Читать книгу Familiar Vows - Caroline Burnes - Страница 11

Michelle walked through her studio, counting the photographs that would be shipped to Marco’s Gallery in SoHo. Her show, a collection of black-and-white pictures that ranged from landscapes to studies of the human body, had been selected with care. Since returning home from the gig for Bride Magazine, she’d spent the entire three weeks working on this show.

The men would be there within the hour to carefully crate the large canvasses and then transport them to Marco’s Gallery. This was a big moment, and Michelle savored it.

She toured the studio, and she stopped before each picture marked to go. The most extraordinary photograph—a bride, her gown weighted with seed pearls, a gossamer veil shading her beauty—was untagged. Michelle studied the picture, remembering the day in detail. Beside the bride was a handsome and gallant man in a gray Confederate officer’s uniform. He was leaning in to kiss his bride, and the look shared between them was one of total commitment and love.

Michelle traced the scar that was barely visible on the bride’s neck. She’d noticed it when she printed the picture, but she had no explanation for it. It looked as if someone had meant to cut the woman’s throat, but surely that wasn’t possible.

Michelle sighed. It was the finest picture she’d ever taken, but she didn’t have a signed release form. No matter how good, the picture would never be shown publicly. After she’d told Iggy about the man at the wedding trying to take her film, the editor had flatly refused to even consider using the Confederate wedding photographs. Michelle had printed this one, just for herself.

She put the last tag on a picture of two horses running in a pasture in a heavy mist. They were phantom creatures, coming out of the fog, nostrils flaring. She could almost hear the hoofbeats ring on the earth.

By tomorrow morning, the art critics would have reviewed her work. They were often unkind to magazine photographers who set up shop as artists. Only time would tell how they treated her.

Her cell phone rang, and she answered it with a smile. “Sure thing, Kevin. I’ll meet you in fifteen minutes. The guys are—” The sound of a knock interrupted her. “They’re here now, I think. Give me a few minutes to get them started, and I’ll meet up with you for that celebratory drink.”

Hanging up, she opened the door. Two men from Marco’s Gallery stood in the hallway, packing crates stacked neatly beside them. She showed them the numbered canvases.

“We’ll take care of it, Ms. Sieck,” one said. “Marco told us to use extra caution.”

“Marco is a good friend. Lock the door when you leave, and be sure and tell your boss I’ll be at the gallery by six-thirty this evening.”

Time for a Bloody Mary with Kevin, then a facial and massage. She’d scheduled her day to be as stress-free as possible. Tonight she’d be on public display.

Clutching her handbag, she hurried to the curb to flag a taxi. This was the day she’d been waiting for. Ten years of hard work—and twenty years of dreaming. It was all out of her hands now.

LUCAS ENTERED THE AUSTIN office complex of the U.S. Marshals Service, his boots tapping on the polished tile floor. How many mornings had he come into this same office ready for a day’s work? Not until Lorry Kennedy had he ever thought about quitting. Now the time was on him. He’d tendered his resignation and had only to turn in his badge and gun.

In twenty minutes, he’d no longer be a federal marshal.

As he walked down the corridor to the office, he thought about the ranch he’d bought in the Hill Country. His new life would involve cattle and horses and hard physical work. It was the remedy he’d chosen to help him deal with the death of his brother, and he was relieved to see that his fellow officers had honored his decision to quit. No one had made any effort to dissuade him.

When the official part was over, he accepted the handshakes of his fellow officers, a few jokes and back slaps, and then it was done.

As he left the building, he saw Frank Holcomb, his former partner. Frank had chosen not to be around when Lucas said his goodbyes to the rest of the guys.

“Is it official?” Frank asked.

“I’m an ordinary citizen.” Lucas had to admit he felt naked without his gun and badge. “It’s going to take some getting used to, but this is the way I had to play it.”

“I know.” Frank fell into step beside him. Once at the pickup, they stood awkwardly.

“You’ll come out to the ranch. Soon. Right?” Lucas asked.

“You bet.” Frank extended his hand. “I’ll miss you, Lucas.”

