by Alison Kent
Judith patted Eva’s hand with her own exquisitely manicured one. “If you ask me, you quit years too soon. You could’ve made enough money to retire by now. Carson certainly has.” She shook her head, her ruffled boa a fluff of pink feathers beneath her ears and chin. “I never could understand what you saw in that man besides, of course, the magic he worked with his camera.”
Eva forced her gaze straight ahead and laced her fingers tightly in her lap. Yes, his camera worked magic. So did his mouth, his hands, and everything else he’d used to touch her. She slicked her tongue across her dry lips.
Carson had been her first love. One she knew she’d never match. One she’d never gotten over. Yet one she’d betrayed.
Damn this reunion shoot and the memories. Along with the top models from the last twenty years, she’d returned to New York for a special layout celebrating the history of the fashion industry.
It was the first time she’d been in front of any camera except her son’s since leaving the Montclair Agency three months after her nineteenth birthday. It was also the first time she’d been back to the city where the map of her life had been drawn.
She stood then, the slimming lines of her sequined black sheath falling into place. The theater had nearly emptied. She smiled stiffly down at Judith. “Let’s go before they lock us in.”
Judith didn’t answer Eva’s smile. The solemn look she wore demanded attention. “If Carson’s the reason you won’t stay, you’re making a mistake. He’s never in the city.”
Eva stared through her friend. She knew all too well where Carson Brandt spent his time. She’d searched the papers over the years for the wire photos, the ones bearing his name. The ones taken natural disasters, hostage crises, military invasions, kidnapping negotiations.
No longer did he photograph the beautiful people. He studied death, hopelessness, the helplessness of those struggling to survive.
“Eva?” Judith stood, gripping Eva’s upper arm.
A shiver of remorse stole into Eva’s heart. Was she at all responsible for the direction Carson had taken his life? She paused and looked to the older woman for understanding. “I can’t stay. I’ve got too much waiting for me at home. And Carson has nothing to do with it.”
Judith placed both hands on Eva’s shoulders. “You’ll have to tell him someday.”
She shook her head, knowing the lie she was about to tell was the biggest one of all because, in addition to lying to her friend, her mentor, she was lying to herself. “I’ve learned to live with what happened. I don’t think about it ... or about him ... anymore.”
She shrugged off Judith’s hands. “Please, understand. If it weren’t for you, I wouldn’t be where I am today. You helped me at the roughest, loneliest time of my life. I value your friendship more than I can say. And I don’t want to offend you, but Carson is off limits. He hasn’t been a part of my life for a very long time.”
Judith cradled Eva’s face in her palms, gently insisting she listen. The lines in her face made her appear incredibly wise. And old.
“That’s where you’re wrong, Eva. Carson will always be a part of your life. And whether he needs to know has nothing to do with it. He has a right to know. Until you come to realize that, you won’t be as happy as you claim to be.”
Leaving Eva with a gentle smile, Judith bent to retrieve her beaded evening bag from her chair. “Let’s get out of here. I’m starved.”
Chapter Three
CARSON LIMPED FROM the shadows of the building, advancing the film to the first frame. Loading in the dark presented no problem. In fact, blindfolded suited him just fine. Anything for a challenge these days.
He glanced over to where Jamison leaned against the corner of the brick structure, sucking on the dregs of a cigarette. His tuxedo appeared to have been slept in and looked totally out of place with his shaggy sun-bleached hair and the Nike Air Flights on his size-thirteen feet.
Carson frowned, wondering if Jamison was his first or last name. Whatever, the kid was a good sport.
Turning at Carson’s approach, Jamison quickly dropped the smoldering butt, and retrieved Carson’s camera bag from the ground. He pushed his wire-rimmed glasses back onto the bridge of his nose, hoisted the strap over his bony shoulder, and dusted his hands together. “Where to, Boss?”
“There.” Carson indicated the corner where the sidewalk met the theater walkway. “That’ll give me a clear view of the door and get me out of the way of any more bungling amateurs.” He grimaced. “Sorry, kid.”
