“I just feel . . . tired, is all,” Piper complained.“And, a bit mired, if you want to know the truth. Both of you have all this exciting new stuff happening in your lives. And I’ve just got my same old P3 books. Face it. All work and no play has made me a very dull girl.”
Prue and Phoebe burst into laughter.
“Oh, thanks,” Piper said sarcastically. “I can always count on my sisters to be supportive.”
“I’m sorry, sweetie,” Prue gasped, “but please— you’re a witch with super powers, you’re a total babe, you run the hottest club in town, and you’re boring? I think not.”
“I know what you need,” Phoebe burst out. “A night on the town. How about we make a date. As soon as Prue meets her deadline, we are scheduling a sisters’ night out. We’ll go some place we’ve never been before, like that new restaurant, Heaven. I hear they have a fabulous cabaret singer. It’ll be an adventure.”
“Well . . .” Piper had to admit the idea of breaking out of her routine and going someplace new did cheer her up.
“It’s a date,” Phoebe pronounced, planting a kiss on Piper’s cheek. “We will party the night away, and I will make you sorry you ever said life was boring!”
CHAPTER
2
The next morning Prue headed straight for the library. She was still racking her brain for the perfect cover idea, and she needed a little inspiration. She thought looking at some books of historic photographs might do the trick. It’s amazing, Prue thought in frustration. Photographers are always complaining about assignments and begging for an opportunity to do their own work. Now that I’ve been handed carte blanche, I’m paralyzed! Well, not for long.
With typical determination, Prue scoured the stacks in the photography section, choosing volume after volume—anything that might provide an idea. Finally, she staggered to a table in the reading room with a huge pile of books.
As she flipped through the first book, she spotted some black-and-white pictures of suffragettes. Hmmm, she thought. Maybe I could do a piece about powerful women in San Francisco. Prue shook her head. Nah, I want to be a little more populist. It has to be a photo everyone can relate to, especially Mr. Caldwell.
Then Prue perused some gorgeous Dorothea Lange landscapes. I love the romance of these, Prue thought, but this is so not 415. The cover shot has to be urban.
Suddenly, a deep voice, as mellow as a fine wine, drifted over Prue’s shoulder.
“I couldn’t help but notice,” the man said, “you’ve got half the photography section here.”
Prue stiffened and rolled her eyes. What a lame line! You’d think she could come to the library, of all places, without having some stranger make a pass at her. She whirled around, squinting, ready to give this dude the royal brush-off.
But then something stopped her. Correction—the guy’s eyes stopped her. They were gray-green with long dark lashes, and they were crinkled into the cutest smile Prue had ever seen.
“Ummm . . .” Prue said. She couldn’t believe how flustered this guy was making her. Where was good ol’ professional, driven Prue? Drowning in this dude’s grin, that’s where. Not to mention his totally athletic bod and adorable, spiky brown hair.
“I hate to disturb you, but I’m a journalist and I think you have the book I need in this enormous stack of yours,” the man said.
“Oh!” Prue blurted. “I’m a photojournalist! Would you like to sit down?”
Oh my God. You don’t even know this guy’s name and you ask him to sit down? What are you doing, Prue? she berated herself. You have exactly nine days to get this project done, and you don’t have idea one. And now you’re getting chatty with some stranger?
“I’m Mitchell,” the man said, straddling a chair next to Prue and thrusting out his hand. “Mitchell Pearl, National Geographic.”
“You’re kidding!” Prue said. “Working for Geographic is every journalist’s dream. What are you researching?”
“I’m headed to Vietnam to work on a story about the new Saigon. I came here looking for a particular book of war photos,” Mitchell said. Then he glanced at Prue’s pile of books. “Ah, here it is! Mind if I take a look?”
“Prue Halliwell,” Prue said, blushing. Blushing! Since when do I blush? she demanded of herself. “Be my guest. I was just scanning for ideas. For 415.”
“415, eh? Some of the city’s best photographers work there,” Mitchell said as he pulled the Vietnam book out of the stack. “You must be very good.”