“Not too much.” The moment was tougher than Lucas had expected. “Be careful, Frank.”

“Will you be there for Antonio’s appeal?”

Lucas felt the knot of anger that had precipitated his need to quit a job he loved. “I’ll be there. Wouldn’t miss it for the world.”

“You take care till then.”

They stood in the Texas sunshine as traffic passed beside them.

“You, too.” Lucas got in the truck and pulled out into the street. It was hard to close the door on this life. Really hard. But the murder of his brother by Antonio Maxim and the near death of the only witness to that murder—Lorry Kennedy, aka Betty Sewell—had pushed Lucas too close to taking the law into his own hands.

He had to leave Antonio Maxim to the legal system while he focused on the future. Or else he’d be swallowed whole by the past.

He aimed the truck north. He had fence to ride. With enough time and enough miles on a horse, maybe he could find peace.

THERE IS NOTHING LIKE a cool summer night in Manhattan. The city is alive all around me. While I love D.C. and the nearness of my most beloved Clotilde, I do enjoy a bit of Big Apple hustle.

Eleanor is preparing her speech for the linguistics conference in the morning, and I took the opportunity to sneak out and head to Marco’s Gallery.

I want a peek at that long-legged siren who had Lucas so “het up” at Lorry’s wedding. He was worked up good, and while 90 percent of it may have been about the photographs, the other 10 percent was that strange chemistry that sometimes happens between a man and a woman. Or a handsome black cat and his feline love.

New York is the easiest city in the nation to get around. A solitary black cat taking a relaxing ride on the subway doesn’t even raise an eyebrow. I can ride beneath the city to any destination. Although, while I love New York, I have to say, if I were picking a destination spot, it would be Egypt. Now that was a trip to remember. The Egyptians understand that cats are gods, and well they should.

Here’s my exit, and it’s up the stairs and into the streets of SoHo. I’m so glad I snooped into Miss Shutterbug’s glove box and found her schedule for the photography exhibit. I can’t wait to see what her pictures look like.

I’m a little early, but the crowds are beginning to gather. Ah, the young, beautiful and sophisticated people of the city are in attendance. There’s the star of the moment getting out of a limo. Wow! Be still my heart. She is a knockout in that little black dress with the crisscross straps. She is gorgeous, no doubt about it. Now let’s see about talent and brains.

A few people are giving me stares, but most people don’t even notice me. In a city of a thousand stories, no one is interested in one lone black cat. I’m almost invisible, which is why I’m such a successful private detective. Tonight, though, I’m off the clock. This is strictly for my pleasure.

Yeah, baby. And this exhibit is fine! The photographs are incredible. Miss Shutterbug has talent, in spades. As to the brains, perhaps that isn’t important. She has enough talent to cover any lack of common sense.

The crowd agrees with me. People are captivated by her images. The one of the horses makes me want to live on a farm, as long as I don’t have to ride. And that looks like the Hudson River—more of a painting than a photograph. Miss Shutterbug is amazing.

And back here is a bride and—

I’m not believing this. That’s Lorry and Charles. This is not good. In fact, this is very bad. I’d better get back to the hotel and let Eleanor know about this. Something has to be done.

INHALING DEEPLY, MICHELLE reminded herself to smile and relax. Everything was going better than she’d dared to hope. A large crowd had gathered even prior to the official opening time, and she’d felt like royalty stepping out of the limo into the flash of several cameras. Marco, the gallery owner, had come through with some press coverage.

The news cameras were being set up, and while she didn’t relish the idea of being filmed, if she wanted to sell her work as an artist, publicity was the name of the game. So far so good.

She allowed herself to be swept into the gallery with a cluster of socialites who’d come with checkbooks in hand. She wanted to pinch herself to make sure she wasn’t hallucinating.

Photojournalism was as much a part of her as her skin, and she’d never give it up, but to be accepted as a fine artist who worked with a camera instead of paints and brushes was her dream. One she’d been afraid to reach for until Marco had encouraged her.

