“Do you go through this with every job you do?” He grunted, letting the first sack roll to its resting spot.
“Sometimes. I do what has to be done, get whatever props are necessary. You’d be surprised where trying to find them sometimes leads me.”
“So I guessed when I walked in here the other day.”
“A gentleman would tactfully refrain from mentioning the other day,” she stated, her eyes on the broom while she swept. “Now the sand . . . I got it from a sand-and-gravel company, even got them to haul it up here free. In return I’ll do a series of free shots of their operation when it’s in full swing next summer. The kind of thing they can use on their Christmas calendar or whatever.”
He glanced around the studio. “I never realized how much went into your kind of photography. In my kind the settings are already made for me.”
“You’re a photographer, too?” she asked, surprised.
“No, I’m a wildlife artist, but I paint from original photos.”
She couldn’t have been more surprised had he said he moonlighted as a fat man at the fair.
“An artist?” Yet the clothes fit, the lack of guile, of style.
“It’s not a very lucrative business until you make a name for yourself. I only do the modeling to pay the bills.”
“Like my school pictures.”
“Your what?”
“I take school pictures . . . you know—little kids, stool, string-to-nose, smile and say gravee-e-e!” She made a clown face, tipping her head to one side, hands spread wide beside her ears, while the broom handle rested against her chest. “It pays the bills here, too.”
“I thought that, working with publishers from New York, your career was going full swing.”
“Not yet it isn’t, but it will be,” she stated, then set to work sweeping determinedly. “I had a good start once, but . . .” Suddenly her face closed over, and she bit off the remark abruptly. He waited, studying her as she again attacked her sweeping, this time too intensely.
“But what?” he couldn’t resist asking.
“Nothing.” Suddenly she dropped the broom and turned toward her files. “Hey, wanna see some of the things I’ve done for local ad agencies?”
“Sure, I’d love to,” he answered agreeably, following her.
It took no more than thirty seconds of viewing her work for Rick Lang to see she had enormous talent. “You’re good,” he complimented, scarcely glancing up as he studied her work. “Your concepts are fresh and vital.” It was true. Still objects seemed to have motion, moving objects to have speed, scented objects smell, and flavored objects taste. He noted that she had two favorite models—one male, one female—whom she’d used predominantly, as was the case with most commercial photographers.
“Thanks. I love the work, absolutely do.”
“It shows.” He glanced up, but she was staring at the top photo, one of the favorite male model. The man wore a textured shirt and was posed against a background of bleached barn boards and a rich, rough stone foundation. The ancient building created the perfect foil for the man’s handsome face and classic clothing. This was no manufactured set. She’d taken the shot when the sun was low in the sky, either early morning or sunset, for the shadows, even on the rocks and boards, were dark, rich, and intense. Shot after shot showed an artist’s soul, an enviable talent behind the viewfinder.
While Rick Lang leafed through the matted enlargements, Allison saw Jason’s face flash past time and again. She felt a sense of loss as keenly as ever, this time a professional loss, for the works featuring him were the best of the lot. Oh yes, she’d lost much more than a lover when she’d lost Jason Ederlie.
Rick looked up and caught an expression of unconcealed pain on her features. Realizing he was studying her, a tinge of color stained Allison’s cheeks before she quickly reached to flip through the pictures to one she particularly liked. “I sold this one to Bon Appetit magazine.” It was a photo of freshly sliced apples and cheese viewed through a bottle of pale amber wine.
“Mmm . . . you make my mouth water,” Rick said.
She shot him a censorious look, but he was only studying the photo. How often Jason had said things like that—glib, quick, thoughtless compliments, laced with his irresistible teasing grin, that were meant to do a snow job on her emotions while together they worked up an impressive portfolio of fashion shots of him alone. And, like a fool, she’d believed it all when he strung her along.
She swallowed now, trying to forget. Abruptly she lowered the sunglasses to cover her eyes, squared her shoulders, slipped her palms into her hip pockets, and walked away.
