Providence

by Leigh Hays

  Rebekiah Kearns’s passion is photography—erotic images of sex, love, and the boundaries between them. Still wounded by the death of her best friend, she’s locked her heart away and forges her only meaningful connections through the lens of her camera.

  Lindsey Blackwell never stops. Her work as a wealth management consultant takes her all over the world, and she just doesn’t have time to make a relationship work. Women always end up asking for more than she can give.

  When Rebekiah receives a huge inheritance, all she wants to do is get rid of it, but Lindsey has other ideas. Their professional relationship quickly turns personal when Lindsey agrees to pose for Rebekiah. With every click of the shutter, Rebekiah finds it harder and harder to keep Lindsey in focus without getting too close.

  Providence

  Brought to you by

  eBooks from Bold Strokes Books, Inc.

  http://www.boldstrokesbooks.com

  eBooks are not transferable. They cannot be sold, shared or given away as it is an infringement on the copyright of this work.

  Please respect the rights of the author and do not file share.

  Providence

  © 2020 By Leigh Hays. All Rights Reserved.

  ISBN 13: 978-1-63555-621-6

  This Electronic Original Is Published By

  Bold Strokes Books, Inc.

  P.O. Box 249

  Valley Falls, NY 12185

  First Edition: February 2020

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  This book, or parts thereof, may not be reproduced in any form without permission.

  Credits

  Editors: Barbara Ann Wright and Stacia Seaman

  Production Design: Stacia Seaman

  Cover Design by Tammy Seidick

  Acknowledgments

  I wrote the first draft of this story over ten years ago, so there are a lot of people to thank.

  Barbara, Sandy, Radclyffe, Ruth, and the small army of people who make the books happen at BSB. I can’t wait to see what happens next.

  My two writing groups, both past and present. NORWIG, who encouraged and nurtured early versions of this story through thoughtful and generous criticism. Splendid Tribe, who supported me in the process of revising. It’s a solitary job, and it helps to have coworkers along the way.

  My coworkers both past and present who’ve supported me through this process.

  Aurora Rey for keeping me honest by kicking my ass when I needed it. I continue to grow as a professional with your friendship and guidance.

  My family, in particular, my mother, and my family of choice. My life is richer with you in it.

  My wife for finding space in our life for me to write and reading all the drafts. Not bad for a wet noodle.

  My son. Because you make everything better.

  For H. Here’s a love story for you.

  Chapter One

  Enjoying the last bit of summer, Rebekiah Kearns lounged on a green canvas camp chair, watching the orange sunset filter through the buildings of downtown Providence. A moving sea of college students and tourists strolled past the art booth she shared with Neil Marguiles. The last rays brushed across Neil’s oil prints, echoing the rich reds and bright oranges lingering in the August sky. The colors pulled people toward their booth and resulted in a couple of purchases.

  Neil thanked the last customer before he turned to Rebekiah with a wink and a grin. “Works every time.”

  Rolling her eyes, Rebekiah shook her head. His paintings were good but not his best work. He deliberately chose the sunset prints for this time of year. “I don’t know why you waste your time painting. You have a gift for marketing.”

  Neil shuddered and clutched his chest. “Perish the thought.”

  Night settled over the city, and a warm breeze blew in, bringing the scent of grilled meat and salt water. Rebekiah stood and shaded her eyes against the last bit of glare off the Providence River. During the summer months and early fall, Providence’s downtown hosted Waterfire, a festival of arts, food, and music centered around eighty-plus floating metal braziers anchored down the middle of the Woonasquatucket, Moshassuck, and Providence Rivers.

  “I’m going to take a few shots of the lights.” She waved toward the photographic prints on the side walls of their tent. An assortment of historic buildings and street scenes hung on metal wires mixed in with a seascape or two. “I need more material.”

  He grinned. “I see that. Bring some food back.”

  She slung her bag over her shoulder. “Anything in particular?”

