“Mr. Nash, our favorite visitor,” said the fresh-faced receptionist. “Go on back. They’re expecting you.”
The animal hospital was equipped with an infinity pool and a technician trained in physiotherapy, so Ethan had elected to keep Gun hospitalized, rather than drive him back and forth twice a day.
He went directly to the large dog runs and opened the cage door.
“Hey, buddy,” he said softly.
Gun slapped his tail half-heartedly against the blanket on which he was lying, struggled to sit up, then gave up, whining. He looked like a patchwork of dull fur and shaved skin. A line of stitches ran jaggedly along his neck and his damaged eye was swollen, giving him a sinister expression.
Dr. Morrow had confessed, once Gun was out of danger, that if the trip to the hospital had taken any longer, or the dog had lost any more blood…
Ethan understood. Without Carrie’s help, his dog would be dead.
Carrie.
So much had happened since he’d last seen her, it would be easy to forget that just before Gun had been injured, Carrie’s world had fallen apart. She thought that asking around at the school had triggered the school secretary to go digging, but Ethan didn’t think that was it. It might have precipitated events, but it hadn’t caused them.
It was a bomb waiting to go off, and while he’d tried to defuse it, the explosion had been inevitable.
The memory of her tears and the kiss that followed haunted him. The tears were his fault. He knew it wasn’t rational, it was almost certain that her secret would have come out at one point or another, but he still felt responsible.
And then, he’d taken advantage of the situation. She was vulnerable, hurting and he’d gone and kissed her. Self-centered, thoughtless male.
It took everything in him not to seek comfort from her now. She kept calling and texting, asking about Gun. He’d let her know that Gun was alive and thanked her for her help. She sounded like she really cared and maybe she did. But he had no business adding more problems to her life.
Still, he’d known her for what, a week? And he missed her.
“Why don’t you take Gun outside?” said Dr. Morrow. “That little park next door is a nice place to hang out and listen to the birds. We took his IV off yesterday, so you don’t have to worry about that. It might lift his spirits.”
It was a good idea. Gun could walk by now with help, but tired after short distances, so he gathered the dog up in his arms, blanket and all, and carried him out through the doors to a sun-dappled spot on the grass. Tall trees behind them ensured that shade was coming but for now, Ethan figured the dog could do with a little natural warmth.
Birds twittered in the low shady branches and a butterfly flickered past them but Gun barely noticed.
“Look at you, boy,” he said, ruffling the rich golden mane at the dog’s neck. He couldn’t help the dog’s physical recovery, but he could challenge his mind and hopefully lift his spirits.
Possibly even lift his own spirits enough to figure out how to handle what had happened between him and the little photographer who’d taken up residence in his mind.
On impulse, he got out his phone, snapped a picture of Gun, and sent it to Carrie.
Gun says hi.
Damn you selfish, needy bastard, he thought. Carrie was busy, she had her own problems, and he had no right to hope for anything from her.
And as the minutes passed without response, he reminded himself that hehad no right to feel disappointed, either. He’d pulled away from her, after all. She had a life before the speed bump that had thrown them together. She’d have one after, too. Still, texting was a lazy, cowardly way to explain that he was simply trying to spare her unnecessary turmoil.
He pushed all thoughts of Carrie away and focused on how to get his dog engaged with the world again.
He’d trained all his dogs to do the usual party tricks, shaking hands, giving high-fives, barking numbers, bowing, shaking no, nodding yes.
But now with Gun, most of those things required the use of some body part that was currently in pain. Ethan had brought all his favorite toys and puzzles into the hospital but the dog simply wasn’t interested.
What else could he try?
“Where’s Gunny?”
Ethan injected a note of fun-and-games into his voice and the dog’s tail politely thumped. Obediently, he lowered his big head onto the blanket and then lifted one paw to cover his muzzle, blinking at Ethan from behind it.
“There he is.” He gave Gun a quick ear-rub, glad no one was around to see them. Peekaboo was a cute game for a puppy; for a battered, bruised, shaved and sutured highly-trained Belgian shepherd, it was a travesty.
Games. Everyone played them. He thought of the school secretary, who hadn’t had the grace to talk to Carrie directly, who supposedly knew all the gossip.
All the gossip, he wondered suddenly? Maybe he ought to pay the woman a visit himself.
“You’ve had enough, haven’t you, buddy?”
The dog lifted his tail and flapped it against the grass. Ethan helped him to his feet and using a sling, helped him walk a few steps. Then he scooped him up again and carried him the short distance back to the hospital. The dog needed his rest.
And Ethan had a phone call to make.
*
Carrie wasn’t even sure if she could talk to Ethan, she was so mad. But anger was better than the tears, at least.
“He’s recovering well,” he said.
“Gee, thanks for letting me know.”
A pause. “I guess I deserved that.”
Carrie squeezed her eyes tightly, imagining Ethan’s dark face as it had been the night he’d dropped her off, his eyes intense and tortured, his skin bruised and bloodied.
“Sorry,” she said. “No. It’s just… I’ve been worried.”
She was done being overlooked, ignored, forgotten, underestimated, misjudged or judged and found wanting.