She walked over to the tall, distinguished gallery owner and linked her arm through his. “You are a magician!”

He kissed her cheek, beaming like her father should have, had he been able to accept her for who she, was instead of always faulting her for who she wasn’t. “I merely hung these wonderful prints, Michelle. Nothing more.”

“Right, fairy godmother. Where’s my pumpkin coach and the white mice you turned into horses?”

His laughter echoed through the gallery. Cameras clicked and flashguns popped. “Thank you, Marco,” she said as she stood on tiptoe to kiss his cheek.

“Tend to your public, Michelle.” He frowned. “Did that cat come with you?”

Michelle looked in the direction he’d indicated. A beautiful black cat sat on an antique table, staring at her. It almost seemed as if the cat had singled her out. The idea was preposterous.

“No, he didn’t come with me.”

“If he’s a stray, I think I’ll keep him. He lends a certain air of sophistication to the gallery, don’t you agree?”

“Indeed.” Michelle strolled over and stroked the cat’s back. He purred and rubbed against her. There was something very…familiar about him. “Behave, and you may have yourself a good home,” she whispered to him before she went to the rear of the gallery to check on the pictures there.

She picked up a glass of champagne from a waiter and moved through the gallery, listening to the flattering comments of the guests. As she turned a corner, she saw the photograph of the Confederate wedding. She was so shocked, she stopped, forcing the traffic behind her to halt or collide with her. For seconds, she merely stared at the picture, wanting to believe that it wasn’t really there.

“Darling, that’s incredible. I expect that young couple to step out of the canvas and finish the kiss,” a middle-aged woman said to her. “I’d like to buy it.”

Michelle swallowed. She glanced around, wondering what to do. “I’m sorry, but it isn’t for sale.”

“I’m willing to pay a handsome price. There’s something magical about that picture.”

“It isn’t for sale.” She spoke more firmly than she’d intended. The woman huffed and walked away.

Michelle had to do something, but she didn’t know what. First of all, she had to get the picture down. She had no release form signed, which meant she had no permission to exhibit the photo. She could be sued.

She slipped through several people staring at the picture and began to lift it from the hooks.

“Michelle, what are you doing?” Marco was at her side.

“It has to come down.” She spoke through clenched teeth as she wrestled with the wire and hook that held it.

“It’s the best of the show.” Marco grasped her elbow. “What’s wrong?”

“This wasn’t meant to be hung,” she said. Behind Marco she saw both television cameras whirring. The news crews had sensed a moment of drama and were capturing everything on film.

Holding up a hand over each lens, she tried to block them. “Stop filming,” she said.

When they ignored her, she felt her temper ignite. “Stop that now. This picture isn’t meant to be shown.”

The crowd, which had been boisterous with laughter only moments before, grew quiet and gathered round her.

“Michelle, darling, come with me to the office,” Marco said. He tried to hold her elbow, but she pulled free from him.

“Get that picture down,” she said. “Please. I don’t have permission—”

Marco smiled at his guests. “I’ve made a mistake by hanging this photograph,” he said smoothly. “Could we all step to the front of the gallery while I have it replaced with the proper picture?”

As he beckoned the people to follow him, Michelle went back to the picture. She wanted to pull it from the wall, but she knew she’d already shown far too much emotion.

She felt something brush against her legs, and she looked down at the cat. He put one gentle paw on her knee and then gave a soft meow.

As crazy as it sounded, she felt as if he sympathized with her situation.

Two workers appeared at her side and gently removed the photograph. Within moments, they reappeared with a still life to replace it.

Michelle inhaled, trying hard to calm herself. It was over now. That the photo had been hung in the show was grounds for a lawsuit, but she’d moved to correct her error instantly. The news crews would likely never use the footage they’d shot. In a city like New York, there were far bigger stories to cover than a photo exhibit.

The damage was minimal. And now she had to get back up front with Marco. He’d gotten everyone laughing at one of his jokes. She needed to prove that she wasn’t some kind of psycho witch. She lifted her shoulders and walked toward the crowd.