Intimate Portraits

by Cheryl B. Dale

  About time Bernie figured it out.

  “Okay.” He’d already recalculated his fee. “Two cleanings, double comp plus extra expenses.”

  “Double? That seems kind of… How about fifty percent more? You’re already there.”

  “Double.”

  “My clients may not wanna pay that much.”

  Lying weasel. Bernie’s clients didn’t give a shit. They paid through the nose expecting Bernie to deal with whatever. Bernie was trying to keep his own cut intact, that’s what Bernie was trying to do.

  I ain’t gonna be stiffed. “Gotta go. I’ll call back in a coupla hours. See what they say.”

  “Wait!”

  Sam put the phone back to his ear.

  Bernie sighed. “Okay. Do it ASAP.”

  Without goodbyes, Sam disconnected and rolled his head around to ease the bunched-up neck muscles.

  Guess this screwed his getting back for the hockey game tomorrow. His older boy would be disappointed, but it couldn’t be helped. Maybe he could make it home by Sunday. His wife got pissed when he missed church.

  Like he got pissed when plans didn’t work out.

  All because of a few lousy photographs.

  Chapter 4

  As the outskirts of Atlanta rushed by, Autumn settled back against the plush leather of Rennie’s Lexus.

  Thirteen years before, a raw adolescent, she had flung herself on his neck and told him she loved him, couldn’t live without him, and begged him to take her to California with him. He must have thought her an idiot and maybe she had been.

  No, just out of her mind at his going away.

  Rennie had assumed her hysterics stemmed from problems with the aunt and uncle who’d taken her in after her parents died. He had pointed out his leaving Georgia wasn’t the same as dying and told her she’d feel better once she went off to college the next year. Then he’d dried her tears, promised they’d be lifelong friends, and promptly forgot her meltdown.

  Time she forgot it, too. She was a woman in control, remember?

  “A Lexus,” she said. “I’m impressed.”

  “You’re supposed to be. After having to drive that old clunker through high school, I swore I’d start driving nice cars as soon as I was able.”

  “There was nothing wrong with Amy Jean. After you left, she took Elena and Norma and Fran all through school before she went to that big junkyard in the sky.”

  He chuckled, deep in his throat. “Yeah. Amy Jean was dependable in her day. I guess that’s one mark in her favor.”

  “Dependability is important.”

  “In people more than cars.” Something dusted his features.

  Pain? Had Jane hurt him?

  Autumn couldn’t ask. Instead, she talked about the traffic, a nice safe topic.

  A montage of gray tree trunks and green pines pasted against bunches of brown leaves and mottled blue skies slid past. Once the congestion and tall buildings of Atlanta’s northern suburbs fell behind, the rural setting of wintry forests and pastures provided a welcome contrast for jaded city-dwellers.

  Her cramped muscles refused to unwind. What could she say in their two more hours together that wouldn’t sound flat-out thick?

  See if you can’t reconnect. “So. Tell me about this new job.”

  He did, for several minutes, until they were past Lake Lanier and well up Georgia Highway 400. “The opening at UGA came at the right time,” he ended. “Jane had left, and there was no reason for me to stay.”

  Her breath caught. “Jane left? Is she not coming back with you then?”

  On the wheel, his hands tightened.

  Darn, he would think she was prying. Why couldn’t she keep her mouth shut?

  But he answered evenly. “No. We decided to go our separate ways. Actually, Jane decided. She got a big promotion last March that meant her moving to New York.”

  So that explained the change in him. “I’m sorry.”

  “Don’t be.”

  “I didn’t mean to bring up anything painful.”

  “You didn’t. I’m okay now. I’ve never been up to Helen in the winter. What’s it like?”

  Okay, so Jane was off-limits. She plunged in, offering up facts about the Alpenlights, Helen’s holiday festival currently running through the first of the year. Drivel, maybe, but anything was better than offending him.

  Not that her chatter kept her from thinking about olive-skinned, energetic Jane.