“Listen, thanks a lot for helping me haul the sand to where it belongs,” she said. “I really appreciate it.” The cool dismissal was unmistakable. It chilled the studio like air currents blowing across an icy tundra. Taken aback at her swift change, Rick’s eyes narrowed, but he moved immediately toward his jacket.
“Sure. Anything else I can do before I leave?”
“No, I’m just about to close up here for the day.”
“How about a cup of coffee? It’s colder in here than it is outside.”
“It always is, even though I crank up the radiators till they clank like a rhythm section. I’m used to it by now.”
He waited, realizing she’d artfully glossed past his invitation without either accepting or rejecting it. “Maybe I’d better find one of those old-fashioned bathing suits, the ones shaped like long underwear, if it’s always this cold in here.”
“Oh, don’t worry. Vivien will warm you up.”
“You know, you’ve really got me wondering about this Vivien.”
He managed to make Allison smile again, but her gaiety seemed to have seeped away. Her lips turned up, but this time the smile seemed forced.
“Oh, I never should have made any comment about Vivien. She’s just a little . . . inane, that’s all,” Allison noted apologetically.
“Which is a polite way for saying she’s not too bright.”
“Who am I to say?” She hadn’t been too bright herself, falling for Jason’s line all those months. Maybe it was better to be like Vivien Zuchinski and look for a man with a nice body, have a good time with it for as long as you both were willing, and forget in-depth relationships.
Rick Lang had snapped up his old jacket, and stood now with his hands lost in its pockets.
“How come you hide behind those glasses like that all the time?”
“What? Oh . . . these!” She flipped them up with a false laugh. “I didn’t even realize I had them on.”
“I know.”
Their eyes met, serious now, his gaze steady, blue, and determined. He stood between Allison and the door.
“A minute ago I asked you if you wanted to have a cup of coffee. I thought maybe you were hiding so you wouldn’t have to answer.”
She experienced a brief thrill before quelling it to wonder why he asked. Goodness, he was nice enough—Vivien’s word, but apropos at the moment—and handsome enough to land any woman in the city. But no matter how inviting it sounded, Allison had learned her lesson.
“Thanks, but my work’s not done for the day. I still have to find a log.”
He shook his head slightly, as if to clear it. “A what? You lost me somewhere.”
“A log. I need a log for the beach, and I’ve kept putting it off and putting it off because it’s been so cold, and I have to go out in the woods somewhere—if I can find a woods—and haul a log in here.”
He gestured across the room. “You couldn’t haul those bags of sand across the floor, yet you’re going to haul a log out of the woods, into your car—”
“It’s a van.”
“Into your van, up the freight elevator that works whenever it feels like it, down the hall, and in here, all by yourself?”
She shrugged. “I’m going to try.”
“No, you’re not. You’ll slip a disc, and I’ll never get to kiss Vivien Zucchini.”
Witho
ut warning she spurted into laughter. “Zuchinski,” she corrected, “and I’m not too sure it would be such a great loss if you missed the chance.”
“Oh yeah? Let me be the judge of that. I’m helping you do the logging because Miss Zucchini sounds like something mighty delicious. Maybe I like women with nice bods, too, and foxy faces.” But his eyes were filled with mischief. He stood there in those raunchy old boots and that shapeless old jacket, with his hair all messed, for all the world as ordinary as any plumber or grocer or accountant. And dammit! she liked him. Not just because he had a face fit for the silver screen, but because he managed to be persuasive without being pushy, had a swift sense of humor, and was the first man who’d invited Allison out for coffee in over a year—and that included Jason Ederlie, who’d only drunk hers and never even washed his cup!
“Maybe we could pick up a cup of coffee and take it with us in the van,” she suggested, then admitted, “I am freezing, and we’re running out of daylight if we expect to come up with a log.”
