Intimate Portraits

by Cheryl B. Dale

  “Yeah.” Norma looked at Autumn, too, as ingenuous as her sister. “You and Fran in one, Rennie and Victoria in another, then Laney and John, and Paul and me.”

  Paul was a soft-spoken, likable man. He’d never be able to stand up to Norma’s bullying, more was the pity. Norma soon tired of men she could manipulate.

  Rennie was as surprised as the others when Paul refused. “I imagine the others can make their own arrangements, Norma. As for me, I’m going over to the Festhalle at nine for the dance like we planned. Then I have to head back to Atlanta. You can come with me if you like. Or not.”

  There was an indrawn sigh from Norma’s siblings at Paul’s flagrant disregard of her stated behest. Norma was accustomed to getting her way, but Paul hadn’t yet learned what was expected.

  Everyone’s eyes went from Paul to Norma.

  She chose to be conciliatory. “Darling, we can do both. First we go for a ride, and then we can go to the Festhalle.”

  Paul checked his cell. “We won’t have time. It’s already twenty to nine. I’ve heard a lot about the Festhalle so I don’t want to miss it. I may never get back up here again.”

  Norma’s good humor began to unravel. “You don’t have to miss it. If we take—”

  Paul got up. “Anyone want to walk to the Festhalle with me? We can view the lights on the way.”

  Silence, then Autumn was the first to hop up. “I’ll go, Paul.”

  Rennie smothered his grin. She couldn’t stand conflict. How she’d become so attached to the Degardoveras who were constantly in a state of flux was a mystery.

  “Even if I don’t dance, I like to watch.” Autumn stepped out over the bench, leaning back to keep from crowding a man behind her.

  Rennie had better support her. “Me, too. And I need to walk after all that pizza and beer.”

  Everyone else followed, his sisters smoothing over their miscalculation by dropping the subject.

  If Norma wasn’t careful, Rennie thought as he noted the way Paul, seemingly without effort, began coaxing his sister back into good humor, she might end up with a broken heart. Paul wasn’t like her past flames, but Norma might not have enough sense to realize that until it was too late.

  Serve her right, the little hellion. She and Laney were both scheming, manipulative females who did their best to control the men in their lives. Husbands, lovers, and brothers. A man had to be quick to keep ahead of them.

  He caught up to Autumn.

  ****

  Sam beckoned for his check as soon the people at the table next to him stood up. Holding his coffee in front of his face, he dawdled as they filed past chattering.

  Though he kept his gaze to the side, he soaked up every detail of the photographer, especially the bright blue cape she wore over a colorful sweater. Its lapels swung wide open, revealing a belt as the hem fell to her hips.

  The belt wouldn’t be an obstacle nor would the hip-length cape. He’d come up underneath and strike below the waist.

  He glanced at the check. Jeez, that much money for mediocre pizza served on a frigging piece of paper? These damned tourist towns were nothing but rip-offs.

  He left a nice tip for the waitress anyway—she was good but overworked—and he didn’t ask the cashier for a receipt. He didn’t need one. Bernie’s client would spring for this meal without substantiation, like he’d also spring for the other expenses on Sam’s say-so.

  One of the perks of the job.

  Aw, it wasn’t too bad except for the time away from home. He was getting older. Traveling had gotten to be a hassle. He missed his wife and boys.

  The good thing was, once he was through here, he’d be one step closer to quitting. Another couple hundred thou or so should do it. The hard part was accounting for the money, but Bernie had that handled, with the IRAs and investment swaps and all.

  He trailed Autumn Merriwell and her blithe group as they moved across the street into an area of small glittering shop windows and brightly painted cafes that comprised an older section of town. There, on the knoll above the river, they spent a few minutes arguing before splitting up.

  “Let’s take the street car to the Festhalle,” one of the jazzy brunettes said stridently. “Come on, people. Don’t you have any spirit of adventure?”

  “Go ahead,” one of the tall men said. “I’m adventured out and you would be, too, if you’d been dragged fifty miles through the wilderness.”