She took a deep breath. There was a chance she was blaming Ethan for circumstances that weren’t entirely his fault. Certainly wasn’t Gun’s fault.
“Sorry, really.” She swallowed. “Is he okay? Will he be able to walk? And what about you? You looked bad that night.”
“Doc hopes he’ll get back full function,” said Ethan, “but it’ll be a long recovery. Are you okay?”
“Of course.” She could hear him breathing on the other end of the line. “Ethan, how can I help?”
“I just wanted to tell you not to worry about me, Carrie. You don’t need any more stress. I’ll talk to you soon, okay?”
After that, all she’d had was a few texts, terse messages that gave her only the barest of medical updates and nothing of substance about how the dog, or he for that matter, actually were.
Carrie couldn’t blame him. She’d jumped down his throat, after all. And after all, he owed her nothing. They were nothing to each other. Barely acquaintances. She had no right to feel invested in Gun’s recovery.
So Carrie threw herself into whatever busywork she could find. She learned the ins and outs of the new security system Ethan had installed, forcing herself to read the entire manual, front to back. Twice.
She went over her fall schedule, which was dismally empty. She updated her bookkeeping, entering bills, too many, and payments, not enough.
She could see that Ethan was continuing to work on her website remotely, using the password information he’d given her. The last time she’d done an internet search, she couldn’t find any evidence of her hidden photos. Which hardly mattered, since everyone already knew about it now anyway.
She guessed that their association was coming to a close. He was completing the task he’d agreed to do, and what had she given him in return? Nothing but one friendly interaction at the hardware store.
The decent thing to do would be to pay him, except for one problem: her business was going up in flames. Yes, it was time to face facts about that. The only reason the school board hadn’t contacted her, she suspected,
was that everyone was away on summer holidays. The festival gig was gone, though she still intended to be there, whether she received the rest of her payment or not. She wasn’t about to let a beloved civic event go undocumented, just because someone at city hall had their knickers in a knot.
Ethan had done his best to keep her dirty little secret hidden. It wasn’t his fault. No, the responsibility lay with her. Why, she wondered again, had she allowed those photos to jeopardize her livelihood?
Was Ethan right? Did she still secretly yearn to do the work she’d once done? But what did it matter, if she did? She swallowed, remembering her mother’s disappointment. Her grandfather’s quiet words. The looks of those people in the cafe.
Then, those grim faces were displaced by another. Ethan, as he’d looked just before he’d kissed her, right here in her office. When he’d held her and stroked her hair and told her everything would be okay. She’d felt so very safe.
Cared for.
Don’t think about that.
But like a rotating album, images floated in and out, this one of Ethan’s face in the mirror as he’d wiped blood off her chest, first caring. Then tortured. Then closed. Shut down. Like he’d made a mistake and didn’t know how to undo it.
“Shake it off, Carrie,” she told herself. Whatever seemed to have been starting with Ethan had stalled out as abruptly as her career. Which, she told herself, was probably a good thing. She couldn’t afford to get into a relationship – or whatever – with someone like him. If she had any chance of resurrecting her business, pairing up with the local recluse was hardly the way to do that.
Carrie dragged her attention back to the projections for the next quarter, trying and failing to see how she’d be able to make ends meet.
Bethany Kyle’s cancellation was proof that people were no longer willing to trust their precious memories to Forever Yours Photography. Carrie understood now that the decision hadn’t been Bethany’s, and that Bethany in fact had felt terrible about cancelling. But the fact that the girl had chosen to let Carrie think the wedding was off, rather than own up to the truth still stung.
Sadness washed over her. Why was it so difficult for young women to set the direction of their lives? Why was it so easy for others to pick up that compass, certain that their route was the safest, the smartest, the best, the only way to go?
How rarely was advice given, without benefit to the giver?
The phone rang, jostling her out of her bleak thoughts.
Not another cancellation, please.
“Forever Yours Photography. How can I help you?”
“Oh, hello. Is this Carrie?” The woman’s voice was hushed, hurried.
“I’m Carrie Logan, owner and operator. Are you looking to schedule a sitting?”
“I’m Trish,” said the woman, sounding strangled now. “I was told… that is… are you the woman who does… the goddess pictures?”
Carrie blinked. She hadn’t had a query about this in years. “I used to,” she said cautiously. “May I ask who referred you here?”
“Her name is Donna Abbott,” said Trish. “She said you might not remember her.”
Bittersweet memories washed over her.
“Of course I remember her.” Donna had been one of Carrie’s first clients and the motivation for Carrie to start Forever Yours Intimate. Donna had been preparing for a mastectomy and wanted a record of her body before surgery and radiation changed it. Carrie had been impressed by her forethought, and deeply touched to be part of her process.
After the surgery, she learned that Donna was also a clinical psychologist. Within months, Donna had sent several clients to Carrie.
But she’d made sure Donna knew that returning to Cherry Lake meant the end of all that.
“Donna said you’d taken a break but thought you were doing them again.”
Donna must have seen the leaked photos. Carrie didn’t know what to think about that.
There was a long pause. “Could I meet with you in person?” said Trish. “Say, tomorrow afternoon?”
