She shook her head.
“You can’t, can you? You can’t say you don’t want children. Not according to this photograph. It speaks the truth even when you can’t. And remember, a photograph is unable lie—it captures the moment. The actual, existing, living moment. Not some figment of an artist’s imagination. Photographs give us the truth. And the truth here, Trudy, the truth here”—Mac jabbed at the picture of her looking Aaron, her eyes dancing in delight at the baby’s antics, a hint of wistfulness and longing there, too—“is that you love kids. You want kids.”
She pulled her arm out of his grasp and strode away. Mac followed, kicking the door shut with a bang. He caught up with her in the living room, where she collapsed into a chair, emotionally exhausted. This man would simply not leave.
“Fine,” he continued. “If you won’t look at the one of you and Aaron, look at this picture.” He held up another photograph.
Against her will she looked, and melted inside a little. Mac had shot the photo after they’d made love out by the pond that one late afternoon. A light glowed from somewhere deep within her, and was reflected in her eyes. Love. Absolute and complete love.
“You love me,” he said quietly.
She nodded. “Yeah, I do. But love sometimes isn’t enough.” How could it be?
Mac held up a third photograph. She looked and then immediately regretted the action. “No…” she moaned. “Put it away. I can’t see that.”
“Can’t see what?” he asked, his voice a dead calm. “Can’t see yourself naked, or can’t see your scars?”
She turned her face away, but Mac had drawn near.
Kneeling on the floor before her, he placed gentle hands on her knees. “Trudy, this isn’t about you not wanting a family. This isn’t even about the nasty Tubster Trudy comments. This is about something that happened years ago.” He paused, rubbing her thighs with his warm, strong hands. “You didn’t have appendicitis, did you? It was something else. Something that made it so you could no longer have kids, right?”
She turned and faced him. Now or never. She should have told him the truth when she took off the night before, but she couldn’t find the words.
But he was here.
And she owed him the truth.
“Endometriosis,” she said simply, surprised at how easily the word came out of her mouth. “The worst the doctor had seen. I no longer have my reproductive organs. A part of me is missing. One of the most important parts.”
Mac’s gentle hands swept her hair back. He stroked her cheek, running his finger through a trail of tears. “Look at the photograph, Trudy. See who I see.” He held it in front of her face.
Staring back at her, in the form of crisscrossed scars, were her shattered dreams. The dreams she’d held as a child, pampering and caring for her baby dolls; the dreams she’d had as a teenager, babysitting neighborhood kids; the dreams she put away as an adult, watching her sister live the life she’d so desperately yearned for.
Anger surged up inside her, twisting knots in her stomach. Moments before she’d been willing to open up to Mac. To expose her vulnerable side. But now he was forcing her to look at her ultimate failure? Hell no.
She stood up, shaking with fury. “Go, Mac. Just go, and get rid of these photographs. Bury them, burn them, I don’t care. Just make them go away.”
Mac carried the collection of photographs out of the darkroom, careful not to let the freshly-dried corners curl in the humid evening air. He sucked in a deep breath. After a full day spent in the unconditioned and chemical fume-filled air of his darkroom, his lungs needed a break. On a wire strung diagonally across the room, he clipped the photographs of Trudy, evenly spaced. And then stood back, checking out his work.
Earlier in the morning, the idea of purging Trudy from his heart by purging her from his cameras had seemed a bright idea. He figured he’d develop all the film he had of her and then do what she’d suggested: burn the photos. And the negatives. He’d envisioned himself standing in the dark, red flames from a bonfire dancing in the night air like the red flame of Trudy’s hair, and him, dropping one after another picture of Trudy onto the burning pile. Ashes to ashes.
Right, like that’s gonna happen, he thought, wryly. Dipshit. No way could he burn these photos. No way could he get rid of Trudy so easily.
Besides, the photos breathed life. They were his Warrior Woman. Even though Trudy had only posed for one photo—that first day when they’d had the colossal misunderstanding of who’d hired her—the pictures he’d taken of her over the last few weeks they’d been dating captured the essence he’d seen in his mind. That same fierce yet compassionate and ultimately strong sense of self he’d seen in his mother as she acknowledged her oncoming death. The same expression worn by Doe when she decided she’d raise her infant baby on her own.