  The other jazzy brunette shrieked. “Rennie, you know you loved that hike. And it was five miles. Nothing!”

  They had to be family, the four Hispanics. They looked too much alike to be anything but brothers and sisters.

  After a spirited debate, part of the group walked up the street, recrossing it to assemble where musicians trumpeted Christmas carols from a bandshell. The two remaining couples, including the photographer and the brothers, strolled down the sidewalk toward the river. The fourth in their group, a stylish chick with a self-assurance that bordered on arrogance, met someone she knew.

  The two couples stopped. The woman made noises of delight. “Ryan, I don’t believe it! What are you doing way down here in Georgia?”

  Sam chewed his gum and shifted from foot to foot in front of a glassblower’s window where he pretended the wares were immensely fascinating and totally unlike anything he could buy in the mall at home.

  The redhead was carrying on like she’d found a long-lost relative. “Ryan’s a producer at a station up in Michigan where I worked for a while. Let me introduce my—”

  Station, eh? Radio? TV?

  TV. Her white teeth and glossy looks shouted boob tube.

  Maybe a broadcast personality. She sure didn’t let anyone else talk.

  “Autumn here is a photographer—you’ll never guess what her specialty is—and Fran. He’s campaign manager for a gubernatorial candidate. And this is Rennie,” she gushed, entwining her arm through that of the tall man who had accompanied Autumn Merriwell into the restaurant.

  Putting her hooks in the dude.

  “Dr. Lorenzo Degardovera, a computer professor at UGA. We’re all having the most, the most—oh, how shall I put it?—the most invigorating weekend.”

  “Laney’s out of earshot so go on, tell the truth,” the other man beside the photographer urged. “We’re trapped in a cabin that we’re lucky has running water.”

  “Fran.” She flirted her eyes at him but clung to his brother. “It’s rustic but nice. We’re having a wonderful time.”

  Sheesh. Sam tuned her out and shifted his feet.

  A shadow caught his eye.

  The Merriwell dame had heard enough, too. Either the polite smiling and nodding and exchange of pleasantries weren’t to her taste or else, and far more likely—Sam grinned—she’d had enough of Miss Personality moving in on her boyfriend.

  Whatever. Either reason worked. She was edging away to wander down the street toward the river. Alone.

  Things usually worked out for the best, didn’t they?

  Blam!

  “What the—!”

  His heart hit his throat as he sprang for the protection of the building. A couple of older women between him and the photographer jumped, then squealed and pointed.

  Fireworks.

  He relaxed. No sign of popping lights. The photographer must have seen some down the river though because she stood motionless on the dark bridge, staring downstream into the night.

  His heart rate slowed.

  Jeez, that had surprised the f-bomb out of him. And when he was doing so well with the four-letter words, too.

  Not a good example for the boys, his wife had decreed.

  Sam meandered down the dim sidewalk, but he didn’t get a good view of the brilliant colors in the sky until he reached the wooden slats where the bridge began.

  His target had leaned against the railing to watch them burst overhead.

  Two older couples chatted quietly as they crossed the bridge. A few seconds later, a boisterous group of college kids romped past
. The guys stopped to make some oblique overtures to the photographer. When she turned a cold shoulder, they muttered something and resumed their tipsy progress over the bridge.

  That’s right, dipwads, move on along. Get out of my way.

  Her coat hem billowed as she pulled the lapels together. Beneath the gentle darkness, her profiled figure made a forlorn silhouette.

  He could take her where she stood. Pause like he was watching the fireworks and then slide the blade beneath the bottom of her jacket, stick it in, and twist it.

  In his head, he worked it out. How the blade would catch, then pierce her flesh and slide upward to the lungs.

  Yeah, it felt right. If he was careful, there wouldn’t be much blood. A little cry wouldn’t be out of place in the town noise surrounding them.

  Go with the gut.

  Sam put his foot on the railing as if to tie his shoe and slipped the blade from its ankle sheath.