“Of course.”
They agreed to meet at the Montreau for a late lunch.
She hung up the phone thoughtfully. A girl had to make a living. How did the saying go?
If you’re already doing the time, you might as well do the crime.
Maybe it was the memory of Donna’s confidence in her, or maybe Carrie had just reached the end of her rope. She recalled Pansy’s comment about Gibson Kyle making all the decisions at his daughter’s wedding and suddenly realized how foolish she’d been to refund that deposit, out of the kindness of her heart.
“Betcha Daddy can afford that three hundred dollars a heck of a lot better than Forever Yours Photography can,” she muttered, picking up the phone. Gibson Kyle’s accounting firm was praised for squeezing every last deduction possible for their clients – all strictly legal, of course. They were also highly regarded for their conservative, traditional values.
“Kyle Accounting,” said a carefully modulated voice.
“I need to speak with the big kahuna,” she said. “Tell him it’s his pornographer.”
If Gibson Kyle had changed his mind about having her take his daughter’s wedding photos, the least he could do was have the balls to tell her himself.
The man was blunt and to the point.
“You have some nerve, calling me at work.”
“At least I have the balls to talk to you directly,” she said. “Do you know Bethany cried when she told me? She wants the best wedding photos and you won’t let her get them. You must be so proud.”
“Like your family is these days?” She could hear the smirk in his voice. “You, girly, have gone down a bad path. I’m surprised and disappointed that Nathan Jackson stands for it.”
Carrie’s hands grew sweaty. Her face burned.
“Leave my grandfather out of this,” she said. “Expect to see my non-refundable deposit back on your credit card statement next month, Mr. Kyle. Consider it the price of prejudice.”
She hung up with a bang, her hands shaking. Good little Carrie Logan was done being bullied. It was time she looked after herself, and if that meant locking horns with those who thought they ran Cherry Lake, then so be it.
Chapter Fourteen
‡
The Montreau Hotel housed one of Cherry Lake’s most elegant dining places. Although the historic building was currently undergoing a massive renovation to bring it back to its previous glory, the restaurant remained open and boasted white linen tablecloths, fresh flowers, great food and, most importantly, wait staff who weren’t born and bred in Cherry Lake.
It was perfect for a discreet meeting.
“Here you go, luv.” The server, Becky, pulled out her chair, and then flipped a pristine white napkin over Carrie’s lap. “I’ll wait until your friend arrives to bring menus, shall I?”
“That would be perfect, thank you.”
“Right then.”
Becky had a strong down-under accent and the deep tan of an outdoors girl.
Each summer, a certain number of young people, many from Australia and New Zealand, filtered through the area, looking to refill their travel accounts for the upcoming winter sport season. The Montreau was about the only place a server could count on decent tips, so it’s where most of them ended up. Often ski and snowboard enthusiasts, many were working their way through the Rockies up to Whistler, British Columbia, staying at the Y, camping or couch-surfing with friends.
What a life, she thought, half-horrified, half-envious.
She liked her stable life, but still. To be living each day out of pocket, with no responsibilities, the only goal the next adventure sounded… pretty good.
“Are you Carrie?”
She started and looked up to find a young woman standing next to her chair, her purple handbag held in front of her like a shield. She had dark hair cut in an oblique bob, with one side tucked behind her ear and the other falling across her face. A classy, stylish way of hiding w
hen necessary.
“Yes, I am. You must be Trish. Please, have a seat.”
Becky returned immediately, poured ice water and explained the lunch specials. They each ordered the Cobb salad, then handed their menus back to Becky.
“Thank you for meeting with me,” said Trish. “I’m a little nervous. You can probably tell.”
Carrie smiled. “It’s okay, we’re just talking about photographs. Why don’t you tell me what you had in mind?”
Trish touched her hair and swallowed. Then, as if preparing for a plunge into icy water, she took a deep breath.
“These aren’t just photographs to me, Carrie.” Trish met Carrie’s eyes and in that moment, Carrie saw that something was haunting the girl. Fine lines of pain and fear delicately bracketed her almond-shaped eyes.
But there was courage there as well. Strength.
Suddenly Carrie knew what she was going to say. Knew it and wished she didn’t. Another face flashed into her mind, thin and pale, with long red hair and pink lips, twisted in despair.
Don’t think. Don’t remember.
“When I was twenty-two, in college,” Trish began, her voice low and steady, “I was sexually assaulted.”
Carrie breathed out.
“I’m so sorry.” She touched Trish’s hand.
Trish nodded. “Thank you. It was a… horrible time. As you might imagine.”
She paused as if lost in thought and Carrie let the memories return. The last sitting she’d done in San Francisco, riding high on her unexpected success and good fortune, had been of a girl like this. Pauline. Too thin, with hunched posture and red-rimmed eyes.
Donna had sent Pauline to her. And she’d promised Pauline that Carrie’s apartment studio would be a safe place, that she’d feel better about herself after. That the photos would be empowering, would help her find the part of her spirit that had been stolen from her.
But after the sitting, Pauline had gone home, crawled into the empty tub and slit her wrists.
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