“Maybe someday,” Prue said wistfully. “I’m a total rookie right now. I just got my job there this year. Now I have a shot at the cover and I can’t seem to come up with the perfect idea.”
“Well, you’re on the right track here,” Mitchell replied, pulling another book out of Prue’s stack. He began flipping idly through it.
“Check out the beautiful shots in this history of Victorian portraiture, for instance,” he said.
He showed Prue a sepia-tone group portrait of about nine women. They were posed formally to look like ancient Greek nobility, right down to their draped robes, biceps cuffs, and hair decorated with golden wreaths. One woman held a lyre, an ancient stringed instrument, and another was aiming a bow and arrow.
“Can I see that, Mitchell?” Prue asked, taking the book from the hottie. She read the caption beneath the photo.
“ ‘Victorian aristocrats embraced new camera technology by playing characters in their portraits,’ ” Prue read. “ ‘They would enact elaborate scenes. The most popular themes were classical. This group of gentleladies, for instance, were depicting the muses of ancient Greek mythology.’ ”
Suddenly, Prue gasped.
“That’s it!” she whispered excitedly. “A feature on San Francisco’s Victorian architecture. I could stage a classical tableau just like this one. And I know just where to shoot.”
“See?” the gorgeous stranger said. “Was that so hard?”
“Mitchell, I have to thank you,” Prue said. “I think you’ve just solved my dilemma. Which means, all these other books are yours for the taking. I’ve gotta run and get started on my idea.”
Prue grabbed the book on Victorian portraiture and stood up. Mitchell jumped to his feet, as well.
“Congratulations, Prue,” he said, “but don’t thank me. You came up with that incredible idea all by yourself.”
Prue couldn’t help but smile.
“But you found just the right inspiration for me,” she said. “I couldn’t have done it without you.”
“Well . . . if you really feel the need to thank me,” Mitchell said, grinning again, “how about letting me take you to lunch tomorrow?”
“Oh, I don’t know,” Prue hesitated. “I’ve got so much work to do to make this deadline. And what about you? Aren’t you jetting off to Vietnam soon?”
“Not for two weeks,” Mitchell said. His smile faded. “But listen, if you’re not interested, that’s okay. I can take a hint.”
“No!” Prue blurted. She flashed back on Piper’s pity party at the kitchen table last night.
“Face it,” she’d said. “All work and no play has made me a very dull girl.”
Piper might as well have been talking about me, Prue thought. When I get focused on my career, I throw my personal life out the window. That’s a habit I really should break.
So at that moment, she decided to throw caution to the wind. She shot Mitchell a bright smile.
“I meant to say, yes,” she said. “I’d love to have lunch with you tomorrow.”
“Great!” Mitchell said. His pearly whites made another brilliant appearance. “I know just the place. This Vietnamese joint just opened in the Castro and I’ve heard it’s really authentic. If you go with me, you’ll be helping me with my research.”
“Well, I don’t think you need any help, Mr. National Geographic,” Prue teased. “But Vietnamese food sounds great.”
“Pick you up at noon?” Mitchell said.
“Perfect,” Prue said, sl
inging her purse over her shoulder. She gave him her address and headed to the circulation desk to check out her book, blushing furiously as she went.
Heading out to the parking lot a few minutes later, Prue tried to shake Mitchell’s intoxicating smile out of her head. I’ve got to get to work, she told herself, especially if I’m going to take time out for a lunch date tomorrow.
She flopped into her Beamer and headed home. She’d been telling the truth when she’d told Mitchell she knew just where she’d shoot her portrait. In fact, she had in mind the most convenient set imaginable. After all, what more classic example of San Francisco’s incredible Victorian architecture could she find than Halliwell Manor?
As Prue was leaving the library, Phoebe was just arriving home from school and another coffee date with Nikos. She went straight to her favorite spot in the house—the sunroom—and plopped down on one of the comfy wicker chairs. Then she stared dreamily out the window.
Nikos is perfect, Phoebe thought, sinking deeper into her chair cushion. That hour and a half at the coffeehouse just flew by. I can’t believe Nikos has a thing for Georgia O’Keeffe, too. And, just like me, he’s desperately searching for a career path.
