppose I expected something more elaborate. Still.” She wandered over to study some of the framed photos on the wall. “Charles’s cousin’s wedding here in November was wonderful. And she just raves about you and your partners. Isn’t that right, Charles?”
“Yes. It’s what decided us on your company.”
“The wedding planner and I will be working closely together over the next months. Is there anywhere I can freshen up before we start?” Elizabeth asked.
“Absolutely.” Mac led the way to the powder room off her studio, and wondered just what there was to freshen.
“So, Charles.” Mentally, Mac was loosening the perfectly executed Windsor knot of his tie. “Where are you two off to today?”
“We have a meeting with the wedding planner, and we’re taking care of registering. Elizabeth is going on to meet with two of the designers your partner recommended for her gown.”
“That’s exciting.” You look just thrilled, she thought, the way you might for your semiannual dental visit.
“It’s a lot of details. I suppose you’re used to them.”
“Every wedding’s the first. Would you mind standing behind the sto
ol here? I can check the lighting and focus while Elizabeth’s getting ready.”
He moved obediently, stood stiff as a poker.
“Relax,” she told him. “This will be easier and quicker than you think, and possibly fun. What kind of music do you like?”
“Music?”
“Yeah, let’s have some music.” She crossed to her CD player, chose a disk. “Natalie Cole on ballads. Romantic, classic. How’s that?”
“Fine. That’s fine.”
Mac caught him sneaking a peek at his watch as she went back to pretend to adjust her camera. “Have you decided on the honeymoon spot yet?”
“We’re leaning toward Paris.”
“Do you speak French?”
For the first time he smiled easily. “Not a word.”
“Well, there’s the adventure,” she said as Elizabeth came back looking as precisely perfect as she had when she’d gone in.
The suit was probably Armani, and beautifully tailored. The indigo blue color flattered, and Mac imagined Elizabeth had selected Charles’s slate gray to set it off.
“I think we’ll start with you sitting, Elizabeth, with Charles behind you. Just a little to the left, Charles. And Elizabeth, if you’d angle toward the windows, just a bit. Lean back toward Charles—relax your body. Charles, put your hand on her left shoulder. Put your hand over his, it’ll show off that spectacular engagement ring.”
She took a couple of shots just to get them over the initial frozen smiles.
Angle your head.
Weight on the back foot.
Shift your shoulders.
Shy, Mac realized. He was shy, camera shy and just a little people shy. And she was monumentally self-conscious. Terrified of not looking exactly right.
She tried to put them at ease, asking how they met, how they got engaged—though she’d asked the same questions when they’d set up the appointment. And received the same answers now.
She barely cracked the surface.
She could stop now, Mac thought, and give them exactly what they thought they wanted. But it wouldn’t be what they needed.
She stepped back from the camera. As she did, their bodies relaxed, and Elizabeth turned her head to smile up and over at Charles. He winked at her.
Okay, okay, Mac thought. Humans in there after all.
“I’ve got several very nice formal shots. I know that’s what you wanted, but I wonder if you’d do something for me?”
“We’re really on a schedule,” Charles began.
“It’ll take less than five minutes. Stand up, Elizabeth. Let me just move the stool.” She dragged it away, then took her camera from the tripod. “How about a hug? Not me. Each other.”
“I don’t—”
“Hugging’s legal in Connecticut, even when you’re not engaged. Just a little experiment, and I’ll have you out of here in two minutes.” She grabbed her light meter, checked, adjusted.
“Put your right cheek on his chest, but cheat it toward me. Turn your face a little toward me,” Mac explained. “And look this way. Charles, angle your head down to hers, but tip your chin my way. Take a deep breath, then let it go, just let it go. You’re holding on to the person you love, right? Enjoy it. And eyes on me, right on me, and think about what you felt like the first time you kissed.”
There!
The smiles were quick, spontaneous. Soft on her part, even a little sly, and delighted on his.
“One more, just one more like that.” She got three before they stiffened up again. “Done. I’ll have several proofs for your approval by—”
“Can’t we see some now? It’s digital, isn’t it?” Elizabeth pressed. “I’d just like a quick idea.”
“Sure.”
Mac walked to the computer with the camera, set it up to display. “These are raw, but you’ll get the gist.”
“Yes.” Elizabeth frowned at the screen as Mac started the slow slide show. “Yes, they’re nice. That’s—that one.”
Mac stopped on one of the formals. “This?”
“That’s what I had in mind. It’s very good. We both look good, and I like the angle. This one, I think.”
“I’ll mark it. Might as well see the rest, to be sure.” Mac started the slide show again.
“Yes, they’re really very good. Very good. I do think the one I picked is . . .” She trailed off as the shot of them hugging came on screen. “Oh. Well, that’s lovely. Really lovely, isn’t it?”
“My mother will like the first one you picked.” Behind her, Charles rubbed Elizabeth’s shoulders.