  “Whatever that smell is.”

  She tilted her head. “Probably Atomic Bomb Barbecue.” A local favorite for authentic Southern pit barbecue.

  His handsome face wrinkled. “Why can’t it ever be tofu?”

  Rebekiah laughed. “Because soybean doesn’t grill like real meat.”

  He waved her off. She ducked into the crowd and toward the river. She weaved through the foot traffic, following the flow across the bridge and toward the Riverwalk. To her right, rowboats pushed through the water, oars slapping and splashing into the current as they carried torch bearers, their passage lighting the black braziers installed down the middle of the river. She found a relatively open spot and pulled her camera from her bag.

  Flames rippled along the surface and converged into the shadows. She focused on that shimmering display, taking a shot, adjusting the shutter speed again and again until her legs started to cramp and her stomach started to rumble. Tucking the camera close to her side, she stood and resumed her walk toward the center basin. The wind shifted and a plume of woodsmoke crossed her path. It reminded her of bonfires on the cape.

  She wandered through the crowd. Her hands itched to take more shots, but she forced herself to stay in the moment. She passed a stage where the crowd density increased and the noise level grew. She paused for a moment but continued on and found the line for Atomic Barbecue halfway down the block. She groaned at the length and looked for another shop. A Greek vendor a couple booths away provided meat and vegetarian options. Armed with falafel and lamb gyros, she headed back to their booth.

  Neil stood with open arms and plucked the food from her hands. “You are a savior. I’m famished.” He stuffed a loose tomato into his mouth. Nodding across the tent, he said, “There was someone here asking about that picture.”

  Rebekiah turned and knew immediately which one, tucked into the far corner where it wouldn’t catch the eye of a casual observer but forward enough that it would pull someone in if they were interested. A black-and-white composition that looked like an orchid until you got up close and saw that it was actually two women fucking.

  “Man or woman?”

  “Woman. Mid-twenties, maybe a little younger or older. Grad student written all over her.” He bit into his sandwich, chewed, and swallowed. “She took your card.”

  “Really?” Rebekiah smiled. A few of the pictures were hooks designed to pull in potential customers. Like Neil, she sold touristy photos during Waterfire, but her main business was boudoir photography, sexy shots in pinup styles, and she used the event as a marketing tool. But the orchid photo showcased a different approach, grounded in fine art. She’d put it up as a whim to see if it would catch anyone’s eye.

  She unwrapped her gyro and started eating. The music went into full swing, and the bass line made its way to them a few streets down. She continued watching people ebb and flow, thinking about Neil’s comment. This woman was the first person to notice it, and she needed to think about her approach if and when the woman returned.

  Anot
her hour passed, and Neil sidled up behind her as she finished talking with a customer. “That’s her.”

  Rebekiah looked in the direction he was pointing. An eclectic group of twentysomething women, men, and gender nonconforming people gathered around a set of tables, laughing and chatting. One looked up, and Neil waved. She looked down. Something in her look, the defiant tilt of her jaw and the shuttered vulnerability in her eyes, was intriguing.

  She lifted her camera and snapped a few shots. One of the woman’s friends leaned over and said something in her ear that made her cock her head toward Rebekiah. Rebekiah shook her short red hair out of her eyes and looked right at her. She kept taking pictures, catching a half-smile or calculated look as her subject tried to ignore the attention while simultaneously preening under it. She waited until the woman finally walked over.

  She hefted the camera and asked, “You don’t mind?”

  The woman shook her head. “No.” She shrugged. “It’s kind of flattering.”

  “I’m Rebekiah.” She reached out.

  “Nicole.” She barely squeezed it.

  Rebekiah strengthened her grip for just the fraction of an instant, enough to let Nicole know she was there but not enough to be a jerk. Nicole squeezed back before letting go. Rebekiah smiled, pleased by her response. “Neil said you liked my pictures.”