He smiled—not big, not phony, not even at her—and gestured with a shoulder. “Let’s go.” From the coat tree behind the door she grabbed her jacket, but he plucked it from her hands and helped her put it on. It was something Jason had never done. Thinking back on it, in that passing instant, Allison realized there were actually times when she’d held his sport coat while he slipped flawless shirtsleeves into it. Often, afterward, she hugged him from behind, using the jacket for an excuse to touch, to caress.
She’d forgotten how it felt to have a man help her into a coat. It made her more conscious than ever of Rick Lang as they rode down in the clanking old freight elevator together. She stared at the brass expansion gate, then at the ancient floor indicator, ill at ease as she sensed him studying her.
When they reached her van, he surprised her by following her to the driver’s side, taking the keys from her gloved hand, removing his own gloves and unlocking the door. She found herself staring in disbelief. Did men actually do these things anymore?
He smiled, handed her the keys, waited for her to climb in so he could slam the door, then jogged around to the other side. He climbed in, hunched up, and chafed his arms.
“Not many guys do that anymore,” she noted.
“Do what?”
“Help with coats and car doors and things.”
“My mother used to cuff me on the side of the head if I forgot. After about the twenty-ninth cuff, I managed to remember. After that it kind of stuck with me. Guess I still think she’ll manage to get me if I forget.”
She couldn’t help laughing. The story made him seem infinitely more human.
“God, but it’s cold.” He shivered, then pointed out the windshield and peered through the frosty glass as the engine chugged to life. “Go south and take Highway 12. I’ll show you a place right in the middle of the city limits where we can get you your log.”
“In the middle of the city?”
“Well, almost. Theodore Wirth Park.”
“Theodore Wirth! But it’s public land! It’s against the law. If they catch us, we’ll get fined.”
He grinned, all lopsided and little-boyish. “Guess my mother didn’t cuff me quite enough. Sounds like fun, trying to put one over on the law. Course, it’s up to you . . . I mean, I don’t want to be the one responsible for getting your name on the FBI’s Ten Most Wanted List.”
She laughed again. “You do that, and I’ll personally see to it you never kiss Vivien Zucchini.”
“Zuchinski,” he returned with a smile coming from deep inside his turned-up collar and hunched-up shoulders. “And you’ll have a tough time of it from behind the walls of the state pen.”
They were thoroughly enjoying each other as the van headed toward Theodore Wirth Park. Allison stopped at a sandwich shop and Rick jumped out, returning a few minutes later with cups of hot coffee. The late-afternoon sun lit the clouds around it into crazy zigzags of aqua blue and vibrant pink. But suddenly Allison didn’t mind the frigid temperatures.
Rick handed her a cup of coffee, watching appreciatively while she caught the fingers of her gloves between her teeth and yanked them off. He grinned broadly at the sight of her in the worst-looking bobcap he’d ever seen, pulled so low that her eyebrows scarcely showed.
“Forgot to ask if you like cream or sugar,” he said.
“Sugar, usually, but I’d drink it any way today.”
“Sorry. I’ll remember next time.” He sipped, looking around. “Nice van.”
“Yup, it is, isn’t it? Only another year and a half and it’ll be paid for. I need it. I’m always hauling junk back and forth from the studio. Buying a van was the smartest move I ever made.”
“I’m not big on vehicles,” he offered. “Don’t really care if I have a tin lizzy or an XKE—as long as it’ll get me there, that’s all that matters.”
It had always been Jason’s dream to have a sleek, silver Porsche, one that would set off his looks with a touch of panache. How refreshing to find a man whose values were so different.
“Would you look at that sky,” Rick Lang said admiringly, almost as if reading her mind.
“Beautiful, huh?” They fell into comfortable silence, driving westward, squinting into the lowering sun against which every object became bold, black, and striking. Even the telephone lines, power poles, and road signs became artistic creations when viewed against the brilliant sky.
How long had it been since she had enjoyed a ride through an icy, stinging wintry afternoon and not complained about the cold? Allison wondered. Now she found herself noting the silhouettes of oaks standing blackly against their backdrop as she turned the van onto Wirth Parkway and entered the sprawling, woodsy park.