  During her one visit to Atlanta for Laney’s wedding two years ago, tiny Jane had bossed Rennie around and charmed the Degardoveras. She’d enthusiastically joined in every activity and made Rennie take her on frenzied sightseeing excursions.

  Autumn had seen Rennie, Jane in tow, exactly three times the entire week.

  Her well of conversation slowed. How much could she say about Christmas in Helen?

  Not that it mattered. Rennie hadn’t heard a word. “I don’t think of Jane too much anymore.”

  Forget the Alpenlights. “Of course not.”

  “We’d talked about getting married, but… When she moved, we tried commuting. Didn’t work. She loved New York and her job. I didn’t want to live there. She didn’t want to leave.”

  “Her loss.” Foolish Jane. There were things far more essential than ambition or location. “You’ll be at a new place with new people now. That’ll help, Rennie.”

  “Huh. Ya think?”

  She’d offended him. “I’m sorry. You know me. I say whatever comes into my mind.”

  At least she always had to Rennie. He was easy to talk to.

  The upbeat Rennie she remembered resurfaced. “That’s one of the nice things about you, Autumn. You do say what you mean. As for Jane, that’s past. I’m okay with it. And I kind of like where I am right now. In a nice car with a beautiful blonde. Who could ask for anything more?”

  The chagrin from blurting out the wrong thing faded. “The nice car I’ll give you, and I may be blonde. But beautiful? Careful. I’ll get a swelled head.”

  “No danger of that. You’re one of the most beautiful people I know, Autumn. Inside and out.”

  She didn’t miss the underlying sadness.

  He went on, “Inner beauty’s way more important than outer.”

  Jane had hurt him, and hurt him dreadfully.

  “Oh, Rennie.” She wanted to lay her hand over his on the wheel, let him know she understood. If she were Reseda or Laney or any of the voluble, empathetic Degardoveras, she would know instinctively how to banter and draw him out of this uncharacteristic mood.

  But she wasn’t. She was herself, awkward and shy and inarticulate. Pitifully inadequate at reaching out. “People sometimes aren’t what we want them to be,” was so lame.

  “No, they aren’t. Lots of people aren’t what we want them to be, but I guess you’ve found that out.”

  “Sure. Every month when I send out invoices.”

  That chased away his frown. “Tell me about you and Francisco.”

  “There’s nothing to tell.”

  “You’ve been dating him since last summer, Mom says.”

  “I don’t know that I’d call it dating. After he got back from California, he had a pretty hot affair going on with someone. He wouldn’t talk about her, which as you know is unlike Fran. We figured it was serious.” She couldn’t gauge his expression. “Then she ditched him.”

  He watched the road. “Yeah, I know.”

  “Oh? Do you know who he—?” She was prying again. “Not that it matters. Anyway, Fran isn’t used to being ditched.”

  “No. He isn’t.”

  “He got pretty down for a while. I hung out with him, held his hand, played nursemaid till he recovered.”

  That unfathomable gaze flicked at her and away. “Thanks to your nursing?”

  What was he thinking? “I helped when I could. He’s my friend.”

  “Is that all?”

  What did that mean? The brothers teeter-tottered in a complicated relationship, part friends, part co
mpetitors.

  “Of course that’s all.” Rennie must be remembering Fran’s portrait, wondering if there was anything between them. He and Fran cared for each other. No question about it. But underneath the affection Fran, twenty months younger, was fiercely competitive; he couldn’t stand Rennie besting him.

  Half-forgotten images returned. Fran going out for the tennis team because Rennie was on it. Fran hitting on girls Rennie dated and crowing when he took one away. Fran making a higher grade on an English term paper than his brother and waving it in Rennie’s face.

  Rennie’s indifference had infuriated Fran no end.

  That adolescent friction should be long dead—so what was going on with Rennie?

  “Sure you’re just friends?” he pressed.

  He did think she was involved with Fran.

  You can’t tie yourself up to a Degardovera, he’d said thirteen years ago as he dried her tears. There are lots of nice guys around who’re in your league. You’ll meet one someday.

  That was when she got the picture.

