Page 9

9

Union Hill

T he Pilates studio occupied what had once been a milliner’s shop on Railroad Way. The restored original tin ceiling gleamed above the new bamboo flooring and the exposed brick walls had been painted a soft, creamy white. Morning light streamed through the plate-glass windows, illuminating the six Reformer machines as well as Rory and the five other women who lay on them.

“Extend through your heels, ladies. Find length in your spine,” Lissa, the instructor, encouraged as she moved among them. “Now, control the return. Slowly, slowly.”

Rory focused on her breath as she pulled the carriage back to its resting position. The familiar burn in her core and thighs anchored her, momentarily distracting her from the whirlwind of anxious thoughts that had been her constant companion since the previous day. Lydia’s demolished home, Tripp’s gross behavior, the cancellation of her first big gallery show, and the unsatisfying conversation with Julie all swirled in her mind, a constant intrusion.

As she moved through the exercises, her gaze drifted to the storefronts visible across the street. The plant bar offered a propagation station and a sustainable gardening workshop. Next door, a fiber artist spun yarn that she then custom hand-dyed. Next, was the ancient grains bakery. And the last shop on that side of the block was a co-op that offered toothpaste tablets, refillable soaps and detergents, and waxed wraps to replace your plastic wrap and sandwich bags—all in service of a greener lifestyle, provided you could swing the annual membership fee and the refill prices.

Her stomach twisted, not from stretching, but from sour guilt. Wasn’t she part of this transformation? Didn’t she benefit from it? She paid premium rent for her apartment/studio space and could afford these classes, those shops, that upscale coffeehouse that had replaced the Union Hill diner, and the organic groceries at the new market. How different was she, really, from the tourists and transplants Julie was so eager to attract? No different at all, she answered herself bitterly. Julie was right about that much.

“And release,” Lissa’s voice pulled her back to the present. “Beautiful work today, everyone. See you on Wednesday!”

As the class dispersed, Rory wiped down her machine and collected her water bottle and towel. She’d moved to Union Hill seeking authenticity—an escape from the artifice of her modeling career and the pretentiousness of the D.C. art scene. Yet here she was, surrounded by the same carefully curated aesthetic in a different, more rustic setting.

“You were somewhere else today,” Lissa observed as Rory gathered her things. “Everything okay?”

“I was distracted,” she admitted. “I have a lot on my mind.”

Lissa nodded sympathetically, tucking a strand of bright pink hair behind her ear. “Heard about your gallery show. That’s rough.”

News traveled fast in Union Hill. Rory shouldn’t have been surprised. “Word’s out already?”

“Julie mentioned it at the five am class.”

Rory groaned. Why had she told Julie, of all people?

“Want my advice?” Lissa continued, “Put it firmly in the rearview and move on. Pittsburgh has other galleries.”

“Thanks,” she managed.

If only it was that easy. Tripp was an undeniable slimebag, but Hot Metal was one of the most prestigious contemporary art spaces in western Pennsylvania. Walking away felt like a significant career setback. Probably because it was.

She said goodbye to Lissa, pulled her fleece jacket over her head, and pushed through the door. Before her feet hit the pavement, her phone was vibrating in her thigh pocket of her leggings. Again. She ignored it. Tripp had been calling all morning, and she had no intention of talking to him.

Ember + Bean sat on the corner diagonally across from the Pilates studio. The coffee shop’s outdoor tables were crowded with hearty, caffeinated souls ready to embrace spring despite the temperature hovering in the low fifties. Rory joined the line inside and inhaled deeply. She loved the intoxicating, homey aroma of fresh coffee and baked goods. If someone bottled it as a perfume, she’d adopt it as her signature scent.

“Well, if it isn’t our local celebrity!”

The warm, raspy voice belonged to Diana Mercer, seated at her usual table in the corner. Union Hill’s former police chief motioned Rory over.

“Celebrity seems like a stretch,” Rory replied after she ordered her usual and joined Diana at the corner table. “What are you talking about?”

“ The Herald ran a feature on your Vanishing Coal Country exhibit this morning and they mentioned your upcoming show in Pittsburgh. On top of all that, Evan Jeffries sang your praises, and he’s a well-known curmudgeon.” Diana waved toward a booth on the other side of the small coffee shop. “Aaron read the entire article aloud to me, not to mention the rest of the patrons.”

As if summoned, Aaron appeared at Rory’s elbow, newspaper in hand. His eager smile and warm brown eyes were boyish, despite the fact that he was closing in on thirty-five. In truth, he reminded Rory of an overgrown puppy. A golden retriever or maybe a chocolate lab.

