Summer Pleasures

by Nora Roberts

  Bryan sprang up at the knock on the door. “At last.”

  Shade watched her cross the room. He hadn’t known she was so tall. Five-ten, he estimated, and most of it leg. Long, slender, bronzed leg. It wasn’t easy to ignore the smile, but it was next to impossible to ignore those legs.

  Nor had he noticed her scent until she moved by him. Lazy sex. He couldn’t think of another way to describe it. It wasn’t floral, it wasn’t sophisticated. It was basic. Shade drew on his cigarette and watched her laugh with the delivery boy.

  Photographers were known for their preconceptions; it was part of the trade. He’d expected her to be sleek and cool. That was what he’d nearly resigned himself to work with. Now it was a matter of rearranging his thinking. Did he want to work with a woman who smelled like twilight and looked like a beach bunny?

  Turning away from her, Shade opened a folder at random. He recognized the subject—a box-office queen with two Oscars and three husbands under her belt. Bryan had dressed her in glitters and sparkles. Royal trappings for royalty. But she hadn’t shot the traditional picture.

  The actress was sitting at a table jumbled with pots and tubes of lotions and creams, looking at her own reflection in a mirror and laughing. Not the poised, careful smile that didn’t make wrinkles, but a full, robust laugh that could nearly be heard. It was up to the viewer to speculate whether she laughed at her reflection or an image she’d created over the years.

  “Like it?” Carrying the cardboard box, Bryan stopped beside him.

  “Yeah. Did she?”

  Too hungry for formalities, Bryan opened the lid and dug out the first piece. “She ordered a sixteen by twenty-four for her fiancé. Want a piece?”

  Shade looked inside the box. “They miss putting anything on here?”

  “Nope.” Bryan searched in a drawer of her desk for napkins and came up with a box of tissues. “I’m a firm believer in overindulgence. So…” With the box opened on the desk between them, Bryan leaned back in her chair and propped up her feet. It was time, she decided, to get beyond the fencing stage. “You want to talk about the assignment?”

  Shade took a piece of pizza and a handful of tissues. “Got a beer?”

  “Soda—diet or regular.” Bryan took a huge, satisfying bite. “I don’t keep liquor in the studio. You end up having buzzed clients.”

  “We’ll skip it for now.” They ate in silence a moment, still weighing each other. “I’ve been giving a lot of thought to doing this photo essay.”

  “It’d be a change for you.” When he only lifted a brow, Bryan wadded a tissue and tossed it into the trash can. “Your stuff overseas—it hit hard. There was sensitivity and compassion, but for the most part, it was grim.”

  “It was a grim time. Everything I shoot doesn’t have to be pretty.”

  This time she lifted a brow. Obviously he didn’t think much of the path she’d taken in her career. “Everything I shoot doesn’t have to be raw. There’s room for fun in art.”

  He acknowledged this with a shrug. “We’d see different things if we looked through the same lens.”

  “That’s what makes each picture unique.” Bryan leaned forward and took another piece.

  “I like working alone.”

  She ate thoughtfully. If he was trying to annoy her, he was right on target. If it was just an overflow of his personality, it still wouldn’t make things any easier. Either way, she wanted the assignment, and he was part of it. “I prefer it that way myself,” she said slowly. “Sometimes there has to be compromise.

  You’ve heard of compromise, Shade. You give, I give. We meet somewhere close to the middle.”

  She wasn’t as laid-back as she looked. Good. The last thing he needed was to go on the road with someone so mellow she threatened to mold. Three months, he thought again. Maybe. Once the ground rules were set. “I map out the route,” he began briskly. “We start here in L.A. in two weeks. Each of us is responsible for their own equipment. Once we’re on the road, each of us goes our own way. You shoot your pictures, I shoot mine. No questions.”

  Bryan licked sauce from her finger. “Anyone ever question you, Colby?”

  “It’s more to the point whether I answer.” It was said simply, as it was meant. “The publisher wants both views, so he’ll have them. We’ll be stopping off and on to rent a darkroom. I’ll look over your negatives.”