  The steel haft was cool, but not heavy. At home in his hand. Concealing it up his sleeve, he sauntered toward where she leaned over the rail.

  A couple stepped on the bridge so he stopped by the rail, too.

  Nice little river. Its frothy current rippled over and around large boulders. Some of the rocks were jagged and sharp. The roiling water looked cold.

  He’d never been to the Alps, but this might be how the villages over there looked. Maybe he and the wife could go on vacation to Switzerland one day. After the boys got out on their own. After he retired.

  He didn’t concentrate on the photographer or the knife or what he was about to do. Better to clear his mind.

  The couple moved past, arm in arm, intent on each other.

  Now. Sam took a few steps until he was directly behind her, then glanced over his shoulder. No one nearby.

  The few people on the end of the bridge, like the photographer, were intent on the sky. A particularly dazzling eruption brought out exclamations, but Sam focused on the unsuspecting woman, whose blue jacket fell to her hips and swung in a wide inviting arc.

  The blade dropped out. He grasped the handle.

  This is it, baby.

  One step and he slipped the point up and under the hem of her cape, thrust the blade home.

  The tip met the expected first resistance before punching through.

  And stopped cold.

  Huh?

  No yielding of soft flesh. The blade met something too solid to penetrate and jarred his arm to the shoulder.

  The photographer stumbled and with a soft cry, tipped over the railing. Her hands shot out, clutching for a handhold.

  What—?

  No blood. No time to wonder why. He sleeved the blade before anyone could see.

  Someone screamed. The photographer.

  Get out. He’d lasted in the business this long because he kept his cool. No losing it now.

  The people on the bridge started his way. Others saw and followed. The group she’d left earlier rushed past, their attention on the woman dangling from the bridge rail.

  In moments, Sam had melted into the confusion.

  Chapter 10

  Somebody pushed me. Why? What happened?

  Autumn tried to keep her balance. Failed. She hit the protective railing of the bridge but couldn’t keep from falling.

  Her head turned down. Heels turned up.

  Someone whimpered. Her.

  Everything unfolded like slowed movie frames.

  This isn’t happening.

  The rail stayed within inches of her eyes at a strange and different angle from where it should have been. Her body kept turning.

  Of their own accord, her hands reached out, found a purchase on one of the supports and scrabbled for a grip. Her feet finished their revolution over the side of the wall. The rail vanished from view, but she had hold of something.

  Her body twisted. She stopped plummeting.

  Somehow, miraculously, her hands had closed around a pipe beside a bridge support.

  Hanging by the flimsy junction of hands and metal, she swung over the rushing water.

  She couldn’t climb up. She couldn’t get a better grip.

  Her hands were already losing strength. Her fingers, no matter how frantically she squeezed, continued to slide a fraction of an inch at a time.

  She was going to fall into the rocks.

  Someone screamed.

  Was that me?

  Her hands slipped to the bottom.

  Useless. She couldn’t hold on.

  Someone caught her arm before she could fall, someone who held her wrist in an iron grip that cut into her flesh and made her eyes tear up.

  The pain moved from her wrist outward. Her arm felt like it was being jerked from its socket. Her face banged against the bridge.

  But she no longer fell.

  Above her head, Rennie struggled to keep her from the rocks gouging the waters below. His lips, drawn back in a snarl, made him look more like an attacker than a rescuer.

  “Put up your hand.” His teeth gritted. Sweat beaded on his upper lip.

  His face was not that of her unruffled Rennie. It was feral, urgent, determined. Another time she would have been terrified.

  Not now.

  Her weight threatened to drag him over the side. His body strained to support hers.

  “Give me your other hand,” he yelled over the moaning wind.

  She tried to do as he instructed, but there was no handhold.

  Gales of air, frigid and harsh, blasted from under the bridge. Her legs and body swayed in midair, shoving her against the stone and preventing her from catching onto the rail.

  “I can’t.” He could never hold her. She’d fall onto the rocks.