Jamison raised his hands, warding off the apology. “Hey, man, no offense taken. I may be an amateur but I am quickly learnin’ from the best. Just wish they’d sent me along on your last gig in Afghanistan. Those shots were—” he blew across the tips of his fingers “—hot.”
Carson acknowledged the offhanded compliment with a shrug. “Not as hot as this damned penguin getup. At least Bailey pulled those strings and got us inside.” He loosened the button behind his tie. “I appreciate you tagging along. Just sorry the circumstances stink.”
Jamison shook his head in disbelief. “An apology and a thank-you in the same sentence. From the great Carson Brandt no less. What gives, man?”
“Mortality must be catching up with me.”
“You mean the rumors aren’t true? You really are human?”
“ ‘Fraid so.” Carson flashed a grin. “Disappointed?”
“Nah. Gives the rest of us a fighting chance.”
“As far as I’m concerned, you can have your chance right now. I had all of this city I could stomach years ago.”
Jamison snapped his fingers. “That’s right. You started out with the Montclair Agency. You’re the one who did that chick... What’s her name?”
“Channing. Eva Channing.” Carson ground his jaw and kept his voice level, his words as smooth as a tigers eye. The same color as Eva’s.
“I remember now. She was, like, smokin’. Wonder whatever happened to her.” Jamison adjusted his glasses. “Why’d you give up all that?”
His temple throbbing, Carson checked the settings on his camera, using the distraction to distance himself from Jamison’s chatter. He couldn’t let the kid know how many times he’d wondered the same thing.
He couldn’t tell him how he’d tried to continue at the agency. How he’d sent one young model after another running away, tears streaming down their flawless faces. How Judith Montclair had finally ordered him out.
The story he gave Jamison was the one he gave himself. A glossed-over version bordering on a lie.
“I got sick of temper tantrums thrown over chipped fingernail polish. I needed a challenge.” Carson glanced up and gave a derisive snort. “Some challenge.”
“Yeah. I was hoping for a little more action.” Jamison staked out the corner behind Carson, preventing the gathering journalists from hedging on their territory.
Carson visually measured the distance from his position to the door and double checked his equipment. “I doubt I’ll be seeing any more action for a while. Bailey got ticked off about my fight in D.C. and decided I needed to cool down.”
Jamison sucked in a long whistle. “I heard about that fight. Heard you told that guy from the WaPo to go shove—”
“Close enough.” Carson cut off Jamison’s recital. “The jerk should’ve seen the situation escalating. But no, he stands around playing with himself, then panics when the riot breaks out. I was doing my job and I end up with the broken ankle.”
He glanced up as the doormen locked the glass doors in their open position. “Okay. Grab that other camera and let’s see what you can do.”
“Bailey ain’t gonna like me doing your job, man.”
“Look, Jamison. This is kid stuff. Bailey won’t know the difference unless you really screw around.”
“Sure thing. But I get half the dough.”
Carson slapped Jamison on the back. “You can have it all.”
The first group of rich and famous filed out the door, smiling thei
r plastic smiles at the rapid-fire camera flashes. The reporters and photographers hovered like vultures, jockeying for choice positions and meaty interviews.
Jamison joined the mad throng, and Carson rolled his eyes at the kid’s exuberance, wondering if he himself had ever had that much enthusiasm and, if he had, where it had gone.
He raised his Nikon, deciding the mob scene might be worth shooting after all. Such fine, upstanding citizens represented an elite group, a clique as closed and exclusive as the meanest street gang in L.A.
Their codes were just as rigid, their membership equally exclusive. They wore their pretentious colors with snobbish pride.
He knew the routine. He’d grown up a member of the group, had turned his back on it the minute he’d been old enough to realize no one would fight his battles for him because no one gave a damn.
With his eye at the viewfinder, he squinted, focusing in the dim light. He swung the camera over the profile of a woman with gray hair. She turned toward him as she stepped out the door and down the first step.