Strength—iron wrapped in silk. And vulnerability—a porcupine protecting itself, yet with a soft underbelly.
He’d done a good job working with the model, Angie, to translate his mental images to the page, but the pictures of Trudy? Those captured her soul. Those were art.
And he knew now that his Warrior Woman show would be panned by the critics. Once again, he’d be laughed at in the art reviews, magazines, and blogs. Ridiculed. Called a hack. Or worse, a wanna-be, chasing after his own father’s acclaim. Hell.
A breath of cool air wafted over the room. He looked over his shoulder to see Doe walking into the studio.
“Wow.” She froze, mid-step. “It’s her, isn’t it?” she whispered.
“What?” He frowned, puzzled. “Pretty clear the photos are of Trudy. Can’t mistake that flaming hair, even in black and white.”
“No, that’s not what I meant. She’s Warrior Woman. This is your show, isn’t it?”
He let a quick and rueful laugh, realizing Doe’s mistake. “Uh, no. The photographs for my show are in the office, ready to be packed.”
“You’re still using the ones you took of Angie? You’re not using these?” She gestured to the pictures of Trudy.
Mac narrowed his eyes. “The ones of Angie go to the show. And why aren’t they packed yet? I thought I asked you to do that yesterday.”
Doe stepped farther into the room, wrapping her arms around her chest as she looked at photo after photo of Trudy. “Your show’s not for another few days. I’ll make sure the pictures are transported and arranged according to your notes, don’t worry.”
He tapped her shoulder. “Thanks for helping. If I didn’t have the Meisner wedding the same day as my show, I’d set everything up in the gallery myself.”
His sister wrapped an arm around his waist and leaned against him. “No problem. That’s what you pay me to do. Although, with what the Meisner’s are forking over for your lame-ass wedding pictures, I expect a rather large sized tip. Especially when the art show turns out to be a big success, and all because of the way your awesome sister designed the layout.”
“Highly doubtful the Warrior Woman show will turn out to be a big success,” Mac bit out.
“I agree.” Doe waved at the pictures of Trudy. “Compared to this, that collection you have in your office sucks.”
“Gee, Doe, don’t sugar coat it for me.”
“Stop being a baby.” She pulled away from him and stepped closer to the photos of Trudy, running her fingers over Warrior Woman in Anguish. The one he’d taken of Trudy the moment she’d walked out of Milla’s hospital room after Kyle was born. The one where Trudy couldn’t hide the pain in her eyes.
“You know I’m right,” she added quietly. “These photographs of Trudy are brilliant—they’re art.”
He ignored her, but she persisted, turning around to face him, something sharp and glittery in her eyes. “Why aren’t you using the collection of Trudy’s photographs instead of the ones you took of that flat-assed model?” she demanded.
“Angie has a flat ass?”
Doe smacked him. “Knock it off and focus. With these,” she said, sweeping a hand to indica
te the pictures, “you’d regain your reputation as a serious artist. No question. Mac, these photographs would make you.”
His jaw tightened. He could feel his pulse increase, the blood rushing hard and fast through his body. Doe was right, of course. He’d had a great idea with the Warrior Woman concept, but had come nowhere near capturing that elusive quality in the photographs he’d taken of Angie. But these pictures—the ones of Trudy—these were brilliant. With these photographs, he’d win back his former prestige. Now way could critics look at this display and not see what had made him known in the art world in the first place—passion, heart, and soul.
But he knew that already. Not a lot he could do about it.
“You know,” Doe said slowly, “I never did remember to send the contract nullification in to the courts.”
“Christ, Doe,” he said, coming close to exploding. “You don’t need to work—Dad and I are happy to support you and Aaron. But I can’t keep having you make mistakes like this.”
“But Mac, you don’t get it.”
“Get what?” He worked to keep his temper in check. Poor kid. She tried so damned hard. He faced her, ready to reach out and comfort her, apologize for lashing out, but she wasn’t upset. Instead, she was staring at him, the expression on her face inscrutable.
