The Baby Album

by Roz Denny Fox

  This job, working for the unfriendly Wyatt Keene, matched her schooling, her experience and her interests to a T. Casey had worked in her foster parents’ studio since high school. She’d loved every second of it. Still did, she admitted to herself as she clicked several practice shots. Len Howell had taught her how to take beautiful family and wedding portraits—which was how she’d met Dane. Howell Studios had been hired to photograph Dane’s sister’s wedding, and he’d been the best man. From the outset, Dane had been oh, so charming. That first day he’d jokingly called her Pixie, since even in heels she barely reached his chin. And back then her blond hair had been styled in short, feathery wisps.

  Now it badly needed cutting, but there hadn’t been enough money, she acknowledged, tugging on one of the shoulder-length strands before she started corralling the group of giggling swimmers.

  As for her first assessment of Dane Sinclair, she’d been infatuated.

  Glaring at Wyatt Keene’s broad back, Casey was determined not to be infatuated again. Because a handsome face and hard body didn’t make a good man. Dane had proven that. Uncharacteristically swept off her feet, Casey had leaped to accept his request for a date. They’d gone out exclusively for several months. By then she’d fallen in love. Love had changed her. Made her less serious and more impulsive. So when Dane announced one day that he’d bought a brewpub in Round Rock, Texas, from an old frat buddy, was it any wonder her heart had sunk at the mere suggestion of his leaving Dallas? Leaving her?

  Even now she could hear him say, “Pixie, it’ll be a blast selling brewskis. You know how my folks are always insisting I get a job. Well, my dad’s going to buy me a microbrewery. It’s the perfect solution.”

  “What about us, Dane?” she’d asked. It was still painful to recall how badly she’d wanted him to ask her to marry him then and there. Instead, he’d avoided meeting her gaze and made excuses to leave.

  It wasn’t until the next day that he casually suggested she drive to Round Rock in a week or two. “To help check out my inventory. And hang out for a while,” he’d added, throwing in one of his trademark magnetic smiles.

  Dane never brought up marriage. So she had. She’d been so sure that, deep down, he loved her. Groveling had been a big mistake. And here she was, having to grovel to another man. This time to Wyatt Keene—just to pay her bills. What if that proved to be an even bigger mistake?

  WYATT SAT DOWN ON a bench, his eyes following Casey Sinclair’s every move as she took his place on the gym floor. He barely noticed when Mike Granville joined him. Not until the coach murmured, “For someone who looks as if she’d blow away in a stiff wind, she’s sure whipping those kids into shape.”

  “She seems competent enough,” Wyatt said with a shrug.

  “It helps that she’s cute as a kitten.”

  Wyatt frowned. “I hadn’t noticed.”

  “Really? You’ve been out of commission too long. I’m a happily married guy, but that doesn’t stop me from admiring an attractive woman when I see one.”

  “The only thing I care about with Ms. Sinclair is her ability to take good photographs.”

  “That’s dandy, Wyatt, because it’s Mrs. Sinclair.” Mike grinned wolfishly as Wyatt gave a visible start. “Yep, that’s correct. I heard her tell Dave Welsh, the baseball captain, who was trying to hit on her.”

  For the first time since the tiny woman with the killer smile had sashayed into the gymnasium, Wyatt felt the muscles in his neck and shoulders relax. Mike’s newsflash made replacing Angela with a vibrant, capable, married woman feel like less of a betrayal. The studio was in both their names, but Angela had needed the prestige of owning it. Keene’s was tied in to her sense of professional worth, which Wyatt considered sad, since Angela would’ve made a name for herself no matter where she worked. He would’ve been content to work out of their home as they had in the early years of their marriage. Angela, who’d come from nothing and grown up an orphan, had needed status, and worked tirelessly to get it. Deep down, she had fears. It was that vulnerable woman Wyatt had fallen in love with. That was the Angela he’d sworn to love and protect. But when she’d needed him most, he’d let her down. He thought it’d be difficult to see another woman in her place at the studio.

  Yet life moved on.

