Closer Than They Appear

by Sabrina Jeffries

  “Is he?” I said, trying to sound cool and professional as he and Monique emerged from my office behind Rachel.

  “Yep! And Ms. Laplante is from Provence. Isn’t that cool?”

  I eyed Rachel askance. “Do you even know where Provence is?”

  “Well, no, but it sounds really pretty. Mr. Crogan shot pictures there for a month, and he told me all about it.”

  Provence. Something else to Google with his name.

  I winced as I glanced over to where he chatted in French with Monique. The man was turning me into a cyber-stalker. “I hope you had Mr. Crogan explain to Ms. Laplante that our house will be nothing like Provence.”

  Mr. Crogan heard me and smiled. “She won’t care—she’s grateful for the place to stay. They feared they’d have to spend the night on the tour bus.”

  “Ms. Laplante is a knife-thrower,” Rachel exclaimed, fairly bouncing on her toes at the prospect of having a circus performer in our house. “She says she’ll show me how to throw knives, too.”

  “Wonderful.” I stifled a groan at the thought of my clumsy daughter sending any kind of missile flying through the air, much less one with a bladed edge.

  “And I told Mr. Crogan that he has to come home with us for dinner,” Rachel added, “so he can explain things to Ms. Laplante in French.”

  My heart snagged in my throat before I got hold of myself. “Now, Rachel, I’m sure Mr. Crogan has better things to do this evening than spend it interpreting for us.”

  “Truth is,” he broke in, the burr of his brogue humming along my senses, “I’m happy to work for my supper. Though I do hope you’re serving something more traditional than peanut butter and ketchup sandwiches.”

  “You eat pb-and-k sandwiches, too?” Rachel exclaimed. “Cool! Mom, now you have to make—”

  “We’re having pizza, Rachel, and that’s final. Why don’t you show Ms. Laplante to the car while I close up and talk to Mr. Crogan for a second?”

  As soon as my daughter had tugged Monique out the door, I turned to the photographer. “Pay no attention to my daughter. She’s always eager to impose on people, and I don’t want you to feel as if you have to indulge her, Mr. Crogan.”

  “I don’t. And call me Dave. Please.”

  My mouth went dry. “All right. But only if you call me Hannah.”

  His smile dazzled me. “The name suits you.”

  “Does it?” I said inanely, feeling as if I were thirteen again and sitting tongue-tied while Bobby Jackson, the most popular boy in school, asked me the time in study hall.

  “Besides, I’d be the one imposing. Much as I enjoy Rosie’s fried chicken, I’m ready for a change. I’ll even pay for the pizza.”

  “Pay?” I drew myself up with a mock sniff. “I’ll have you know, sir, that we make our pizza from scratch.”

  “You must be joking. No one does that anymore.”

  “Well,” I admitted, “we don’t have any choice. Domino’s doesn’t exactly carry the ingredients we like to eat.”

  He groaned. “Please say you don’t make them with peanut butter and tomato sauce.”

  “Don’t worry,” I teased. “You can always order the standard old boring pizza if you don’t like our version. But you will like it, I promise.”

  “I will?” he echoed, obviously skeptical.

  “Trust me.”

  SATURDAY AFTERNOON, which happened to be my day off, Dave Crogan dangled something in front of me that smelled like anchovies and had spookily staring eyes. “Trust me,” he said with a smirk.

  We were sitting on a blanket at the town park, with his camera tripod anchoring one end and a picnic basket anchoring the other. He’d spent half the morning shooting while we’d all watched, but Rachel and Monique had disappeared through the woods in search of the fish pond, so it was just he and I right now.

  Despite a sweater and a heavy wool coat, I was freezing my behind off on this admittedly sunny February day, but Scotsman that Dave was, he didn’t seem to notice the cold. He’d even removed his leather jacket, leaving him in a heather-gray sweater that made his eyes sparkle like sleet on slate.

  He waved the kipper at me again, and I winced.

  “Chickening out already?” he quipped.