  Bryan wadded more tissue. “No, you won’t.” Lazily, she crossed one ankle over the other. Her eyes had gone to slate, the only outward show of a steadily growing anger.

  “I’m not interested in having my name attached to a series of pop culture shots.”

  To keep herself in control, Bryan continued to eat. There were things, so many clear, concise things, she’d like to say to him. Temper took a great deal of energy, she reminded herself. It usually accomplished nothing. “The first thing I’ll want written into the contract is that each of our pictures carries our own bylines. That way neither of us will be embarrassed by the other’s work. I’m not interested in having the public think I have no sense of humor. Want another piece?”

  “No.” She wasn’t soft. The skin on the inside of her elbow might look soft as butter, but the lady wasn’t. It might annoy him to be so casually insulted, but he preferred it to spineless agreement. “We’ll be gone from June fifteenth until after Labor Day.” He watched her scoop up a third piece of pizza. “Since I’ve seen you eat, we’ll each keep track of our own expenses.”

  “Fine. Now, in case you have any odd ideas, I don’t cook and I won’t pick up after you. I’ll drive my share, but I won’t drive with you if you’ve been drinking. When we rent a darkroom, we trade off as to who uses it first. From June fifteenth to after Labor Day, we’re partners. Fifty-fifty. If you have any problems with that, we’ll hash it out now, before we sign on the dotted line.”

  He thought about it. She had a good voice, smooth, quiet, nearly soothing. They might handle the close quarters well enough—as long as she didn’t smile at him too often and he kept his mind off her legs. At the moment, he considered that the least of his problems. The assignment came first and what he wanted for it, and from it.

  “Do you have a lover?”

  Bryan managed not to choke on her pizza. “If that’s an offer,” she began smoothly, “I’ll have to decline. Rude, brooding men just aren’t my type.”

  Inwardly he acknowledged another hit; outwardly his face remained expressionless. “We’re going to be living in each other’s pockets for three months.” She’d challenged him, whether she realized it or not. Whether he realized it or not, Shade had accepted. He leaned closer. “I don’t want to hassle with a jealous lover chasing along after us or constantly calling while I’m trying to work.”

  Just who did he think she was? Some bimbo who couldn’t handle her personal life? She made herself pause a moment. Perhaps he’d had some uncomfortable experiences in his relationships. His problem, Bryan decided.

  “I’ll worry about my lovers, Shade.” Bryan bit into her crust with a vengeance. “You worry about yours.” She wiped her fingers on the last of the tissue and smiled. “Sorry to break up the party, but I’ve got to get back to work.”

  He rose, letting his gaze skim up her legs before he met her eyes. He was going to take the assignment. And he’d have three months to figure out just how he felt about Bryan Mitchell. “I’ll be in touch.”

  “Do that.”

  Bryan waited until he’d crossed the room and shut the studio door behind him. With uncommon energy, and a speed she usually reserved for work, she jumped up and tossed the empty cardboard box at the door.

  It promised to be a long three months.

  Chapter 2

  She knew exactly what she wanted. Bryan might’ve been a bit ahead of the scheduled starting date for the American Summer project for Life-style, but she enjoyed the idea of being a step ahead of Shade Colby. Petty perhaps, but she did enjoy it.

  In any case, she doubted a man like him would apprec
iate the timeless joy of the last day of school. When else did summer really start but with that one wild burst of freedom?

  She chose an elementary school because she wanted innocence. She chose an inner city school because she wanted realism. Children who would step out the door and into a limo weren’t the image she wanted to project. This school could’ve been in any city across the country. The kids who’d bolt out the door would be all kids. People who looked at the photograph, no matter what their age, would see something of themselves.

  Bryan gave herself plenty of time to set up, choosing and rejecting a half a dozen vantage points before she settled on one. It wasn’t possible or even advisable to stage the shoot. Only random shots would give her what she wanted—the spontaneity and the rush.

  When the bell rang and the doors burst open, she got exactly that. It was well worth nearly being trampled under flying sneakers. With shouts and yells and whistles, kids poured out into the sunshine.