“Thought you’d want to have a copy,” he enthused, thrusting the paper toward her. “They used the Kovalic portrait. It looks amazing even in the smudgy newspaper ink.”

“Thanks.” Rory took it from him, trying to hide her discomfort.

She and Aaron had dated briefly—very briefly—when she first moved to Union Hill. After three casual dinners and one awkward morning after, she gently informed him that they were better as friends. The situation wasn’t helped by the fact that he had an on-again, off-again girlfriend, Sadie. He and Sadie had definitely been off when Rory arrived in town, but they were on now. And Sadie was the type to hold a grudge.

Proving the point, she appeared beside Aaron. “Come on, babe. We’re going to be late opening the shop.”

Sadie managed the local outdoor gear shop, where Aaron also worked. She jangled a set of keys at him for emphasis before turning to give Rory a tight smile. “Congrats on the news coverage.”

“Thanks. Although I haven’t read it yet,” Rory said, hoping the measured response would head off any ugliness.

No such luck.

“Well, don’t get too comfortable with the attention,” Sadie said with a lightness that didn’t quite mask the edge in her voice. “Small-town fame is fleeting. Last month it was Val Taylor’s blue-ribbon jam at the county fair. Next month, it’ll be that trainer in the valley who has a corgi competing at the dog show.”

Aaron shot Rory an apologetic look as he hustled his girlfriend out of the shop. “You’re right. We should get going. See you around, Rory.”

Before they were out the door, Diana was chuckling. “I see Sadie’s still threatened by you.”

“She just thrives on drama,” Rory murmured, glancing down at the newspaper.

There was her photograph of Edward Kovalic. Despite herself, she had to agree with Aaron: the composition and the contrast of light and dark was as powerful in newsprint as it had been in her viewfinder.

Before she could read the article, a conversation from the next table caught her attention.

“—going to be the biggest development yet. Mason says they’re bringing in an anchor tenant from Pittsburgh. Some tech company looking for a satellite office with ‘rural charm.’”

Rory peeked at the speaker from under her eyelashes. She didn’t recognize the middle-aged man in a polo shirt.

He leaned toward his companion. “It’s a prime location, right where the trail meets the river.”

His friend nodded. “Heard they’re calling it the Riverview Exchange. Mixed-use with luxury condos on the upper floors. Starting at what, half a million?”

“More, I think. Mason’s got a waiting list already. You should get on it if you have any interest at all.” This last bit was said in a hushed voice, barely above a whisper.

Rory’s pulse sped up. The patch of land where the trail met the river was currently a scrubby field where local kids played pickup soccer, people walked their dogs, and a group of feisty Italian-American retirees played bocce and drank red table wine from coffee mugs. The Patch, as everyone called it, was one of the few undeveloped spaces left in town, a casual community gathering spot.

“Rory? Your dirty latte’s up.” The barista’s voice broke through her thoughts.

She collected her drink, mulling over what she’d just overheard. Another Julie Mason project, another piece of Union Hill transformed into something unrecognizable to its longtime residents.

Diana peered through her yellow-tinted glasses at Rory as she returned to the table. “You look like someone just peed in your coffee. You’re not letting Sadie get to you, are you?”

“Of course not,” Rory scoffed, sliding into the chair across from the former chief. “Have you heard about Julie’s plans for the Patch?”

Diana’s mouth tightened. “Ah, the infamous Riverview Exchange. Yes, it was the main topic at last month’s town council meeting. I argued for preserving at least part of the parcel as a proper park, but I was outvoted. Five to one.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be. I’m used to being the lone voice of opposition.” Diana sipped her coffee. “Besides, this fight’s only getting started. Despite their unified public front there are some tensions between the other council members.”

“How do you know that?”

Diana chuckled. “Apparently people think having low vision means I can’t hear, either. Folks seem to forget I’m in the room and say the most revealing things in front of me.”

“How did you end up on the town council, anyway?” Rory asked. “I thought you’d stepped away from public service after ….”

“After I was forced into early retirement?” Diana completed the thought without bitterness. “I tried, believe me. Had every intention of raising orchids and reading mystery novels. That lasted about three months before the boredom nearly killed me. I told the council they could give me a seat or defend my unlawful termination in court.” She grinned. “Besides, someone needs to keep an eye on Ron.”

The town council had used Diana’s disability as an excuse to push her out and install her ex-husband, Ron, as chief. By all accounts, Diana had been a driven, fair, and incorruptible police chief. By all accounts, her ex-husband was none of these.

Rory glanced at her watch. “I should take this to go. I’ve got calls to make about the exhibition.”

Diana tilted her head. “Which one? You have two, after all.”