  She might be Norma’s best friend, but she wasn’t a part of the Degardovera family. She’d never be part of it.

  And Rennie’s opinion hadn’t changed, even if another Degardovera might be the one to want her.

  “Yes.” She kept her voice level. Strange how normal it sounded. “We’re definitely just friends.”

  “That’s good.” His relief was palpable. “Francisco wouldn’t do for you.”

  She clenched her teeth. Yeah, she could be a buddy but never anything more. To him or Fran.

  They came to the end of 400 at Dahlonega where he pulled the car up to the stop light and braked smoothly. “We Degardovera men do seem jinxed in our love life, don’t we?”

  “Are you?” She didn’t miss the plural. “Maybe you Degardovera men need to find yourselves different women.”

  When he laughed, he sounded like the old Rennie.

  ****

  As Rennie and Autumn made their way toward Helen, her one employee printed out appointment reminder postcards.

  Iris Cabell, a widow who acted as secretary, receptionist, and bookkeeper for Private Portraits by Merriwell, waited impatiently for six o’clock. She had a long drive to visit grandchildren near Birmingham over the weekend.

  The bell hanging on the door clanged.

  Oh no, not now! Why does it always happen?

  A customer right at closing. She masked irritation at the man indecisively looking around. “May I help you?”

  Thick glasses turned away from an inspection of the early Kodak Brownie exhibit. Middle-aged, average height, kind of scrawny. Ordinary features that looked pleasant, maybe shy. He wore a hat and topcoat too heavy for Atlanta’s mild December weather, with a red and green holiday muffler wrapped round his neck.

  Nothing to provoke alarm.

  He said, “I’d like to talk with the photographer, please.”

  His accent wasn’t southern so he could be from up north. Or maybe from the Midwest. On his way home like thousands of other Atlanta transplants, except he would have to stop here. What luck.

  She hid a sigh. “About an appointment?”

  “Yes.” He cleared his throat. “I’m interested in having some, um, personal photographs done.”

  Ugh. One of those. Those nasty pictures Autumn took seemed to be all people wanted nowadays. And ten more minutes before she could lock up. If she could get rid of him that quick.

  At least he had on pants under the overcoat, not like that pervert who came in and flashed her last spring.

  “Ms. Merriwell is out of the studio till Monday. I’ll be happy to answer your questions.” Any question she could answer in ten minutes, anyway.

  “Great.” He plucked a card off her desk and studied it. “This Autumn Merriwell. Does she do all the, er, intimate photography?”

  How could she run him off without being downright rude? “Ms. Merriwell does all our photography, period. That includes the Private Portraits line. Shots can be set up in the studio or home or anywhere else the client is most comfortable,” she rattled off. “Client poses are private, unless otherwise specified.”

  At this point, she usually asked if he was here on behalf of his wife or girlfriend, but not today. She looked pointedly at the wall clock.

  Busy examining the card, he didn’t notice. “Do you use a processor? Anybody else who sees the photographs?”

  Hah. Couldn’t look her in the eye. “Most of our cameras are digital. All photos are printed on the premises by Ms. Merriwell herself.” Her spiel flowed smoothly. “Proofs and selected prints go to the client while the originals are stored on CD-ROMs or negatives that stay here in our files. No one has access except Ms. Merriwell. Not even me. No one else sees the shots at any stage of preparation unless the client so chooses.”

  He finally looked up. Thick lenses made his eyes murky dark holes, but his mouth smiled. “Ah. That’s what I wanted to know. My wife and I wouldn’t like other people involved.” A hint of apology mingled with a tacit plea for understanding.

  Iris thawed. She knew perfectly well a lot of these portraits went to the floozies’ married lovers, but this man wasn’t an adulterer, just an embarrassed husband. She was an old hand at spotting which were which.

  He went on. “Do you use off-site storage in case the CDs are corrupted or lost?”

  “Absolutely. We switched to AllSet last year and it’s been very satisfactory.”

  “Good. We wouldn’t want to go through all the effort and then lose the images. We might want more prints later.”