  He already had Greg Moore, his wife, Brenda, and other friends saying it was time he did—professionally and personally. Today Mike Granville had hinted that Wyatt ought to be open to an attractive woman. Maybe.

  His feelings definitely weren’t frozen. He’d felt a stirring the minute Casey Sinclair bounded up with her perky attitude. Finding out she was taken, however, made the thought of working with her in Angela’s domain a bit easier.

  It was better this way. Because these past few months he woke up at least once a night—and often lay there, struggling to conjure up Angela’s face. What did that say about him as a husband? Had his love been that shallow? Had his marriage had cracks? Wyatt didn’t like any of the answers that popped into his head. All marriages had their ups and downs.

  WHEN MIKE HAD TO GO talk to one of the parents who’d come inside to discuss his son, Wyatt was left alone with his troubling memories and his observations of Casey Sinclair.

  Listening to her banter, he soon realized she had an easy rapport with the kids, and yet she made clear who was in charge. The careful way she set up her camera reminded him of Angela. Although his wife had always been a bit detached. Even intense. In spite of it her results were stellar; everyone loved her work. People recommended her to their friends, and her reputation spread. Wyatt had been very proud of her.

  Would Casey’s work reflect a more casual style? Or was she casual? Wyatt watched her grow still once she had just the right pose in her viewfinder. Again similar to Angela. Except there was her teasing smile to coax the kids.

  It wasn’t until Casey dismissed the last of her groups that another remarkable thing struck Wyatt. For at least ten minutes he’d been thinking objectively about Angela without all the guilt that had become second nature to him over the past year.

  Letting his chin drop, he flexed his fingers as he stared at the floor. Should he be losing those feelings? Guilt returned in a rush, and he welcomed its punch. Angela had given so much for her art. She ought to be the one left behind to keep Keene Studio going. Not him.

  CASEY HELD HER HEAD high as she approached the sullen man she hoped would give her a job.

  “All finished,” she said, injecting a chipper note in her voice. She waited until he looked up, gestured them to the other side of the gym where both the swimmers she’d photographed and the baseball jocks were scattering.

  Wyatt blinked once, as though clearing away his private thoughts, then rocketed to his feet. “I see you managed that in record time,” he said, checking his watch.

  “You think I went too fast?” Casey hated sounding defensive, but darn it, that was how he made her feel. “I had a look back at the last few frames,” she said, moving in close enough so he could see as she clicked through the final photos she’d taken. “They’re pretty good if I do say so myself,” she added more confidently.

  “I wasn’t complaining about your speed.” Uncomfortable with how close she’d gotten—he could detect the light, sweet scent of her shampoo—Wyatt raked a jerky hand though his short hair. He dropped to one knee and started fitting his collection of cameras in the black case that sat open on the floor next to him.

  Casey cleared her throat. She wasn’t sure what to expect. Was this the whole interview? Would he tell if she was still in the running? Would he pay her for today as promised?

  Shifting from foot to foot, she finally blurted, “So what happens now?”

  Wyatt slowly lifted his head. “You may go if you like. There’s no need to help me pack my equipment.” His tone was as cool as the look he bestowed on her.

  A faint frown creased her brow. “How should I handle printing the pictures I took? I have an old printer dock at home, but I can’t get anywhere near t
he quality you’ll want. Or do you not want these? Was this all a waste of time?”

  “No, of course not. I hadn’t considered the printing. I guess you’ll have to give me your chip. I assume you have a spare. I can off-load the photos and have this wiped clean for you when you come in on Monday to see if there are any assignments.”

  She popped out the chip and paused before dropping it in his outstretched palm. “I’m confused. Did you just offer me the job? And what do you mean, come in to see if there are any assignments? Your ad made it sound as if you needed a full-time photographer.” She paused again. “Coach Granville mentioned that your studio’s been closed. For a year, I believe. Does that mean you’re starting over, rebuilding your clientele? I’m afraid I need a steady income, Mr. Keene. Being on call won’t work for me.”