  Oh, he had no idea. Last night at my house, we’d spent hours talking, but the more fun he and I had together, the more worried I got. This was happening sort of fast. After the steady, safe life I’d grown used to, I felt like sharp objects were flying past me right and left, and one false move would get me skewered. Especially since Dave was probably leaving town in a few weeks or even days. He’d spent only a month in Provence, after all.

  “Come on,” he coaxed, “just a bite.”

  “Where did you get that thing anyway?” I asked, stalling for time as I looked the kipper over, suddenly queasy.

  “Your mayor was kind enough to stock some at the Hamilton Inn.” He grinned. “She said she wanted to make me feel at home.”

  “You knew that when you laid down this challenge, didn’t you?”

  “Of course.” He waved the fish under my nose again. “Remember, I did eat your pizza.”

  “Hey, you said you liked my pizza!”

  “I did. Smoked turkey breast, Vidalia onion, and asiago cheese—how could I not? And you’ll like this, too, I swear. They taste much like sardines, and as I recall, you said that you liked sardines.”

  “I do, but they don’t have eyes when I eat them.”

  He laughed. “Americans are such hypocrites. You eat steak and chicken, but God forbid you should be reminded that they come from living creatures. At least we Scots aren’t afraid to stare a fish in the eye as we devour him.”

  He had a point. “You still haven’t tried the peanut butter and ketchup,” I said peevishly, picking up one of the wrapped sandwiches Rachel had insisted on including in our picnic basket.

  “All right, we’ll do it together. I’ll even hide the kipper eyes if you like.” Separating a piece of kipper from the head, he held the portion up to my mouth as I broke off a quarter of a sandwich. “On the count of three,” he said. “One, two . . .”

  He put the kipper in my mouth, and I put the sandwich in his. We chewed. For several seconds.

  “Well?” he asked.

  “Tastes like chicken,” I joked, though he was right—it was much like sardines. “What do you think of the pb and k?”

  “Not bad.” When I started to smile, he said, “Not great, but more edible than I expected.”

  “I like the kippers,” I broke down and admitted. “They’re salty, and I’m a sucker for salty.”

  I licked my lips, and his eyes followed the motion like a compass needle swinging north. Suddenly it wasn’t about the food anymore. He’d scooted closer to feed me the kipper, and now his crossed legs pressed against mine, reminding me that we were alone. That we were touching. That this was a date. Sort of.

  Apparently he realized all of that, too, because he reached up to brush a fleck of kipper from my chin before letting his fingers stray along my jaw. “More?” he rasped.

  “More what?” I managed to choke out.

  “Kippers.”

  Did I imagine it or was his breath coming faster? Lord knows I was having plenty of trouble breathing myself. “No.”

  “Something else, then,” he murmured, before sliding his hand to the back of my neck. “Something like this.”

  Then he kissed me. Right there in the park under the oaks in the middle of town.

  Like any good first kiss, it started small and soft and warm. But it rapidly turned bigger and harder and way hotter, until it made me remember exactly why I’d avoided dating. Because being this intimate with a man again was almost too much to stand. Especially when I didn’t know where it was going, and how long it would las
t.

  Neither did he, apparently, judging from how he jerked back, then cast me a remorseful glance, his eyes the smoky gray of ashes. “Hannah, there’s something I should tell you before this goes any further.”

  “You’re married.”

  He looked startled. “No, of course not.”

  “Of course not?” Then I groaned. “Ohhh, you mean you’re too young to be married.”

  Now he was smiling. “Not that either. I meant . . . I wouldn’t be kissing you if I were married.”

  My world steadied. “Oh.”

  “I’m divorced.” A strand of hair blew into my eyes, and he brushed it aside with a tenderness that made my throat ache. “And I’m thirty-six, probably older than you.”

  I cast him a rueful smile. “Actually, I’m the one who’s older, but only by a year.” Then what he’d said registered. “You’re divorced?”

  “Five years now. My wife and I married very young. Too young.”

  “No children?”

  “No. We were only together for a couple of years. She rapidly tired of the traveling I did in the early days of my career.”

