by Nora Roberts
their marriage and her support of him and his career.
It was a nice print, he might say, if one cared to look at old ladies feeding pigeons. So why had it taken her so many hours away from him to come up with a few black-and-white snaps of people loitering in the park?
He supposed he could eat a cold sandwich, even though he’d been composing for six hours. Apparently it was up to him to drag the laundry to the cleaners, despite the fact that he’d been tied up in a meeting all afternoon.
She wasn’t to worry a bit. If her work was so bloody important, he could entertain himself for another evening.
Whatever criticisms he handed out were tempered with compliments. She looked so inviting standing in front of the stove making a meal. It made him feel good to come home and find her waiting for him.
Perhaps he was too forceful about how she should dress, what clothes she bought, how she styled her hair. After all, her image, as his wife, was as important as his own.
He was particularly concerned about what she should wear to the showing. But as he said, he only wanted her to look her best. And, as he told her, she had a rather drab taste in clothes.
It was true that she preferred the column of black silk and hammered-gold jacket to the short, snug concoction of feathers and sequins he’d chosen. But, as he said, she was an artist now and should look the part. Because it touched her that he’d called her an artist, she wore it to please him. He gave her a pair of chunky gold earrings set with multicolored stones. If they were a bit gaudy, it hardly mattered. He had fastened them on her himself.
When they pulled up in front of the small, uptown gallery, her stomach began doing calisthenics. Drew patted her hand.
“Come on, Emma, it’s not as though you’re going onstage in front of ten thousand screaming fans. It’s just a little picture show.” With a laugh, he helped her out of the limo. “Loosen up. People are going to buy Brian McAvoy’s little girl’s snapshots whether they like them or not.”
She stopped on the curb, incredibly hurt. “Drew, that’s not what I need to hear right now. I want to do this on my own.”
“Never satisfied.” He snatched her arm hard enough to make her wince. “Here I am, trying to be a good sport about all this, trying to support you in what you’re hell-bent on doing no matter what the inconvenience to me, and you bite my head off.”
“I didn’t mean to—”
“You never do. Since you want to be on your own so badly, perhaps you’d like to go on in alone.”
“No, of course I don’t.” Nerves and frustration intensified the pounding behind her eyes. She could never seem to find the right thing to say, she thought. And tonight of all nights she didn’t want to alienate him. “I’m sorry, Drew. I didn’t mean to snap at you. I’m just nervous.”
“All right then.” Satisfied with the apology, he patted her hand and drew her inside.
They had come late—as Runyun had ordered. He’d wanted the crowd there, and already intrigued, when his star arrived. He had his eagle eye on the door, and pounced the moment Emma walked through.
He was a small, bulky man who invariably wore a black turtleneck and black jeans. Emma had once thought he was affecting an artistic image, but the simple fact was he was vain and thought black made him look slimmer. He had a big, bald head, made more prominent by the high necklines, and thick black brows flecked with gray over his surprisingly pale green eyes.
His nose was hooked, his mouth thin. He compensated by sporting a Clark Gable moustache. It did nothing to improve his looks, which had always been poor at best. Yet his three wives hadn’t left him because he was ugly, but because he paid more attention to his art than his marriages.
He greeted Emma not with a smile or a kiss but with a scowl. “Good God, you look like a starlet out to lay a director. Never mind,” he added before Emma could speak. “Just mingle for a bit.” Emma looked at the crowd, the glitter of jewels and silk, the gleam of leather, with a kind of dull horror.
“You’re not going to disgrace me by fainting,” Runyun said. No one could have called it a question.
“No.” She drew a deep breath. “No, I won’t.”
“Good.” He had yet to speak to or acknowledge Drew, whom he had detested on sight. “The press is here. They’ve already eaten half the canapés. I believe your father’s been cornered by someone.”
“Da? He’s here.”
“Over there.” Runyun gestured vaguely. “Now mingle, and look confident.”
“I didn’t think he’d come,” Emma murmured to Drew.
“Of course he came.” Drew had counted on it. He put an affectionate arm around her shoulders. “He loves you, Emma. He’d never miss an important night like this. Let’s find him.”
“I don’t—”
The affectionate arm squeezed, startling a gasp out of her. “Emma, he’s your father. Don’t be snotty.”
She moved through the crowd beside him, smiling automatically, stopping now and then to chat. It helped a great deal to hear Drew brag about her. His approval, which had been so long in coming, brought a glow inside her. She’d been stupid, she thought now, to think he resented her work. Accepting his kiss of congratulations, she vowed to spend more time with him, give more time to his needs.
She’d always wanted to be needed. Smiling at Drew as he enthusiastically discussed her prints with other guests, she was content that she was.
At his insistence, she accepted a glass of champagne, but barely touched it as they worked the room.
She saw Brian, surrounded by people, in front of a portrait of himself and Johnno. Her face hurt from keeping the smile in place as she crossed to him. “Da.”