“That means, Mac,” she said, a challenge in her tone, “that you legally still own the rights to these photographs. There’s nothing to stop you from substituting the photos and showing the ones of Trudy.”
* * *
The day hadn’t started well for Trudy and had continued to get worse as it progressed. Two days after dumping Mac and she still couldn’t focus. First a meeting with the Essentially Green people had her teeth on edge—persnickety was a nice way of wording the meticulous requirements they had of her. Five years of being a spokesperson and model for an international company meant five years of good behavior (there went dancing on the tabletops in Cancun—not that she ever would, but still).
Then she’d met with her agent, and Lisa had informed her the contract nullification from Mac’s lawyer still hadn’t been filed with the courts. After that came a rather tense discussion with Milla as she explained how she’d walked out on Mac.
“I don’t get it,” Milla said, her brow scrunched into a frown she worked Kyle out of his car seat. She’d shown up at Trudy’s loft and had honked like crazy in the parking lot until Trudy came to help carry car seats (one with Gabbie, the other with Kyle) into the house as Milla dragged a reluctant Betsy in. Apparently the girl had found Griswold and wanted nothing more than to become best friends with a donkey. Milla had stationed her in the corner with a dressed Tabitha and a few other naked dolls as she let Gabbie crawl on the floor. While Milla breastfed Kyle, Trudy sat on the loveseat, spilling her guts to her sister.
“Explain again,” Milla continued, “how you’re madly in love with Mac but you dumped him because he was being honorable. Because I’m really not getting your logic here.”
“I don’t expect you to understand,” Trudy said, helping a wobbly Gabbie balance on her feet. Only a few weeks ago the baby had been content to sit in a car seat, and now that she could almost walk, she was on the go constantly.
“Another Wild Child Betsy in the making,” Milla said, nodding to the toddler.
“Where are Lana and Laura?” Trudy asked numbly, forcing herself to make conversation.
“Jarrod’s in charge of Family Day at the local food bank and took the twins. They’re helping”—Milla made air quotes around the word “helping”—“to pack bags of groceries. Which for the twins really means bowling with cans of soup and a pumpkin.”
Across the room, Betsy sat with her dolls, pouting that she couldn’t go play with a donkey, but still putting clothing on the dolls and reattaching heads and arms to their zombied bodies.
“How are your babies?” Trudy called out to Betsy.
The girl looked up. “They’re going to be the best dressed models at the fashion show. But they want to ride a donkey on the runway.” She looked pointedly out the window at Griswold.
“Jarrod got her an instant camera after you and Mac came over. Her dolls have never looked better,” Milla said, smiling proudly at her eldest.
Betsy looked up. “Where is Uncle Mac? I want to give him a fashion show.”
At that, Trudy burst into tears.
“Oh, honey!” Milla rubbed her back. “Are you sure things are over? Think maybe you overreacted?”
“Aunt Trudy, why are you crying?” Betsy dropped Tabitha and ran to Trudy, then awkwardly patted her knee. “Uncle Mac said a goat can make anyone happy. He has a goat. We can ride Griswold up to Uncle Mac’s house and see the goat.”
“She’s been going on and on about that goat ever since you babysat, too,” Milla said apologetically to Trudy, then turned her attention back to her daughter. “Betsy, maybe you should leave Aunt Trudy alone.”
“But Uncle Mac’s goat—”
“Betsy. Now.” Milla was on full mom-mode, and the girl responded by flouncing off and joining her dolls, loudly proclaiming that when she was a mommy, she’d let people play with goats and donkeys.
“Sorry she brought up Mac. And sorry she called him her uncle. She’s a little obsessed with him.”
“I know the feeling,” Trudy muttered.
“Is this about the whole lack-of-a-uterus thing? Mac didn’t seem shallow enough to reject you because you can’t give birth.”
“He wants kids. He wants to get married, get a woman pregnant.”
Milla gave her a sharp look. “He said those words? He wants to get a woman pregnant? Or is it that he wanted to get you pregnant?”