Children were sliding down the enormous hills between sections of wooded land. Skiers were out on the runs in gaily colored clothing. Even a sweatsuited jogger could be seen, his breath labored and hanging frozen in the air.
The road wove into the heart of the public land, past frozen Wirth Lake, the ski chalet, the ski jump, and acres of untouched woodland, which surprised and delighted Allison, situated as it was in the center of the teeming city. The van moved in and out of shadows as the late sun rested lower and lower in the west, behind the trees, making long, skinny shadow fingers across the road.
Rick directed Allison up a steep incline at a sign that read Eloise Butler Wildflower Garden and Bird Sanctuary.
“Anybody who’s looking for wildflowers today is going to be disappointed,” he commented. “I think we can steal our log up there without getting caught.”
At the top was a paved parking lot the plows hadn’t bothered to clear. Tracks left by cross-country skiers showed that only they had disturbed the snow here.
“You gonna be warm enough?” Allison asked as Rick opened his door.
“Yup!” He produced warm leather gloves from his pocket, yanked his collar higher for good measure, and got out.
It was getting dark quickly as they entered the woods, following the foot trails whose wooden identification signs now wore caps of snow. The trails were easy to follow, and when Allison and Rick were scarcely twenty-five feet from the van, they spotted a long, oblique lump beneath a thick coat of snow. Rick brushed it off, revealing a four-foot section of tree trunk.
“How’s this?” he asked, squatting beside it and looking up.
She glanced measuringly from the log to the van. “Close, but too heavy, I think.”
He walked to the end, kicked around in the snow, knelt, and boosted it up from the ground. “Must be half-rotten, just the kind we need so we can run fast when the posse comes.”
“Think I can lift it?” she asked.
“I don’t know. Give it a try.”
She shuffled through the snow to the other end of the log, rummaged around to find a handhold, grunted exaggeratedly, and hoisted up her end. “I did it! I did it!” She staggered a little for good measure.
Rick trained his eyes on a spot behind her shoulder and said with g
rave seriousness, “Oh, officer, it wasn’t me! I was just coming to turn in this lady for stealing this rotten log. Ninety-nine years should certainly be fair, yes, whatever you say.”
Allison gave a giant shove, and the log rammed Rick Lang in his beautifully muscled belly like a battering ram, then thudded to the earth at his feet as he dramatically clutched his gut. He staggered around as if he’d just had his lights punched out, hugged himself, and grunted, “I . . . I take that back . . . off . . . officer, let her go. I’ll pay for the damn log!”
She affected a wholly superior air and joined his farce. “Officer, all this man’s done all day long is talk about kissing girls. Can you blame a woman for grabbing the first thing in sight to protect herself with?”
Rick raised both gloved hands as if a gun were pointed at his chest. “Oh no . . . oh no, no, no, I’m innocent. Furthermore, after this display, you can put your damn log in your van by yourself! I’m going for a walk!”
He turned and continued along the trail, leaving her standing up to her knees in snow, laughing.
“Hey, no fair, you’ve got high boots and my shoes only go up to my ankles. . . .” She paused to check for sure, lifting one foot. She raised her voice and called after him, “Not even that high!”
“Come on. I’ll make tracks,” he said without pausing, dragging his feet to plow a way for her. It was somewhat better, but certainly left plenty of snow for her to trudge through. With high, running steps she hurried to catch up with him.
“Hey, wait up, you crazy man!” she hollered.
He paused, only half-turned to watch her over his shoulder. When she was close behind, he headed again along the footpath, with her at his heels.
It had been years and years since Allison had been in the woods at this time of day. The sky turned lavender as the sun sank. Snow blanketed everything, muffling sound, softening edges, warming—in its own way—all that lay around them.
Suddenly Rick stopped short and stood with his back to her, stalk still. Automatically she stopped, too. Sparrows tittered from branches above their heads, the notes crisp in the clear air. Wordlessly, Rick pointed. Allison’s eyes followed. There on the snow beneath a giant tree sat a brilliant red cardinal.