“Emma.” He hesitated, then reached out for her hand. She looked so … remote, he thought.
“It was nice of you to come.”
“I’m proud of you.” His fingers tightened on hers as if he were searching for the connection he felt was lost. “Very, very proud.”
She started to speak, then there was a volley of flashes from the surrounding cameras. Was that another flash, she wondered, a flash of annoyance on his face before the easy smile settled in?
“Brian, how does it feel to have your daughter taking the spotlight?”
He didn’t glance up at the reporter, but continued to look at Emma. “I couldn’t be more pleased.” Making the effort, he offered his hand to Drew. “Drew.”
“Brian. She’s great, isn’t she?” He pressed a gentle kiss to her temple. “I don’t know who’s been more nervous about tonight, Emma or myself. I hope you’ll stick around for a few days, come by and see our place. Have dinner.”
It infuriated Brian that the invitation had come from Drew and not his own daughter. “I’m afraid I leave for LA. in the morning.”
“Emma.”
She turned, and her strained smile vanished in surprise. “Stevie.” On a laugh, she threw her arms around him. “I’m so glad to see you.” Moving back to arm’s length, she studied him. “You look good.” And it was true. He would never be the smoothly handsome man she had known in childhood, but he had put on weight, and the heavy shadows no longer haunted his eyes. “I didn’t know you’d … no one told me …” That he was out, she thought.
Understanding, he grinned. “Time off for good behavior,” he told her, then gathered her close for another hug. “I even brought my own doctor.” He released Emma to put a hand on the shoulder of the woman beside him. After a moment’s confusion, Emma recognized the petite brunette as Stevie’s psychiatrist.
“Hello again.”
“Hello.” Katherine Haynes smiled. “And congratulations.”
“Thank you.”
“I was your first sale,” Katherine went on. “The portrait of Stevie and his guitar. It looked as though he were making love to it. I couldn’t resist.”
“She’ll analyze it for hours.” He caught the scent of Scotch and had to check an old and deep craving. “P.M.’s around, you know.” Stevie leaned close and lowere
d his voice to a wicked whisper. “He brought Lady Annabelle.”
“No, really?”
“I think they’re engaged. But he’s being coy about it.” With a wink, he took Katherine’s arm and wandered off.
Emma was laughing as she slipped her arm through Drew’s. “I think I’ll take a look for P.M.” She cast a questioning glance at her father.
What could he say? She’d greeted Stevie with more affection and comfort than she had greeted him. He wanted to have it out with her, but now was hardly the time or place. “Go ahead. I’ll see you before I go.”
“Yes, go ahead, Emma.” Drew kissed her cheek. “I’ll just hang around with your da. That way we can both brag about you. Incredible, isn’t she?” Drew began as Emma turned away.
She very nearly felt incredible. She’d never expected so many people, or much interest in her work. There was a little voice that asked her if she really thought they’d come to see her work, or her father and his mates. She did her best to ignore it.
She did see P.M. It was obvious he was no longer running away from Lady Annabelle. In fact, he seemed to be having the time of his life. She was dressed in emerald-green leather and snakes kin boots dyed canary-yellow. Her frizzy red hair shot out like shock waves. And after a ten-minute conversation, Emma realized the woman was completely and totally in love.
It was nice, Emma decided. P.M. deserved that kind of devotion. That kind of, well, fun.
People came and went, but more came to linger. Runyun was very cleverly playing a Devastation retrospective through the speakers. She saw, with some astonishment, the discreet blue sticker beneath more than a dozen of her prints. Sold, she thought.
Trapped in a corner by a pretentious little man who wanted to discuss form and texture, she spotted Marianne. “Excuse me,” she began. But before she could make her escape, her old roommate was bearing down on her.
“Here’s the star of the evening.” She gave Emma a big, whopping kiss. “You,” she said and pulled Emma toward her and into a cloud of Chanel, “have done it. A long way from Saint Catherine’s, pal.”
“Yeah.” Emma squeezed her eyes tight. It had taken only that to make it all seem real at last.
“Look who I found.”
“Bev!” Emma moved out of Marianne’s arms, and into Bev’s. “I didn’t think you’d be able to make it.”
“I wouldn’t have missed it for anything.”
“We walked in together and I recognized her,” Marianne explained. “We’ve been having a marvelous time complimenting you while we shoved through the crowd. This is wild.” She snatched one of the few remaining canapés from the table. “You know that shot of me in the loft, wearing a paint smock and rugby socks? Some gorgeous man just bought it. I’m going to go see if he’d like a chance at the real thing.”
“It’s no trouble seeing why you love her,” Bev commented as Marianne maneuvered through the groups of people. “So, how does it feel?”