  “As a stock photographer,” I prodded.

  “Right. I mean . . . that’s what I should tell—”

  “Mom!” cried Rachel as she came bounding up. Monique followed behind, beaming broadly.

  “Yes, Rachel,” I answered, though my heart was pounding and I wanted to scream at having my conversation with Dave interrupted.

  There’s something I should tell you. That was never good.

  “Mom, watch this!” Rachel positioned herself in front of me and Dave, demanding our attention. Then she pulled out knives. Three of them. Which she threw at a nearby oak, one after another, where they quivered in the air but miraculously stayed stuck.

  I gaped at her. My daughter, who couldn’t even brush her teeth without dropping the toothpaste, had thrown three knives at an oak. And had hit it dead on.

  “I don’t believe it,” I said, then winced when Rachel’s face fell. “Sorry, sweetie, I only meant . . . well, knife-throwing isn’t a skill I would expect you . . . er . . . anyone in our family to have.”

  A smug look passed over Rachel’s face. “I know.” She went over to the tree and plucked out the knives.

  Dave said something to Monique, and she answered with a spate of French. He shot me a smile. “Monique says that sometimes people who are routinely unaware of their physical surroundings just need a focus for their awareness.”

  I stared at him blankly.

  He leaned close and whispered, “Clumsy people sometimes make good knife-throwers. Depends on why they’re clumsy.”

  “I see,” I responded, though I didn’t really see at all.

  But it was hard not to notice the self-satisfied expression on Rachel’s face. Or the almost parental pride that Monique—and Dave—showed her, as if they’d both had some part in bringing out her hidden talent. Which I supposed they had.

  “Thank you,” I said to Monique, though I meant it for Dave, too.

  Dave translated. Monique smiled, then answered in French.

  “She says it was easy,” Dave told me. “That you raised a very stubborn daughter who was determined to learn.”

  “Can you take a picture of me throwing a knife, Mr. Crogan?” Rachel asked as she aimed at the oak and let fly. She missed that time, but the second one hit its mark.

  “I’d be honored.” He rose and went to the camera. “But only if you’ll do me a favor.”

  “Sure,” she said with the blithe generosity of the young. “Whatever.”

  “Let me steal your mother tonight. I’d like to take her to dinner.”

  As I caught my breath, Rachel swung around to stare at Dave. “Like on a date, you mean?”

  “If you approve.”

  “I do, I do! I’ve been trying to get Mom to go on a date for-ever!”

  As I glowered at my daughter, Dave glanced at me. “Doesn’t she date much?”

  “Never. She keeps saying she’s too busy at the library.”

  “That’s the absolute truth, Rachel Marie,” I protested, “and you know it.”

  “It’s practically your library, Mom. You’re in charge. And it’s not like you don’t have other people who can work.” She planted her hands on her hips in a blatantly rebellious stance. “Besides, tonight’s your night off.”

  I glanced nervously at Monique. “But we have a guest—”

  “Monique and me will go over to the Blackshears’.” I’d never seen my daughter look so determined. “And you can go out with Mr. Crogan.”

  “But only if she really wants to,” Dave said in a quiet voice, and it occurred to me how my protests must sound. “Perhaps your mother has things to do.”

  “No,” I said, so hastily it was embarrassing. When his eyes turned sultry, I added, “I . . . well, it is my night off.”

  And just like that, I had a real date with Dave.

  We spent the rest of the afternoon “helping” him take pictures of Rachel throwing knives, of Monique throwing knives, of me not throwing knives. He would reposition the camera for a shot, and we would fetch or move things. He told Rachel teasingly that she made an excellent photographer’s assistant and offered her a job, but she informed him with the lofty assurance of adolescence that she planned to be a knife-thrower.

  What she ought to be was a spy. In the course of one afternoon she managed to glean more about Dave’s past than the rest of us had done in three weeks. I didn’t know if it was because he couldn’t say no to a child or if he was just finally ready to talk, but thanks to my daughter’s eager questions I found out that he’d been born in Edinburgh to a Scottish photo-journalist father and an African reporter mother. They’d met during their work on a project in Burundi. He’d been educated at George Washington University and had taken his first job at the New York Museum of Modern Art. He had an obsession with American baseball.