“Painting’s the only thing I can imagine myself doing,” he’d said, flicking one of his unruly black curls out of his eyes. “And it’s the only thing I’m truly good at.”
“You’ve got that right,” Phoebe had enthused, envisioning his mystical forest scene. “So what’s the problem?”
“Well, you can’t exactly make a living just painting,” Nikos had said. “At least, that’s what my father keeps telling me. He’s dying for me to become an accountant!”
Phoebe had closed her fingers around her throat and crossed her eyes in a dramatic mock death.
“You said it!” Nikos laughed. “I have an idea. From now on I’ll paint only you. With your face, I’d make a fortune.”
“Ha!” Phoebe had giggled, taking a slurp from her cappuccino.
But Nikos had stopped laughing.
“I mean it, Phoebe,” he said. “You’re amazing. It would be an honor to do your portrait some time.”
Back in the sunroom, Phoebe closed her eyes and imagined herself lying on a green velvet chaise longue while Nikos sketched her. Move over, Kate Winslet! she thought with a giggle.
Nikos would lose himself in his canvas, drawing for an hour or more, making her look much more intriguing than she could ever look in real life. Making her . . .
“Beautiful!”
“Wha—” Phoebe’s mocha-colored eyes popped open as the voice filled the sunroom. She’d been so deep in her reverie, she half expected to see Nikos standing over her. But no . . . it was only Prue, who’d clearly just walked in. She was still lugging her bulging camera bag.
“Uh, thanks, Prue,” Phoebe said, raising her eyebrows. “To what do I owe the compliment?”
“Not you,” Prue said bluntly.
“Hey!”
“Oh, you know you’re gorgeous, Phoebe,” Prue said, rolling her eyes and pulling her Nikon out of her bag. “It’s just that I was looking at the sunroom. I think it’ll be perfect for my 415 shoot.”
Connected to the living room by a beautiful carved wood archway, the sunroom resembled a glass-enclosed birdcage. It was a white-painted sanctuary separated from their dark-and-woody living room by a pale green velvet curtain on a shiny brass rod. Usually, the sisters kept the curtain pulled back so the sunlight could spill through the house.
“You’re going to shoot here?” Phoebe perked up. This was her chance to get Nikos in on Prue’s shoot. It’d be a perfect way to spend more time with him.
Before Phoebe could broach the subject with Prue, Piper appeared, peeking through the sunroom entrance.
“Hello and good-bye,” she said. “I’m on my way to work—back to the nightly grind at P3.”
“Wait!” Prue said. “Piper, I’m going to need your help on this.”
“On what?” Piper said warily, dropping her briefcase at her feet.
“My 415 shoot. I’ve got it all planned,” Prue gushed. She pulled a thick library book out of her camera bag and showed her sisters the mythological portrait.
“I want to create a scene just like this, but with couples,” she explained. “Probably four of them. They’ll wear flowing robes and laurel wreaths in their hair and sandals—that whole ancient Greek thing, just the way they would have done it around the turn of the century. I’ll shoot it in our sunroom. It’ll be a perfect way to launch a story about San Francisco’s Victorian architecture.”
As she spoke, Prue lifted her camera to her eye and shot some frames of the sunroom.
“Just a few test shots,” she explained. “But I think this is going to be perfect.
“That’s a killer concept, Prue,” Phoebe said excitedly.
“It is a fabulous idea,” Piper agreed. “But what do you need me for?”
“Well, your classics know-how, for one,” Prue said. “You’re a total mythology buff. I mean, you were the only girl I knew in high school who willingly took Latin.”
“Thanks, remind me of what a nerd I was,” Piper said, rolling her eyes.
“Piper!” Prue protested.
“Just kidding,” Piper said. “So you want a setup for four couples? That’s a no brainer—the gods of Mount Olympus. You could have Zeus and Hera, and let’s see, Artemis and Apollo—they were twin brother and sister gods. Then there’s the world-famous Venus and Mars . . .”
“You’re the goddess, Piper,” Prue said, giving her sister a hug. “I knew you could set me up.”
“You’re welcome,” Piper said, scooping up her briefcase. “Now if you’ll excuse me . . .”