  Nicole nodded. “Yeah, I do.” She pointed toward the picture in the back. “Especially that one.”

  Leaning in to study it, Rebekiah turned back. “Interesting. What draws you to it?” She stared at Nicole’s profile. A tiny scar traced along the corner of her eye toward her ear. It crinkled when she squinted.

  “It’s not what it seems.” Nicole reached out and traced the air in front of the picture. “It’s not until you’re up close that you see through the flower to the women underneath. But once you see them you can’t see the orchid anymore.” She cleared her throat. “Is that a stock image, or did you take that picture?”

  “Which one?” Rebekiah knew exactly what she was asking, but she wanted to hear her say it.

  Nicole’s face brightened. “The women. Were you there when they were…” She rolled her hand.

  Rebekiah raised an eyebrow. “Fucking?”

  Nicole giggled. “Yeah.”

  “Yes, I was.”

  “Did they know?”

  Rebekiah folded her arms. “That I was there or that I would use the image?”

  “Both?”

  Rebekiah glanced at the pair in the picture, remembering the day she took it. Genuine affection suffused her body, and she smiled. “They knew.”

  “How did you convince them to do that?”

  She shrugged. “I asked.” She touched Nicole’s forearm. “Nicole, are you a photographer?”

  She held up her hands, dislodging Rebekiah’s, and shook her head. “Oh no. I’m just…curious.”

  One of Nicole’s friends leaned into the tent and said, “Hey, Nic! We’re heading up to the stage. Are you coming? Laura’s getting tired of waiting.”

  Rebekiah glanced over to Nicole’s friends and then back. Shit, she needed more time. “Why don’t you call me? I’d love to shoot you.” She passed her a business card.

  Nicole accepted it and let herself be pulled out of the tent with a backward glance or two before the crowd closed behind her. Rebekiah maintained eye contact the whole time. She caught one last look from her and smiled, not sure if she’d be hearing from her again but hoping she would.

  Neil whistled. “You are a fucking pussy magnet.”

  Rebekiah chuckled and collapsed into her chair. “You’re just jealous.”

  “You’re damn right I am. She didn’t even look at me.”

  “Neil, you fuck men.”

  “So? It hurts to be ignored.”

  Rebekiah rolled her eyes. “Oh, the fragile white male ego.”

  “That’s right, sister.” He touched her hand. “Smooth and stroke it, baby.”

  Rebekiah snatched her hand back. “Ew. Gross.” She glanced at her watch. “Shit. I got to go soon. Sera’s going to be wondering where I am.”

  Neil laughed. “You and that dog. Who knew she’d be such a perfect companion for you?”

  Rebekiah smiled. “I know.” Sera’s original owner had left Providence for London and asked Rebekiah to look after her, until I get back. That was two years ago, and no one had heard from her since.

  Neil shook his head. “I’m surprised you didn’t bring her.”

  “She’s not fond of crowds.” Rebekiah sighed. “Do you need me to help pack up?”

  Neil shook his head. “Nah. I’m pretty butch. I can handle it.” He nodded across the way. “Or have that guy in the black shirt help me. It’ll give me an excuse to ask him out.”

  Rebekiah laughed and stood. “See, you still got game.” She collected her stuff and patted him on the back before heading home.

  * * *

  Lindsey Blackwell adjusted her messenger bag across her chest, leaving New Harvest Coffee and heading east on Westminster Street. Pushing through the morning commute, she walked toward Providence’s financial district. At the corner of Exchange and Westminster stood the five-story brick building where she worked. Sandwiched amid the modern concrete and glass office buildings and a few turn-of-the-century high rises, the Queen Anne style—with its bay windows, patterned masonry, and recessed entrance—was one of the shortest buildings in the district. Lindsey’s business partner, a former Morgan Stanley investment banker, preferred buildings with less than twenty floors. Cathryn wanted something with stairs she could “run down in less than a minute.”