  It was a wealth of info. I’d be spending half the night on Google. If I wasn’t too tired after our date. The thought made me nervous and giddy all at the same time.

  After a while the light waned, and Dave started packing up his camera equipment. “Why don’t you ladies head home while I haul these back to the inn?”

  I folded up the blanket. “I can help you carry the equipment to your room—”

  “No,” he said, so quickly it gave me pause. He managed a smile that didn’t stretch beyond the curve of his mouth. “I’m used to handling it on my own. And I must change clothes for dinner. I’ll stop by your place when I’m done at the hotel.”

  “Sure,” I said, though my curiosity was raging. He didn’t even want me near his room? Why?

  “See you in a bit.” Seconds later, he disappeared through the woods, hauling the tripod’s huge silver case, the massive camera, and a canvas bag that held his film and other photographer stuff.

  I tried not to dwell on his behavior as we busied ourselves with cleaning up the remains of our picnic, but I couldn’t help it. Something wasn’t right about our Mr. Crogan, and that unnerved me.

  Monique suddenly exclaimed in French, and I looked over to see her holding up Dave’s jacket. He’d been in such an all-fired hurry that he’d left it behind.

  “You can give it to him tonight, Mom,” Rachel said.

  “Or . . .” I paused. The reason he didn’t want any of us near his room probably had to do with his evasiveness about why he was in Mossy Creek. “Maybe I’ll just run up and give it to him now. He might want it later.”

  Ignoring my daughter’s grin, I took the jacket from Monique, then hurried across the park in the direction he’d gone. When I got to the inn, I took the side door that led right to his hall. But when I reached Room 101, I was shocked to find that his door wasn’t closed, just pulle
d to. I knocked, but there was no answer.

  The sensible part of me said to go home and give him the jacket later. The nervous part insisted on pushing open the door. “Dave?” I called out when I saw that the inner door to the other room of his suite was ajar. Still no answer.

  Then I spotted the contact sheets spread out on the desk. Curiosity got the better of me, and I stepped inside.

  It took me a second to assimilate the images in the black-and-white photos because I couldn’t at first recognize the subjects. Who were these downtrodden people?

  I stared hard at the tired elderly man driving a smoking tractor, the gray-haired black woman with a wild-eyed gaze struggling with a walker, and the boy with the dirt-streaked face sitting cross-legged beneath the town sign that proclaimed our town motto, “Ain’t goin’ nowhere and don’t want to.”

  Then I saw. I saw. These were Creekites—Ed Brady, Sr., Eula Mae Whit, and Clay Campbell. Only I’d never seen them portrayed like this—as sad and demented and dirty denizens of a seemingly dying Southern town. The pictures had the bleak feel of Ansel Adams photos of the Japanese interment camps and migrant workers. They were accurate pictures. And they were utterly untrue. They had no heart. Mossy Creek was vibrant, prosperous, and progressive. Our people weren’t miserable or destitute.

  No wonder Dave hadn’t let any of us see his work.

  I’d never felt so betrayed in all my life, not even when Bobby Jackson from ninth grade had turned out to be a dog-kicking, foul-mouthed creep who liked to feel up girls behind the bleachers whether they wanted him to or not.

  And it only got worse from there. Just as I tossed down Dave’s leather jacket and turned to flee, I saw the name printed at the top of one contact sheet. Dave Brodie. Not Dave Crogan. That’s why I hadn’t found him on the web.

  Oh Lord, he was probably famous, with a big New York studio and a reputation for photographic artistry. Not that it mattered. Talk about sharp objects hurtling toward me—Dave Brodie was one giant sharp object. And I must have been insane not to realize it before now.

  “Hannah?” came a voice from the doorway.

  I looked up to see him standing with a bucket of ice in his hand. His gaze flicked to the pictures, and the sudden flare of guilt on his face only got my dander up even more.