“She will. Exactly. We’ll get it for her, have it framed for her. But . . .” She looked at Mac. “You were right; I was wrong. This is the one I want, the way I want to be portrayed in our engagement photo. Remind me I said the first part in September, when I try to tell you how to do your job.”
“I will. I was wrong, too. I think it’s going to be a pleasure to work with you after all.”
It took Elizabeth a moment, but she laughed.
She sent them off to Parker, figured Parker now owed her. She was sending off clients who—for the moment, at least—were more open to ideas and direction than they had been.
She settled down to complete packages for clients. One set of proofs, and the other the complete choices, all displayed in albums. For Bride and Groom, for MOB, MOG, the extra photos requested by various members of the families and wedding party.
When they were boxed, she decided she had just enough time for a quick dish of leftover pasta salad before she carted them and herself over to the main house.
She managed a couple of bites, eating over the sink. Frozen fairyland, she thought, staring out the window. Everything still and perfect. She grabbed her glass of Diet Coke, started to drink.
The cardinal smacked right into the window, a bang and blur of red. Diet Coke spewed up at the jerk of her hand to splash all over her shirt.
She watched the idiot bird wing away while her heart vibrated in her throat. Then she looked down at her shirt. “Damn it.”
She stripped it off, tossed it on top of her stacked washer/ dryer in the kitchen pantry. In bra and black pants, she wiped up the spill on the counter. Irritated, she grabbed the ringing phone. Since the readout indicated Parker’s cell, she answered with an aggrieved, “What?”
“Patty Baker’s here to pick up her albums.”
“Well, she’s twenty minutes early. I’ll be there, and so will they—on time. Keep her occupied,” she added as she moved toward the studio. “And don’t bug me.” She clicked off, turned.
Then she stared at the man who stood inside her studio.
His eyes popped, he blushed, then with a choked, “Oh God,” he spun around. And with a gunshot crack, smacked straight into the doorjamb.
“Jesus! Are you okay?” Mac tossed the phone on a table as she rushed over to where he was currently staggering.
“Yes. Fine. Sorry.”
“You’re bleeding. Wow, you really hit your head. Maybe you should sit down.”
“Maybe.” And with that, eyes dazed and slightly unfocused, he sort of slid down the wall to the floor.
Mac crouched, brushed at the dark brown hair that flopped over his forehead and the bleeding scrape that was already growing into an impressive knot. “Okay, it’s not cut. You’ve escaped stitches. It’s just really bashed. Boy, it sounded like you hit the door with a hammer. Ice maybe, and then—”
“Excuse me? Um, I’m not sure if you realize . . . I just wonder if you shouldn’t . . .”
She saw his gaze aim down, followed it with her own. And noted while she considered triage, that her barely bra-covered breasts were very close to pressing into his face.
“Oops. Forgot. Sit there. Don’t move.” She leaped up, dashed away.
He wasn’t sure he could’ve moved. Disoriented, bewildered, he sat where he was, back braced against the wall. Even with the cartoon birds circling over his head, he had to admit they’d been very pretty breasts. He couldn’t hel
p but notice.
But he wasn’t at all sure what to say or do in his current situation. So sitting there, as she’d told him, seemed best all around.
When she came back with a bag of ice, she had a shirt on. It was probably wrong to feel the quick tug of disappointment. She crouched down again on what he noticed—now that her breasts weren’t in view—were very long legs.
“Here, try this.” She put the ice in his hand, put his hand on his throbbing forehead. And sat back on her haunches like a catcher behind the plate. Her eyes were the green of a magic sea.
“Who are you?” she asked him.
“What?”
“Hmm. How many fingers do you see?” She held up two.
“Twelve.”
And smiled. Dimples creased into her cheeks with the curve of her lips and his heart did a little dance in his chest.
“No, you don’t. Let’s try this. What are you doing in my studio—or what were you doing here before you concussed yourself over my boobs?”
“Ah. I have an appointment? Or Sherry does. Sherry Maguire?” He thought her smile dimmed a little, and the dimples disappeared.
“Okay, wrong place. You want the main house. I’m Mackensie Elliot, photography end of the business.”
“I know. I mean I know who you are. Sherry wasn’t very clear, which is usually the case, on where.”
“Or when, since your appointment’s not until two.”
“She said she thought one thirty, which I know means she’ll get here at two. I should’ve gone by Sherry Time, or called to confirm myself. Sorry again.”
“It’s no problem.” She angled her head. His eyes—very nice eyes—were clear again. “How do you know me?”
“Oh. I went to school with Delaney, Delaney Brown, and with Parker. Well, Parker was a couple years behind us. And, you, sort of. For a little while.”
She shifted for a closer look at him. Dense, disordered brown hair that needed a style and trim by most standards. Clear, quiet blue eyes surrounded by a forest of lashes. Straight nose, strong mouth in a thinnish face.
She was good with faces. Why didn’t she place his?