  “Please…call me Wyatt. Bear with me if you will. I’ve never hired an employee before. When I ceased operations, uh, yes, approximately a year ago, Keene Studio was producing at peak. It will naturally take some time to reconnect with clients who’ve moved on to other studios. Uh…my specialty is sports photography. And animals. I don’t know if you’ve had any reason to look through ranch trade magazines. I did most of those photographs for local ranchers. Weddings, run-of-the-mill family portraits were handled by…” His voice trailed off, and his hands stilled until he hurriedly picked up more equipment, shoving things carelessly into his bag. When he spoke again, his voice was rough. “All domestic photos were done by…someone else.”

  Casey waited, still unsure what he expected her to say. Was he suggesting that he outsourced weddings and portraits? Hired a freelance photographer? In that case, what exactly was he hiring her to do?

  As time dragged on and Wyatt didn’t elaborate, Casey felt the need to remind him that she was still there—waiting for clarification. “When I worked at Howell Studios in Dallas, I had a full range of duties. I printed all my own pictures, as well as many shot by the studio owner, Len Howell. He trusted me to choose templates, crop, enlarge, lighten. You name it, I did it.”

  “Yes, I remember you had a lot of experience, and you came highly recommended. I thought…well, my studio isn’t large. Until the business takes off again I don’t see any need for us to trip over each other. Not when I can just as easily start out doing most of the computer work myself. Those services you mentioned—cropping, enlarging, touching up—I can do those for now.”

  “I see. I hope you don’t think I’m too pushy if I ask how you intend to make your business take off? Are you sending notices to former clients to let them know you’re back at work?”

  “I haven’t yet, but I suppose I could send out a flyer. Do you really think enough people would pay attention?”

  “I had something classier than just a flyer in mind. A beautician I know mailed four-by-six glossy postcards to previous customers when she returned to work at a new salon after having a baby. I did the photo and designed the card. We showed her working on someone at her new station. She said most of her old clients came back.”

  Wyatt’s eyes lit momentarily. “It seems plausible. We…I…have a comprehensive database on everyone who used Keene Studio in the past.”

  “I’d be happy to help do up a postcard. If you’d like me to, that is.”

  His nod was slow to come, but just when Casey thought they were making progress, Coach Granville came back and again claimed Wyatt’s attention.

  CHAPTER TWO

  “EXCUSE MY INTRUSION,” Mike Granville said to Casey as he placed a hand on Wyatt’s shoulder and drew him aside. Wyatt hung back though, and the men stopped to talk only a few feet from Casey. She wasn’t trying to eavesdrop, but the coach made no effort to lower his voice.

  “I’m assuming we’re finished here, Wyatt. Give me five minutes to make sure all the kids have left, and then I’ll be in my office. Stop by when you’re ready. I’ll give you a list of the parents who prepaid for additional copies of the pictures you and Casey took today.”

  “Sounds good, Mike. I’ll be there in a few minutes. Beginning Monday, Casey will be working with me,” Wyatt said with a quick glance in her direction. “I’ll probably continue to take any future sport photos you need. I thought I should let you know that my studio is going full service again. If you hear of anyone who’s looking for a photographer perhaps you could pass that on.”

  “As a matter of fact, my wife’s parents are celebrating their fiftieth wedding anniversary at the end of this month. The other day I overheard Pat and her sister, Anna, making plans for a big blowout. If they haven’t booked a photographer yet, I’ll have Pat call the studio. Or is it better to drop by your house like I did?”

  “Either. I need to get back in the habit of keeping regular studio hours. Or maybe I’ll split the in-studio time with Casey,” he added, as if in an afterthought.

  Still listening, although she’d begun to collect her equipment, Casey couldn’t help feeling hopeful. Splitting studio time sounded far more promising than checking in for assignments.

  Did that mean Wyatt Keene had had a change of heart? She hoped so.

  The men wound down their conversation and Mike went out a back door, presumably to scour the locker rooms for any stragglers. Wyatt walked out on the court and began breaking down his tripods and folding light bars. He acted surprised to find Casey still there when he returned for the case of cameras he’d already packed.