  Inside, the noise of the street stopped, and Lindsey bypassed the granite and oak reception area where two women policed the ebb and flow of the building. She pushed the up button for the elevator with her knuckle while balancing two cups in her hands. A group of young professionals dressed in banker chic gathered around her. She listened to them tap on their phones and talk about the latest merger deal until someone nudged the loudest pair and nodded in her direction. The shop talk dried up, and Lindsey shook her head.

  One of two women in the group looked her up and down and smiled. She nodded toward the cups. “I hope your boss appreciates you.”

  Lindsey grinned. “She does.”

  “I’m Vanessa.” Clear green eyes, brown skin, black hair, and just enough bravado coming off her to pique Lindsey’s interest.

  “Lindsey.”

  “I haven’t seen you before. Do you work for Traveler’s?” Lindsey’s firm shared the building with three other businesses, including the bank on the first three floors.

  Lindsey shook her head. “Wexler Blackwell.” The doors dinged, and she led the way into the elevator.

  Vanessa followed and turned to face her. “Oh, the big money.”

  Lindsey shrugged.

  More people got on the elevator, and they moved closer together. She glanced around and lowered her voice. “If there’s an opening, let me know. I’m a forensic accountant.”

  Lindsey matched her tone. “Not satisfied?”

  Vanessa’s professional veneer cracked, and she gave Lindsey a once-over before she said, “I could do better.”

  Lindsey laughed. “Yes, you could.”

  The doors opened on the third floor; everyone except Lindsey walked out. She pushed her floor and heard one of Vanessa’s colleagues say, “That’s Lindsey Blackwell, the other partner of Wexler Blackwell.” Vanessa glanced over her shoulder in shock, and Lindsey offered her best what can I say look before the doors closed.

  Lindsey walked into the Wexler Blackwell suite to the sound of a Bloomberg anchor reporting on the monitor behind the front desk. “Yesterday, Nasdaq took a hit, and the Asia markets are down this morning.” She already knew that the market had been rough for the past few weeks. Floods in China and a decline in global spending were killing consumer confidence.

  The suite boasted an open floor plan with a mix of glass walls, exposed brick, and high-end office furnitur
e. She moved through the inner ring of workstations toward her office. Quiet clicking and soft conversations floated through the space. A couple employees glanced up and nodded as she walked past. Her director of research, Sabine Fiorenza, stood at her approach and said, “Welcome back.”

  Lindsey had spent the last six weeks traveling to India, China, Hong Kong, South Korea, and Tokyo. She smiled and passed Sabine the second cup of coffee. “Good morning.”

  Sabine smiled. “Thank you. I missed this.” She took a sip and hummed appreciatively. Nodding toward the far side of the suite, she said, “Cathryn wants to see you.”

  “Now?”

  Sabine’s face grew serious. “Now.”

  Lindsey gave her a look and motioned toward her office. Sabine followed. Natural sunlight poured through a wall of windows and onto the long credenza behind her desk. Various objects d’art, a couple glass awards, and other gifts from clients sat along the credenza.

  “I’ll go see what she wants. But then I want to get the team together. I have a couple prospects I want full workups on. And Jason Huang is ready to make some real decisions with his father’s foundation. I’ve already started a write-up, but I’m going to want more information about the green energy market here and in Europe.”

  Sabine smiled and looked up. “And how was Jason?”

  Lindsey shook her head and grinned. “Charming. Irreverent. Extravagant.”

  “Where did he take you this time?”

  “Tibet. Potala Palace. The Dalai Lama’s winter palace. By private train car.”

  Sabine rolled her eyes. “Of course.”

  She shrugged. “He got free publicity out of it.” Jason Huang was in his mid-twenties; Lindsey, her mid-thirties. She’d worked for years with his father—Li Jie Huang or, more accurately, Huang Li Jie—a Hong Kong billionaire who successfully integrated his large holdings in China after the handover. The Huangs followed Lindsey when she left Goldman Sachs for her own company.