“The Pittsburgh show’s been canceled. Creative differences with the gallery owner. I’m surprised you haven’t already heard. Julie’s been spreading the news.”

“I take anything that woman says with an entire pillar of salt.”

Rory choked back a laugh.

Diana reached across the table and squeezed her hand. “I’m sorry about your setback, though. Your work is important to this town, to the whole region. Don’t let anyone diminish that.”

Rory was surprised to find herself blinking back grateful tears as she headed outside.

She crossed the street and settled on a bench in a small green space on the square—another of Julie’s improvements. Rory had to admit this one was genuinely beneficial. The wedge of grass featured native plantings, a Little Free Library, and comfortable seating. She sipped her drink and unfolded the newspaper to read the article.

The piece was mostly accurate, describing the Vanishing Coal Country exhibition as “a visual exploration of economic and cultural shifts along the Great Allegheny Passage.” It quoted Professor Evan Jeffries at length about the historical significance of documenting these changes. The only problem was the article ended by promoting Push/Pull at the Hot Metal Gallery, a show that wouldn’t happen. At least it didn’t promise nude selfies, she comforted herself with a wry laugh.

Her phone buzzed persistently in her pocket, vibrating against her thigh. No wonder Tripp was blowing up her phone. His gallery was probably fielding inquiries about her now-canceled show. Lack of interest, huh?

She’d have to deal with him at some point, though. She might as well get it over with. But when she pulled out her phone, it wasn’t Tripp’s name flashing on the screen. It was Lucas’s. Hot anger flared in her belly. Lucas Harrison may be Tripp’s closest friend, but he had no right to insert himself into her career, not now. Not after everything.

They’d met when she was nineteen and he was thirty-two, a rising star in fashion photography. He’d shot her for Vogue , then asked her to dinner. The power imbalance should have been a red flag, but she’d been young, awestruck, and flattered by the attention.

For a while, they’d been good together. Lucas introduced her to photography, encouraged her interest in being behind the camera instead of in front of it. He bought her first serious camera—a Canon 5D Mark III—as a gift for her twenty-first birthday. It was the first time anyone had treated her as anything other than a beautiful face.

As she delved into photography and developed her own style, her work began to attract attention. And that’s when everything changed. Lucas’s encouragement turned to disparagement. He deemed her compositions amateur; her use of light and shadow, predictable; and her choices of subject, pedestrian. Around the same time, he began to critique her appearance, pointing out imaginary flaws, asking if she’d put on weight, had slept poorly, really intended to wear that .

The final straw was the tantrum he threw on the set of her first paid shoot. A niche Brooklyn arts magazine had invited her to do a photojournalistic piece on public art. She arranged a shoot in the Pratt Institute’s Sculpture Park and called in some favors from fellow models to pose for a pittance. Her excitement was through the roof. But Lucas, who’d been in a foul mood for days, showed up uninvited and criticized everything from the lighting to the models to her aperture speed—publicly and at full volume.

She’d had campus security remove him and finished the shoot. Then she gave him time to cool off before going home to the apartment they shared. Instead of using the time to reflect, he got plastered. When she confronted him about his behavior, he grabbed her camera and hurled it at the wall behind her. She moved out the same night.

In the six years since, she’d earned a BFA in photography and built her career focusing on documentary photography. She had a hard-won reputation for being a deliberate, thoughtful photographer with a talent for evoking emotion. She knew her work would speak to a larger audience—if she could only find one.

Calling in a favor to get the show at Hot Metal had felt like swallowing broken glass, but she’d believed it was worth it. It wasn’t. Not if Lucas had really told Tripp to try to coerce her into including nude photos in the show. Nudes. Like some hormonal fourteen-year-old.

On second thought, she decided, Tripp could deal with the fallout without her. She deleted her messages without reading them and blocked both Tripp’s and Lucas’s numbers. She didn’t need Lucas’s connections or Tripp’s gallery. She had her own contacts.

She scrolled through her phone and found Professor Jeffries’ number. The director of the Western Trail History Center had been an early champion of her work, featuring it in a small group exhibition last year. And now he was showcasing her visual history of the miners who lived in the company town in Vanishing Coal Country . Evan had connections at most of the region’s cultural institutions. If anyone could help her find a new home for Push/Pull on short notice, he could.

The call connected on the third ring.

“Rory! Are your ears burning? The volunteers are all buzzing about the article in the Herald . We’re expecting a crowd today.”

The professor’s obvious delight made her smile despite her current mess. “That’s great to hear. I’m actually calling to see if you could brainstorm a solution to a problem with me.”

“I’d love to. The center doesn’t open to the public until noon. Can you swing by this morning?”

“I’m on my way.”