  Stampede. That was the thought that went through her mind. Crouching quickly, Bryan shot up, catching the first rush of children at an angle that would convey speed, mass and total confusion.

  Let’s go, let’s go! It’s summer and every day’s Saturday. September was years away. She could read it on the face of every child.

  Turning, she shot the next group of children head-on. In the finished spot they’d appear to be charging right out of the page of the magazine. On impulse, she shifted her camera for a vertical shot. And she got it. A boy of eight or nine leaped down the flight of steps, hands flung high, a grin splitting his face. Bryan shot him in midair while he hung head and shoulders above the scattering children. She’d captured the boy filled with the triumph of that magic, golden road of freedom spreading out in all directions.

  Though she was dead sure which shot she’d print for the assignment, Bryan continued to work. Within ten minutes, it was over.

  Satisfied, she changed lenses and angles. The school was empty now, and she wanted to record it that way. She didn’t want the feel of bright sunlight here, she decided as she added a low contrast filter. When she developed the print, Bryan would “dodge” the light in the sky by holding something over that section of the paper to keep it from being overexposed. She wanted the sense of emptiness, of waiting, as a contrast to the life and energy that had just poured out of the building. She’d exhausted a roll of film before she straightened and let the camera hang by its strap.

  School’s out, she thought with a grin. She felt that charismatic pull of freedom herself. Summer was just beginning.

  Since resigning from the staff ofCelebrity, Bryan found her work load hadn’t eased. If anything, she’d found herself to be a tougher employer than the magazine. She loved her work and was likely to give it all of her day and most of her evenings. Her ex-husband had once accused her of being obsessed not with her camera, but by it. It was something she’d neither been able to deny nor defend. After two days of working with Shade, Bryan discovered she wasn’t alone.

  She’d always considered herself a meticulous craftsman. Compared to Shade, she was lackadaisical. He had a patience in his work she admired even as it set her teeth on edge. They worked from entirely different perspectives. Bryan shot a scene and conveyed her personal viewpoint—her emotions, her feelings about the image. Shade deliberately courted ambiguity. While his photographs might spark off a dozen varied reactions, his personal view almost always remained his secret. Just as everything about him remained half shadowed.

  He didn’t chat, but Bryan didn’t mind working in silence. It was nearly like working alone. His long, quiet looks could be unnerving, however. She didn’t care to be dissected as though she were in a viewfinder.

  They’d met twice since their first encounter in her studio, both times to argue out their basic route and the themes for the assignment. She hadn’t found him any easier, but she had found him sharp. The project meant enough to both of them to make it possible for them to do as she’d suggested—meet somewhere in the middle.

  After her initial annoyance with him had worn off, Bryan had decided they could become friends over the next months—professional friends, in any case. Then after two days of working with him, she knew it would never happen. Shade didn’t induce simple emotions like friendship. He’d either dazzle or infuriate. She didn’t choose to be dazzled.

  Bryan had researched him thoroughly, telling herself her reason was routine. You didn’t go on the road with a man you knew virtually nothing about. Yet the more she’d found out—rather the more she hadn’t found out—the deeper her curiosity had become.

  He’d been married and divorced in his early twenties. That was it—no anecdotes, no gossip, no right and wrong. He covered his tracks well. As a photographer forInternational View, Shade had spent a total of five years overseas. Not in pretty Paris, London and Madrid, but in Laos, Lebanon, Cambodia. His work there had earned him a Pulitzer nomination and the Overseas Press Club Award.

  His photographs were available for study and dissection, but his personal life remained obscure. He socialized rarely. What friends he had were unswervingly loyal and frustratingly close-mouthed. If she wanted to learn more about him, Bryan would have to do it on the job.

  Bryan considered the fact that they’d agreed to spend their last day in L.A. working at the beach a good sign. They’d decided on the location without any argument. Beach scenes would be an ongoing theme throughout the essay—California to Cape Cod.