Judith Montclair! What was she doing here? He snapped his fingers. Yeah. THE Magazine’s reunion shoot. That had to be it. He started to turn away, then stopped as if hit by a train.
Judith had been sitting with the woman who looked so much like Eva. He stared, dumbfounded. If Judith was here ...
Where was she? He scooted along the edge of the wall, craning his neck to see over the crowd at the door. Finally the throng dispersed, allowing Judith to step down the stairs.
The woman in black stood behind her, framed in the open doorway, the dim rectangle of light from behind casting shadows across her face and contouring a figure that made Carson swallow. She turned and spoke to the man at her side.
Transfixed, Carson leaned against the wall. He couldn’t believe this was happening. Not here. Not after all these years. She came through the door, following Judith into the lighted alcove. His gaze never left her face.
He twisted the lens, focusing it in sharp relief, clicking the shutter in staccato succession. The film whirred under his panic. He saw nothing, registered nothing but the woman in black.
The crowd parted like the Red Sea, easing the way for the exiting mob to reach the row of waiting limos. Held in place by his own shock and the rush of people, Carson remained crushed against the wall.
Judith turned and spoke to the younger woman. She answered with a laugh, looking straight into his camera, piercing seventeen years of hard denial with her eyes.
Eyes he didn’t need the creased picture in his wallet to remember.
Eyes that had sold millions in clothing and cosmetics, that he’d captured at every angle, in every light.
Eyes that had laughed at him, cried with him, and shown him the only love he’d ever known.
Eva.
Chapter Four
“OUT HERE, ZACK.”
Eva double-checked the root ball on the last of the peach trees, then sat back on her heels, tucked her forehead into the crease of her elbow, and waited for her son. When the lanky teen’s crepe-soled steps sounded on the pebbled walk, she looked up and smiled.
Zack’s white T-shirt pulled taut across his shoulders and chest and clung to his lean torso. The hem ended a good inch above the tattered waistband of his jeans, showing too much hard teenage male belly.
Eva marked extra-large T-shirts on her mental shopping list—right next to teenage girl repellent.
“What ‘cha need?” she asked.
“Pete and Miguel just pulled up at the barn with a load of mulch.” Head down in exhaustion, Zack rubbed a hand over the back of his neck. “Mr. Jackson’s waiting for the forklift so he can unload the new shipment of photinias.”
“Where’s the forklift?”
“David’s using it to help Texas Turf clear space for the extra pallets of grass you ordered. And now, Mrs. Appleton is at the front counter. The hibiscus plants she bought last week clash with her bougainvilleas.” Zack managed a tired grin as he tucked a long shock of sandy blond hair into the bandanna tied around his forehead. “She’s asking to see Miss Channing personally.”
Eva groaned, running her gloved hands down her thighs. “You sure you can’t help her?”
“I would, but there’s at least a mile of mulch out there with my name on it. I gotta help Pete and Miguel get the bags into the barn.”
“Zachary, please?”
“Sorry, Mom. She’s your number one fan.” Zack jogged off, then turned back. “You might want to wash your face before you go in. Don’t want Mrs. A to have heart failure.”
“Wicked boy.” Using the spindly tree trunk for leverage, Eva reluctantly gained her feet.
If one more thing went wrong today, she was calling Judith Montclair and taking her up on her open offer. On certain days, modeling held the same appeal as a hot fudge sundae. This was one of those days.
She tugged off her work gloves and swiped at her dirt-streaked face. Wishing for a mirror, and a minor miracle to save the rest of the day, she fluffed up her flat hair and approached the counter in the anteroom of her greenhouse.
The president of the Lake City Garden Club stood waiting, a lace handkerchief clutched in one hand, a tiny beaded bag in the other. Her yellow dress seemed to swallow her whole, as did the bright yellow shoes on her feet.
Eva couldn’t help a wry smile at the picture the diminutive woman presented; that of a bantam hen in canary drag. “Mrs. Appleton, hello. What can I do for you?”