  “No fear of that. You may take this with you.” Iris slid a brochure across the counter. “It explains our policies and precautions.”

  He picked it up, looked at the front and back, held out the inset of Autumn. “Would this be Ms. Merriwell?”

  Iris confirmed it was.

  “She looks young.”

  “Her grandfather started this studio fifty-eight years ago. Ms. Merriwell was brought up in the business. She got her first camera when she was six years old, so she’s quite experienced. It’s all in the brochure.”

  “I see.” He seemed suitably impressed. “My wife’s the anxious type. Very modest. She wants to talk to Ms. Merriwell personally. Can she call her at home tonight?”

  “We don’t give her home number out.”

  Six o’clock. Praise the Lord!

  Polite but firm, Iris held up her watch. “Sorry. Time to close.” She pushed her chair back. “Have your wife call here Monday. Ms. Merriwell’s in Helen for the weekend but will be—”

  “Helen?” He followed her glance toward the pad where she’d written down the restaurant’s phone number and time.

  Oops. She shouldn’t have mentioned Helen. But it didn’t matter. This man was no stalker. “A friend’s having an anniversary party there tomorrow night. Ms. Merriwell had me make reservations for their dinner so you see, she really isn’t available. She’ll be back in the studio Monday morning at nine.”

  “Helen. Is that near here?”

  “No.” He hadn’t lived here long if he had to ask, but she wouldn’t be the one to enlighten him. She rose. “If that’s all…”

  “Oh. Of course.” He put the brochure in his pocket. “I’ll come back or have my wife call Monday. Thank you so much for your help. Sorry to delay you.”

  At his prompt retreat, irritation fled. He seemed nice enough and unlike many men, he wanted photographs taken of his wife and not some tramp he was seeing on the side.

  Not that Iris understood women posing for Autumn’s photographs. Women dressed in those scanty things for one reason and one reason alone: to arouse the lust of decent men.

  But she’d worked at Private Portraits for over thirty years, since it had been Merriwell Studio and before Laura and Parnell Merriwell had inherited the business from old Horace Merriwell and changed the name. Iris might not approve of what Autumn was doing—intimate photography indeed! Pornography was more like it—but she didn’t h
ave any say-so. Older women not yet eligible for Social Security had hard times finding jobs.

  Besides, Autumn was like her grandfather, easy to work for. Not half as demanding as Laura Merriwell had been, the old witch.

  I ought to be counting my blessings.

  Iris gathered up purse and coat. She had steady employment, a good boss, and health insurance, even if the premiums were ridiculous. Lots of women her age didn’t have that much.

  Locking the studio, she checked her watch as she got into her car. Eight minutes past six. Not bad. Good thing she’d brought her suitcase so she could leave from here. Once she got to Birmingham, she’d forget about work. She’d even turn off that blasted cell like Autumn said she was going to do. Nothing urgent ever came up when they were closed.

  If she hurried, she could reach her daughter’s house in time to help put the baby to bed, the little darling.

  The polite man was forgotten.

  Chapter 5

  As Iris Cabell headed toward Alabama, Autumn and Rennie arrived at Unicoi State Park near Helen. To celebrate her second wedding anniversary, Elena Degardovera Kinsellen had rented a three bedroom cottage and invited several friends to join her and her husband for the weekend.

  “This must be it.” Rennie pulled the Lexus into a parking space beside a late model Ferrari. “Hey, we have a view of the lake. Sweet.”

  Autumn stretched. “Even if it is kind of far off and hidden by the trees.” One thing had run through her mind the whole way. If Jane was out of the picture, Rennie was available.

  Not that she intended to court another humbling rejection from a man who’d told her years ago she was like another sister. Not after he’d all but warned her off Fran today.

  Rennie didn’t want her in the family.

  Darn. She needed to stop thinking of Rennie and the departed Jane who’d personified his ideal woman and who was so opposite to everything Autumn was or could hope to be.

  “Still a nice view. Kind of isolated, though.” Rennie unbuckled his seatbelt. “Wonder how my party-loving sister decided on it.”

  “Laney said John needed a restful weekend.”