Page 6

6

Union Hill

R ory set up the camera to transfer the photos to the editing software on her laptop. Then she crossed to the kitchen and poured a flute of champagne.

Her regular indulgence in sparkling wine was one of the few vestiges of her former life. She smiled faintly at the memory of her Great-Aunt Beatrice defending her habit to the rest of the family a few years ago.

“Why should she wait for a special occasion? She could get mowed down in the street tomorrow.” She’d turned toward Rory and said, “You drink your bubbly, love. The rest of you could take a lesson.”

Beatrice had gone on to point out that she always used her good china, even when she ate alone, and spritzed herself with Chanel No. 5 perfume daily, even if the only activity she had planned was to mop the kitchen floor. Rory laughed lightly at the recollection. Great-Aunt Beatrice got it.

She settled into her plush criss-cross platform chair and pulled up her message thread to pass the time while she waited for the images to transfer. She immediately wished she hadn’t.

Tripp had texted yet again. When she saw his name, she wrinkled her nose involuntarily, then scanned the message with a knot in her stomach. While gallery shows always involved a lot of coordination and confirmation of details, Tripp was involving himself in the nitty-gritty in a way that gallery owners seldom did. As if he was using the show as an excuse to contact her—repeatedly.

She blew out a breath, ruffling her hair, and opened the text:

Not sure you listened to my messages. Having trouble generating buzz for show. Had a brilliant thought. How about a series of nude self-portraits? A way to show the woman behind the camera. With your background, would be a smash.

Rory’s stomach roiled as a wave of disgust washed over her. She wasn’t stupid. She’d known from the beginning that a large part of the reason Tripp had agreed to hang her show was that she’d been a Next Icon contest winner a dozen years ago. A seventeen-year-old fashion runway model turned supermodel was the stuff of dreams, masturbatory and otherwise.

But she wasn’t that same girl anymore. She’d gone on to earn a degree in photography and had carved out a career for herself as a serious photographer in the hope that her body of work would eventually eclipse her physical body. Sometimes it did.

Apparently not this time. She was fairly certain she was the only fine art photographer in the country fielding unsolicited text request for nudes. Not that she had anything against nude photography or nude self-portraits. Plenty of photographers— fine art, commercial, and photojournalistic—worked with nude models.

But Rory didn’t, and Tripp knew it. He’d only felt comfortable making the request because once upon a time she’d been a glorified clothes hanger. And possibly because of her connection to Lucas. At this thought, her anger flared hotter.

She took a swig of champagne and waited for the fuzzy burn to hit the back of her throat. She continued to sip the drink and watched the sun slip lower in the sky. Once she had her temper in hand, she refilled her glass, picked up the phone, and called Tripp’s number.

He answered on the second ring, rush hour traffic noises behind him—idling buses, honking horns, and sirens.

“Aurora, it’s good to hear from you.” His voice was warm, almost intimate, as he greeted her. Then his timbre shifted, becoming petulant. “I was beginning to think you were ignoring me.”

“I was in the middle of a session when you called.” She kept her tone neutral.

He cut to the chase. “Have you had a chance to consider my proposal? It’s a surefire way to get the attention of the art world.”

She made a noncommittal “hmm” sound before she said, “I want to make sure I understand it. Text has no tone, you know, so I thought a conversation would be in order.”

“Of course,” he said, sounding eager. “We could even meet in person if you want. I’ll come to you.”

The last thing she wanted was Tripp showing up on her doorstep.

She shut the idea down instantly. “A phone conversation is more than sufficient.”

“Okay. Well, it’s pretty straightforward: You include some nude self-portraits in the exhibit. The art world goes wild.”

“But my body has no bearing on the theme of the show. The exhibit is titled Push/Pull because it documents the displacement of people and businesses along the trail who’ve been pushed out as part of the effort to attract tourists and more lucrative businesses. Your idea would detract from the installation’s impact, not add to it.”

He protested, undeterred. “Imagine the attention it would generate.”

Had he even glanced at the images she’d sent him? Did he have any idea what the show was about?

“My answer is no.” She spoke firmly but calmly.

“Hold on a second. I’m going to duck into a coffee shop where it’s quieter.” She listened as the street noise faded and a bell jangled. He spoke again in a muffled tone. “That’s a problem.”

“Oh?”

“Yeah. Why are you making such a big deal out of this?”

“I don’t want to do it. You asked; I answered.” She reminded herself that no was a complete sentence.

“Lucas told me you would definitely do it.”

Lucas. She knew it. She clutched the stem of her glass and steadied her voice. “He isn’t authorized to speak for me.”

“Well, I thought he’d know. So I …,” he trailed off.

“You what?”

He cleared his throat. “I already sent out the press release.”

“Excuse me?” Hot anger surged through her chest and her heart thumped.

“What’s the problem? You used to take your clothes off all the time. Just take a few shots—make them as artsy as you want. We’ll hang them in the back corner. They won’t take away from the impact of the exhibit.”

“I said no.”

Tripp sighed heavily. “Well, Rory, I don’t know what to tell you. My hands are tied. If you’re not gonna do it, then I’ll have to cancel the show.”

“What?” The word shot from her mouth like a missile.

“I can’t send out another release that says, ‘No, as it turns out, there won’t be a series of nudes of the photographer.’ I’ll look like a joke.”

It didn’t seem to matter to him that she would look like a joke if she inserted nude self-portraits in her exhibit about economic displacement. But there was no point arguing with Tripp.

“Then I guess the show’s canceled.”

She ended the call over his blustering.

After a moment, she stepped out onto the balcony with her champagne, filled her lungs with cool evening air, and blinked back tears of rage. Then she leaned on the railing to look down at the street below. Fairy lights twinkled from the storefronts and lamp posts. Acoustic music floated up from the open windows of the coffeehouse. Across the street, she spotted Julie at a table on the bistro’s patio. She sat alone, nursing a glass of wine and studying the menu.

Rory downed the rest of her drink and rushed back inside. She couldn’t do anything about Tripp and the show right now, but she could ask Julie why the hell she’d made a lifelong resident of the town homeless.

She ran a brush through her tangle of white-blonde hair and swiped a lipstick over her mouth. Then she threw a soft, snowy cashmere shawl over her uniform of fitted black tee shirt and jeans. Appearances mattered to Julie. And Rory knew how to play this game.