  “I thought you’d left. But I guess we didn’t set a time on Monday for you to come in. Is ten o’clock too early?”

  “Ten is fine.” Casey waited, but Wyatt didn’t seem inclined to say anything more and turned to go. “I hate to sound crass,” she called, “but my understanding was that I’d be paid for helping out with your shoot today.”

  “That’s right!” Wyatt dropped one case with a thump and awkwardly patted his clothing. At last he dragged a crumpled envelope out of his back pocket. “Greg gave me a check before I left his office the other day. Greg Moore. He’s my accountant,” he said by way of explanation. “Well, we’ve been best friends since college.” He broke off, looking uneasy, as if he’d shared too much personal information.

  “I meant to let you know that in the future Greg will mail your paychecks. So if you move from your current address—not that you will, but if you do—he’s the one who needs that information.” Wyatt made a halfhearted attempt to smooth the wrinkles from the envelope before handing it to Casey.

  “I’ll keep that in mind.” She glanced down, then back up, into his eyes.

  “You know,” he said, speaking slowly and deliberately, “it just crossed my mind that instead of driving from Round Rock to Austin every day to see about work, in the beginning, anyway, perhaps you’d rather I called you if I’ve booked any sittings.”

  “So, I’m hired, but I wait until you get in touch to say there’s a job for me to do?”

  “For the time being I think that makes sense, don’t you?” He gathered his cases again.

  “I’m not sure. How much will I earn?”

  “Greg suggested a seventy-thirty split of the fees charged for your jobs. Once we get up to speed and you take on more sittings, we can renegotiate. Is that suitable?” Appearing antsy as he waited for her agreement, Wyatt backed toward the door.

  Casey caught up quickly. “I don’t know if that will work for me. I need a job that can provide me with steady income from the get-go. This check you gave me today may keep my phone and electricity from being cut off,” she said with a nervous laugh, “but it won’t pay the mortgage that’s due at the end of next week.”

  Wyatt stopped halfway out the gym door. “That’s a joke, right?” He frowned in confusion. “Mike heard you tell one of the students that you’re married. What about your husband, Mrs. Sinclair? Is he out of work?”

  Casey winced as she stared into Wyatt’s dark, suddenly wary eyes. The whole miserable truth about her situation was on the tip of her tongue—every sordid detail about how Dane took off with his frat buddies, leaving her pregna
nt and dead broke. But she felt a rock wall go up between her and Wyatt Keene, and the words died in her throat before she could speak.

  “It is Mrs. Sinclair,” she managed to mumble. “Please, just call me Casey. And if you don’t mind, I’d rather we kept our private lives private.”

  She tried to ignore the surprise on Wyatt’s face, and told herself she hadn’t lied—exactly. She was technically Mrs. Sinclair. Her divorce wouldn’t be final for a few weeks. And if Keene seemed to want her married, so be it. For all she knew, he had a jealous wife at home who demanded that kind of assurance.

  She needed this job more than she’d ever needed anything. There’d be time to make a full confession after they’d worked together for a while. After Wyatt saw how competent a photographer she was.

  Maybe she didn’t seem quite as competent now, with her sweaty hands slipping nervously along her camera and purse straps. Casey chewed the inside of her lip and held her breath. She knew she’d been abrupt, even a little rude, and she wouldn’t have blamed him if he’d changed his mind about hiring her.

  He didn’t do that. In fact, he seemed relieved when he said, “A professional relationship suits me just fine. Tell you what, since money is an issue and I can’t afford to lose you over something so simple, I have a plan. Your suggestion of notifying my old customers makes a lot of sense. Go ahead and come into the studio on Monday at ten. I’ll have a complete list of former clients ready. I’ll pay you to put together and send out the type of postcard you mentioned. Do you have a computer?”

  “It’s not state of the art, but yes.”

  “Well, if your equipment can handle it, I guess you can do a postcard at home. It’ll save you the gas. I’ll have Greg cut a check for supplies. That’s the best I can do until orders start rolling in.”