“Um, well, that’s not all,” Prue said, looking guilty.
“Okay . . .” Piper said, dropping her briefcase again.
“Well, I’m going to have to hire eight models . . .”
“Actually, you don’t!” Phoebe piped up, jumping out of her wicker chair.
“Excuse me?” Prue said, turning to eye her sister suspiciously.
“Nikos would be so perfect for this photo, trust me,” Phoebe gushed. “And I’m sure he’d be willing to pose. I mean anything for the sake of art. And, I daresay, the sake of me.”
“Whoa!” Piper said. “Things sure are swimming along quickly with you guys.”
“I’m crazy about him!” Phoebe exclaimed, spinning around and flopping back into her chair. “But we haven’t graduated past coffee dates. This is the perfect way to kick things up to the next level—a long photo shoot in my very own house. We could take breaks on the front porch . . . and maybe the couch . . .”
“Phoebe!” Prue and Piper burst out.
“Hey, a girl can daydream,” Phoebe retorted. “So, what do you say, Prue? Let me ask Nikos to model for you, please, please, please!”
Prue sighed.
“Well, I was going to use professional models, but using Nikos would cut down on the cost . . .” Prue began. Then she glanced at Phoebe’s mischievous, pleading face.
“Okay,” she agreed. “Nikos it is. Now I only need to worry about seven models.”
“Six!” Phoebe said, jumping back to her feet.
“Phoebe,” Prue protested, “I think I can count, thank you.”
“Why hire a model when you’ve got a perfectly willing sister?” Phoebe said, planting her fists on her slender hips. “Did I, or did I not, hear you tell me I was, quote, gorgeous, unquote just a few minutes ago.”
“Man, did I miss a love fest,” Piper quipped, rolling her eyes and leaning against the living room doorjamb.
“Phoebe, I can’t have you slobbering all over Nikos while I’m working,” Prue said. “With that many models, the shoot’s going to take all day as it is.”
“Slobbering!” Phoebe said. “I so resent that. I can be as professional as the next supermodel, if not as skinny. I swear I’ll be good. I can be Hera, and Nikos can be the other one, whatshisname.”
“Z
eus,” Piper said dryly. “As in the king of the gods.”
“Yeah, him,” Phoebe said absently. “It’ll be perfect.”
“I don’t know . . .” Prue said, biting her lip.
“How about this,” Phoebe bargained. “I go to school on a college campus filled with beautiful young things. I can find you six other models to round out the shoot. Responsible babes only, I promise. Then you could really cut your costs. What better way to suck up to your editor?”
“In Phoebe’s own warped way, she does have a point,” Piper said, glancing at Prue.
Prue frowned and squinted at her youngest sister. Phoebe was famous in the Halliwell family for flaking out—always being late, always forgetting to gas up the car, always biting off more than she could chew. But ever since she’d moved back to the manor, she’d grown up. Prue really wanted to trust her. Finally, she nodded.
“Okay, okay,” she said. “I know not to stand in your way when you want something, Phoebe. And it would help me make my deadline if you took care of hiring the models. But remember, I’ve got a lot riding on this. Please don’t flake out on me!”
“I’m not even going to bother to take offense at that,” Phoebe said, grinning excitedly. “If it’ll get me closer to Nikos, I’ll find the best darn hotties on campus. Your shoot is in the bag, Prue. Trust me.” She flopped happily back into her wicker chair.
“Okay, well, you don’t need me, then,” Piper announced, scooping up her briefcase once more and heading for the front door. She was just reaching for the knob when Prue appeared in front of her. As in, appeared out of thin air. Then she stood at the door, her hands on her hips, blocking Piper’s exit.
Piper rolled her eyes.
“Prue!” she called over her shoulder. “You know I hate it when you go astral in the house.”
Prue shimmered into nothingness. Because, of course, that hadn’t been Prue at all. It was merely her astral projection, a specter of herself that she could instantaneously shoot to other places. It was sort of like throwing your voice but with more oomph.
Prue stepped out of the living room and into the foyer, looking guilty.
Soul of the Bride Page 2