Mrs. Appleton glanced up from beneath the brim of a straw sunbonnet bigger than she was. Her sharp little eyes darted about before she turned them down guiltily at the corners. “Well, dear. You remember the hibiscus plants your young man delivered last week?”
Hours and hours of traipsing through the gardens. How could Eva forget? “Yes. Is there a problem?”
“The flowers have bloomed. And they’re all the wrong color.” Mrs. Appleton wrung her hands at her tiny bosom. “My color scheme is pink and white. Pink, dear. Not orange. The hibiscus simply won’t do.”
“Then they’ll have to be replaced, won’t they?” Eva said, biting her tongue. No need at this point to remind the woman that she had adamantly demanded the very plants she’d purchased, wanting to be the first member of the Lake City Garden Club to own the new hybrid. “Why don’t we walk out back and see what we can find?”
“Do you think you can have the new ones delivered by Monday morning? I’m having the Garden Club tea at two. Marguerite Sinclair is determined to sway the membership to replace me as president. If she gets it in her head that I don’t have an eye for color—” Mrs. Appleton shook her head, released a tragic sigh “—there’s no telling what might happen with your contract. And now that your young man will be doing the photographs for our calendar...”
Bantam hen. Ha! The woman had the talons of a chicken hawk. Silently smoldering, Eva pictured the current chaos unfolding out back like a bad movie. As president of the Garden Club, Mrs. Appleton had thrown a lot of early business Eva’s way. Business Eva depended on.
Especially the Garden Club contract.
But that thinly veiled threat came nowhere as close to cutting out her heart as the threat against Zack. He’d worked damned hard for this opportunity. Since the calendar job was in conjunction with his photography class, Eva knew the contract was secure.
But nothing, nothing, was worth the risk of the assignment being awarded to another student whose mother curtsied on command.
She pasted on her best entrepreneurial smile. “No problem. One of my men will pick up the hybrids when they deliver the replacements.”
“Thank you, dear,” Mrs. Appleton twittered cheerfully. “I knew I could count on you.”
Before Eva had even stepped around the counter, the front door opened. Three more customers. Great. Time to reassess the personnel budget. Katie Crenshaw, Zack’s girlfriend, often stopped by to help out after school and any Saturdays when she had the time. Today she’d had weekend cheerleading practice, and nat
urally everything was falling down around Eva’s ears.
She didn’t have a choice. “Mrs. Appleton, why don’t you step out into the garden and find Zachary? He’ll be glad to show you the selection of hibiscus. I’ll be right out as soon as I take care of these customers.”
“Fine, dear,” Mrs. Appleton said, taking tiny steps toward the door and waving her handkerchief all the way there. “Zachary!”
Eva grimaced. It looked like she was going to have to spring for whatever piece of photographic equipment her son couldn’t live without on top of his pay.
She blew out a puff of steam and looked around. Two of the customers had walked outside to the garden. She’d take care of the couple after she finished with the third.
She found him, or at least heard him, clinking bottles of liquid Diazinon on the back shelf. She came around the corner and stopped.
“Can I hel—”
“Hello, Eva,” said Carson Brandt.
Oh... my... God.
He was as beautiful as she remembered, as gorgeous as any man had the right to be. Eva’s legs went numb; her feet, her knees and every muscle from ankle to hip. How she remained standing, she didn’t know. Especially when the paralysis spread up her spine, radiated across her shoulders and down her arms, freezing the tips of her fingers.
“Carson. What the... why are... how did you find me?” she finally managed. She squeezed her fingers to get the blood moving. It didn’t help— even with a heart rate near detonation.
He shrugged, the ends of his honeyed hair catching in the open collar of his white oxford shirt. His smile was a curl of lip that reminded her of his taste. “Find you? I didn’t know you were hiding.”
“I’m not. Hiding, that is. I’m just surprised to see you here.” And why in the world are you here? she mentally screamed, then calmly added, “I didn’t think Lake City, Texas had any reason to warrant a photojournalist from the API.”