“Is there a difference? Well, except that most women have ovaries and I’m in a bit of a deficit in the egg department.”
“Gertrude, you frustrate me beyond measure.”
Trudy frowned. “Stop quoting Foster Dad Number Five.”
“For someone who doesn’t even remember any of their names, you sure remember what they used to say to you.”
True, she realized. And she only remembered the bad stuff. The times the foster parents got mad at her. The ways they’d told her how to shape up. Why she couldn’t stay clean and neat and pretty like her sister.
How she was unadoptable.
She started. That was Foster Mom Number One who’d said that, wasn’t it?
“Do you remember the name of the woman who first took us in?” she asked her sister suddenly.
“Um, Bitch from Hell?” Milla clapped a hand over her mouth and shot a glance at Betsy, who’d whipped her head around and was staring at her mom, a gleam in her eye. “You do not repeat that word, Miss Betsy. Understood?”
Betsy smiled, knowingly, and turned back to Tabitha. “Sure, Mommy, I won’t say the bad word the way you do.”
“Why did you call Foster Mom Number One…uh, you know what?” Trudy stage-whispered.
“Because she was,” Milla snapped out. Kyle unlatched and squalled. “Sorry, sweetheart, Mommy will try to not stress out so much.” She glanced up at Trudy and gave her a rueful smile. “Do you remember her much?”
Trudy shook her head. “Just a few things.”
“She was horrid to you. I hated her because of it. She had this big thing about wanting to adopt. She petitioned to adopt me because she said I was easy. She didn’t want you—according to her, you were too difficult. But then one day I overheard her tell the social worker that. After, I made sure she changed her mind about adopting me.”
“How?”
Milla smiled then, wide and broad and a little proud. “I bit her. Often. Mostly in public. I’d be all sweet and angelic and she’d be all proud of me and would be showing me off and I’d just reach out and bite the hell out of her. Betsy—” She flashed her daughter a warning glance.
“I know, Mommy. I can’t say hell or bitch or—”
“That’s enough!”
“Oh, god,” Trudy murmured. Some of the misery over losing Mac lif
ted off her chest. The tiniest bit of a smile tugged at her mouth. “That’s horrid!”
Tipping her head, Milla said, “Totally worth it. Even though she was kind of squishy. And she screamed so loud. Betsy has nothing on Foster Mom Number One.”
“I knew she didn’t want to adopt me—she’d always tell me that. I didn’t know she wanted to adopt you, though.” Her grin faded. “I’m sorry, Milla, that because of me you didn’t get a forever family.”
Milla snorted. “What the hell do you think you and I are? God, Trudy, you can be so dense. Family comes in all forms. I wouldn’t have minded being adopted at all, but I most definitely would have minded being adopted without you. You and I made our own family, even though it didn’t fit the mold.”
“And you went on to make a real family. You and Jarrod did, with all your babies.”
“Gertrude T. Prendergast!” Milla exploded. “Stop being so damned dense!”
Trudy burst into tears. Again.
“Oh, god, I am so sorry. That was mean of me.” Milla put a resigned Kyle down in his car seat, where he closed his eyes and promptly went to sleep.
“Probably wishes he was hanging out with his dad instead of us crying girls,” Trudy said, notching her chin at her nephew.
“Trudy,” Milla said soberly. “I shouldn’t have yelled at you. It’s just that you seem to have this warped view of the past. The whole Tubster Trudy thing was nasty, yeah, but it was also kinda funny, but you were so hurt it was like you couldn’t even laugh at it. And even though none of the foster families ever adopted us, you only remember the bad times. The mean things they said to you. I don’t think you ever remember how much fun we had.”
Trudy snorted.
“No, really. It could be fun. Foster Dad Number Two would swing us around by our feet. Foster Mom Number Six taught us how to bake pies. Foster Dad Number Four taught us how to drive when we were still so little we had to tie boxes to our feet to reach the pedals. Do you remember any of that?”
Snuffling, Trudy shook her head.
Finding The One (Meadowview Heroes 1; The Meadowview Series 5) Page 17