  Fran’s face materialized beside Rennie’s, and his hand snaked out, caught her other, flailing arm.

  In a second, the two men had snatched her up, out of the inimical wind and away from the hazardous waters, over the rail to safety.

  Fran tried to draw her toward him, but Rennie was the one she wanted. She rushed into his chest, blind and unheeding of what she revealed.

  The wool of his sweater rubbed against her face. His arms circled her and his scent enveloped her.

  His voice was urgent. “Are you all right?”

  “How in hell did you fall?” Fran put his hand on her shoulder as if he would detach her from her shelter. “My God, it’s lucky we started down this way when we did. Another minute and… Autumn, what happened?”

  She couldn’t answer. She clung to Rennie. Blood pounded at her ears. Trembling began in her knees and spread to her hips and arms and shoulders.

  “She’s all right,” Rennie said over the top of her head.

  She kept her face buried in his sweater.

  “Autumn,” Fran started. “Let me—”

  “She’s all right, Francisco,” Rennie repeated. “Just scared. Let her catch her breath.”

  “What happened to her?” somebody, a woman, asked.

  Alien hands tugged at her, trying to separate her from Rennie. Fran. She tightened her grip.

  “Give me a moment,” she managed to say, her voice muffled. “I can’t—let me stand here a moment.” She sounded shrill and hysterical and quite unlike herself.

  She wasn’t all right, but Rennie wanted her to be and she had to pull herself together so as not to disgrace herself in front of him. She would pull herself together.

  I won’t cry, she chanted to herself. I won’t cry, I won’t cry, I won’t cry.

  “Is she all right?”

  “How did she fall?”

  “What happened?”

  Voices. From all sides. Murmuring, clamoring, excited. She peeked out from her haven.

  Laney and Norma and Victoria and others. All bunching around. All concerned. All jabbering.

  She burrowed back into Rennie’s sweater.

  “Are you all right?” Fran’s words resounded in her ear. His hand clamped on her shoulder and tried to pull her away. “Autumn, are you hurt?”

  “L
eave her alone.” Rennie’s forceful tone subdued Fran’s insistence. “Let her get her head straight before we go asking questions.”

  She shuddered. Rennie understood.

  Grateful, she huddled deeper into his chest, the soft lining of his down jacket cradling one cheek and his thick sweater rough against the other. She wanted to stay here like this, with his scent in her nostrils and his heartbeat in her ears, safe and secure.

  He let her stand in the welcome protection of his arms, patting her back, holding her, rocking her back and forth until she calmed and her wobbly legs could support her.

  Then he gently weaned her from his steady embrace. “Okay now, Autumn? Think you can stand up now?”

  She let her arms drop from where they were clutching him. His face was still grim, scary. Not like the man she loved. “Yes. Clumsy.” It was hard to step away, but she did. She even managed a shrug. “It was clumsy of me.”

  A small circle had formed. Everyone stared at her. The Degardoveras. Victoria. Victoria’s friend. Strangers who hadn’t the vaguest idea of what had happened had gathered to see the cause of the commotion.

  She hated their curiosity, the way they pointed and talked about her among themselves.

  Rennie would hate it, too. No wonder he looked so forbidding. He was upset with her for making such a spectacle of herself. And him.

  She’d turned that voracious spotlight on him. No wonder he was annoyed.

  “I’m fine.”

  There. That was her own voice, cool and impassive like nothing had happened. She’d trained herself long ago to put on a serene front when her aunt scolded her for crying. Aunt Laura had told her crying wouldn’t bring her parents back, that it would make her ugly so no one would want her.

  Aunt Laura had been stern, but her training had never failed Autumn. It didn’t now. “I’m fine,” she repeated.

  “Are you sure?” Fran laid an arm over her shoulder.

  “What happened? How did you slip over the rail?” Victoria’s concern was overshadowed by eagerness.

  Hoping for the worst, but then Victoria was a reporter.

  Onlookers, seeing she was all right, resumed their activities.