“Incredible. Terrifying.” She pressed a hand to her jumpy stomach, but it wasn’t nerves as much as excitement now. “I’ve been trying to get back to the ladies’ room for an hour to have a good cry. I’m so glad you’re here.” Then she saw Brian, standing a few feet away. “Da’s here. Will you speak to him?”
Bev had to turn her head only inches to see him. She twisted her evening bag over and over in her hand. After all these years, she thought, it was still there. Everything she’d felt was still there.
“Of course.” She said it lightly. It was safe here, in a crowd. On Emma’s night. At least they could share their pleasure for Emma.
He walked toward them. Could it be as difficult for him, Bev wondered, as it was for her? Would his palms be wet with nerves? Would his heart be trembling?
He didn’t touch her. Didn’t dare. But he struggled to find a voice as casual as his smile. “It’s good to see you.”
“And you.” She fought to relax her death grip on her bag.
“You look …” Beautiful, wonderful. “Well.”
“Thank you. I am. This is all marvelous for Emma, isn’t it?” She glanced over, but Emma had slipped away. Walls of people had closed in around them. “You must be very proud of her.”
“Yes.” He took a long swallow of the whiskey he held. “Can I get you a drink?”
So polite, Bev thought. So bloody civil. “No, thanks. I’m going to wander around a bit and look. I may just buy something myself.” But first she was going to find that ladies’ room and have a cry of her own. “It was nice seeing you again, Bri.”
“Bev—” It was foolish to think that she could still care for him. “Goodbye.”
Emma watched them from across the room and wanted to scream at both of them. Couldn’t they see? It wasn’t just her imagination, or wishful thinking. She was much too good at studying people, and seeing what they felt. In the eyes, in a gesture, in the set of the body. They were still in love. And still afraid. She drew a deep breath and started toward her father. Perhaps if she talked to him …
“Emmy luv.” Johnno caught her around the waist. “I’m about to make my escape.”
“You can’t go yet.” She straightened his lapels. He was into retro clothing these days, and they were almost as wide as the palm of her hand. “Bev’s here.”
“Is she? Well, I’ll have to go see if she’s ready to run away with me yet. But in the meantime, I’ve run into someone from your past.”
“My past.” She laughed. “I don’t have a past.”
“Ah, but you do. A sultry summer day on the beach. A hunk in blue trunks. “Like a magician pulling a rabbit out of a hat, he swept his arm aside.
“Michael?”
How odd to see him there, she thought, looking handsome and uncomfortable in a suit and tie. His dark hair was thick, and still unstyled. His face had fined down, was lean and bony with the slightly crooked nose an appealing flaw. He had his hands in his pockets, and looked as though he’d rather be anywhere else on earth.
“I—ah—was in town, so—”
She was laughing when she threw her arms around him. He thought his heart stopped. He knew his brain did. Slowly, carefully, he pulled his hands free and pressed them lightly to her back. She felt as he’d remembered, as he’d always imagined she would feel. Slender and firm and fragile.
’This is wonderful. I can’t believe you’re really here.” Everything rushed through her so quickly. An afternoon on the beach. Two afternoons. What she’d felt as a child, then as a woman, slammed into her so fast, so unexpectedly, that she held him close, and held him too long. Her eyes were damp when she drew back. “It’s been a long time.”
“Yeah. About four years, give or take.” He could have given her years, months, and days. “You look great.”
“So do you. I’ve never seen you dressed up before.”
“Well—”
“Are you in New York on business?”
“Yeah.” It was a bald lie, but he was less concerned with veracity than with looking like a fool. “I read about your show.” That was the truth. Only he’d read about it at his breakfast table in California. Then he’d taken three days’ personal leave.
“So what do you think?”
“About what?”
“The show.” She took his hand and began to walk.
“It’s great. Really. I don’t know anything about photography, but I like your stuff. In fact—”
“In fact?” she prompted.
“I didn’t know you could do something like this. Like this one.” He stopped in front of a print. It was of two men, woolen caps over their ears, ragged coats pulled tight. One of them was lying on a sheet of cardboard, apparently asleep. The other looked directly into the camera, his eyes surly and tired. “It’s very powerful and very disturbing.”
“Not all of New York is Madison Avenue.”
“It takes a lot of talent, and sensitivity, to be able to show all the sides equally.”
She looked at him with some surprise. That was exa
ctly what she had tried to do, with her studies of the city, of Devastation, of people. “You certainly say the right things for someone who doesn’t know much about photography. When are you going back?”
“In the morning, first thing.”
“Oh.” She walked with him again, surprised at the depth of her disappointment. “I was hoping you’d be able to stay for a few days.”
“I wasn’t even sure you’d talk to me.”
“That was a long time ago, Michael. And I wasn’t reacting so much to what was going on with you as to something that had just happened to me. It’s not important now.” She smiled and kissed his cheek. “Forgive me?”
“That was my question.”
Still smiling, she touched a hand to his face.
“Emma.”