  At first they walked along the sand together, like friends or lovers, not touching but in step with each other. They didn’t talk, but Bryan had already learned that Shade didn’t make idle conversation unless he was in the mood.

  It was barely ten, but the sun was bright and hot. Because it was a weekday morning, most of the sun and water seekers were the young or the old. When Bryan stopped, Shade kept walking without either of them saying a word.

  It was the contrast that had caught her eye. The old woman was bundled in a wide, floppy sun hat, a long beach dress and a crocheted shawl. She sat under an umbrella and watched her granddaughter—dressed only in frilly pink panties—dig a hole in the sand beside her. Sun poured over the little girl. Shade blanketed the old woman.

  She’d need the woman to sign a release form. Invariably, asking someone if you could take her picture stiffened her up, and Bryan avoided it whenever it was possible. In this case it wasn’t, so she was patient enough to chat and wait until the woman had relaxed again.

  Her name was Sadie, and so was her granddaughter’s. Before she’d clicked the shutter the first time, Bryan knew she’d title the printTwo Sadies. All she had to do was get that dreamy, faraway look back in the woman’s eyes.

  It took twenty minutes. Bryan forgot she was uncomfortably warm as she listened, thought and reasoned out the angles. She knew what she wanted. The old woman’s careful self-preservation, the little girl’s total lack of it and the bond between them that came with blood and time.

  Lost in reminiscence, Sadie forgot about the camera, not noticing when Bryan began to release the shutter. She wanted the poignancy—that’s what she’d seen. When she printed it, Bryan would be merciless with the lines and creases in the grandmother’s face, just as she’d highlight the flawlessness of the toddler’s skin.

  Grateful, Bryan chatted a few more minutes, then noted the woman’s address with the promise of a print. She walked on, waiting for the next scene to unfold.

  Shade had his first subject as well, but he didn’t chat. The man lay facedown on a faded beach towel. He was red, flabby and anonymous. A businessman taking the morning off, a salesman from Iowa—it didn’t matter. Unlike Bryan, he wasn’t looking for personality but for the sameness of those who grilled their bodies under the sun. There was a plastic bottle of tanning lotion stuck in the sand beside him and a pair of rubber beach thongs.

  Shade chose two angles and shot six times without exchanging a word with the snoring sunbather. Satisfied, he scanned the beach. Three yards away, Bryan
was casually stripping out of her shorts and shirt. The sleek red maillot rose tantalizing high at the thighs. Her profile was to him as she stepped out of her shorts. It was sharp, well defined, like something sculpted with a meticulous hand.

  Shade didn’t hesitate. He focused her in his view-finder, set the aperture, adjusted the angle no more than a fraction and waited. At the moment when she reached down for the hem of her T-shirt he began to shoot.

  She was so easy, so unaffected. He’d forgotten anyone could be so totally unself-conscious in a world where self-absorption had become a religion. Her body was one long lean line, with more and more exposed as she drew the shirt over her head. For a moment, she tilted her face up to the sun, inviting the heat. Something crawled into his stomach and began to twist, slowly.

  Desire. He recognized it. He didn’t care for it.

  It was, he could tell himself, what was known in the trade as a decisive moment. The photographer thinks, then shoots, while watching the unfolding scene. When the visual and the emotional elements come together—as they had in this case with a punch—there was success. There were no replays here, no reshooting. Decisive moment meant exactly that, all or nothing. If he’d been shaken for a instant, it only proved he’d been successful in capturing that easy, lazy sexuality.

  Years before he’d trained himself not to become overly emotional about his subjects. They could eat you alive. Bryan Mitchell might not look as though she’d take a bite out of a man, but Shade didn’t take chances. He turned away from her and forgot her. Almost.

  It was more than four hours later before their paths crossed again. Bryan sat in the sun near a concession stand eating a hot dog buried under mounds of mustard and relish. On one side of her she’d set her camera bag, on the other a can of soda. Her narrow red sunglasses shot his reflection back at him.

  “How’d it go?” she asked with her mouth full.

  “All right. Is there a hot dog under that?”