Intimate Portraits (6 page)

“Sure. Every month when I send
out invoices.”

That chased away his frown. “Tell
me about you and Francisco.”

“There’s nothing to tell.”

“You’ve been dating him since
last summer, Mom says.”

“I don’t know that I’d call it
dating. After he got back from California, he had a pretty hot affair going on
with someone. He wouldn’t talk about her, which as you know is unlike Fran. We
figured it was serious.” She couldn’t gauge his expression. “Then she ditched
him.”

He watched the road. “Yeah, I
know.”

“Oh? Do you know who he—?” She
was prying again. “Not that it matters. Anyway, Fran isn’t used to being
ditched.”

“No. He isn’t.”

“He got pretty down for a while. I
hung out with him, held his hand, played nursemaid till he recovered.”

That unfathomable gaze flicked at
her and away. “Thanks to your nursing?”

What was he thinking? “I helped
when I could. He’s my friend.”

“Is that all?”

What did that mean? The brothers
teeter-tottered in a complicated relationship, part friends, part competitors.

“Of course that’s all.” Rennie must
be remembering Fran’s portrait, wondering if there was anything between them. He
and Fran cared for each other. No question about it. But underneath the
affection Fran, twenty months younger, was fiercely competitive; he couldn’t
stand Rennie besting him.

Half-forgotten images returned.
Fran going out for the tennis team because Rennie was on it. Fran hitting on
girls Rennie dated and crowing when he took one away. Fran making a higher
grade on an English term paper than his brother and waving it in Rennie’s face.

Rennie’s indifference had
infuriated Fran no end.

That adolescent friction should be
long dead—so what was going on with Rennie?

“Sure you’re just friends?” he
pressed.

He
did
think she was involved
with Fran.

You can’t tie yourself up to a
Degardovera
, he’d
said thirteen years ago as he dried her tears.
There are lots of nice guys
around who’re in your league. You’ll meet one someday
.

That was when she got the
picture.

She might be Norma’s best friend,
but she wasn’t a part of the Degardovera family. She’d never be part of it.

And Rennie’s opinion hadn’t
changed, even if another Degardovera might be the one to want her.

“Yes.” She kept her voice level. Strange
how normal it sounded. “We’re definitely just friends.”

“That’s good.” His relief was
palpable. “Francisco wouldn’t do for you.”

She clenched her teeth. Yeah, she
could be a buddy but never anything more. To him or Fran.

They came to the end of 400 at
Dahlonega where he pulled the car up to the stop light and braked smoothly. “We
Degardovera men do seem jinxed in our love life, don’t we?”

“Are you?” She didn’t miss the
plural. “Maybe you Degardovera men need to find yourselves different women.”

When he laughed, he sounded like
the old Rennie.

****

As Rennie and Autumn made their
way toward Helen, her one employee printed out appointment reminder postcards.

Iris Cabell, a widow who acted as
secretary, receptionist, and bookkeeper for Private Portraits by Merriwell, waited
impatiently for six o’clock. She had a long drive to visit grandchildren near
Birmingham over the weekend.

The bell hanging on the door
clanged.

Oh no, not now! Why does it
always happen?

A customer right at closing. She
masked irritation at the man indecisively looking around. “May I help you?”

Thick glasses turned away from an
inspection of the early Kodak Brownie exhibit. Middle-aged, average height, kind
of scrawny. Ordinary features that looked pleasant, maybe shy. He wore a hat
and topcoat too heavy for Atlanta’s mild December weather, with a red and green
holiday muffler wrapped round his neck.

Nothing to provoke alarm.

He said, “I’d like to talk with
the photographer, please.”

His accent wasn’t southern so he could
be from up north. Or maybe from the Midwest. On his way home like thousands of
other Atlanta transplants, except he
would
have to stop here. What luck.

She hid a sigh. “About an
appointment?”

“Yes.” He cleared his throat. “I’m
interested in having some, um, personal photographs done.”

Ugh. One of those. Those nasty
pictures Autumn took seemed to be all people wanted nowadays. And ten more minutes
before she could lock up. If she could get rid of him that quick.

At least he had on pants under
the overcoat, not like that pervert who came in and flashed her last spring.

“Ms. Merriwell is out of the
studio till Monday. I’ll be happy to answer your questions.” Any question she
could answer in ten minutes, anyway.

“Great.” He plucked a card off
her desk and studied it. “This Autumn Merriwell. Does she do all the, er,
intimate photography?”

How could she run him off without
being downright rude? “Ms. Merriwell does all our photography, period. That
includes the Private Portraits line. Shots can be set up in the studio or home
or anywhere else the client is most comfortable,” she rattled off. “Client
poses are private, unless otherwise specified.”

At this point, she usually asked
if he was here on behalf of his wife or girlfriend, but not today. She looked
pointedly at the wall clock.

Busy examining the card, he didn’t
notice. “Do you use a processor? Anybody else who sees the photographs?”

Hah. Couldn’t look her in the
eye. “Most of our cameras are digital. All photos are printed on the premises
by Ms. Merriwell herself.” Her spiel flowed smoothly. “Proofs and selected prints
go to the client while the originals are stored on CD-ROMs or negatives that stay
here in our files. No one has access except Ms. Merriwell. Not even me. No one
else sees the shots at any stage of preparation unless the client so chooses.”

He finally looked up. Thick
lenses made his eyes murky dark holes, but his mouth smiled. “Ah. That’s what I
wanted to know. My wife and I wouldn’t like other people involved.” A hint of
apology mingled with a tacit plea for understanding.

Iris thawed. She knew perfectly
well a lot of these portraits went to the floozies’ married lovers, but this
man wasn’t an adulterer, just an embarrassed husband. She was an old hand at
spotting which were which.

He went on. “Do you use off-site
storage in case the CDs are corrupted or lost?”

“Absolutely. We switched to
AllSet last year and it’s been very satisfactory.”

“Good. We wouldn’t want to go
through all the effort and then lose the images. We might want more prints later.”

“No fear of that. You may take
this with you.” Iris slid a brochure across the counter. “It explains our
policies and precautions.”

He picked it up, looked at the
front and back, held out the inset of Autumn. “Would this be Ms. Merriwell?”

Iris confirmed it was.

“She looks young.”

“Her grandfather started this
studio fifty-eight years ago. Ms. Merriwell was brought up in the business. She
got her first camera when she was six years old, so she’s quite experienced. It’s
all in the brochure.”

“I see.” He seemed suitably
impressed. “My wife’s the anxious type. Very modest. She wants to talk to Ms.
Merriwell personally. Can she call her at home tonight?”

“We don’t give her home number
out.”

Six o’clock. Praise the Lord!

Polite but firm, Iris held up her
watch. “Sorry. Time to close.” She pushed her chair back. “Have your wife call
here Monday. Ms. Merriwell’s in Helen for the weekend but will be—”

“Helen?” He followed her glance
toward the pad where she’d written down the restaurant’s phone number and time.

Oops. She shouldn’t have
mentioned Helen. But it didn’t matter. This man was no stalker. “A friend’s
having an anniversary party there tomorrow night. Ms. Merriwell had me make reservations
for their dinner so you see, she really isn’t available. She’ll be back in the
studio Monday morning at nine.”

“Helen. Is that near here?”

“No.” He hadn’t lived here long if
he had to ask, but she wouldn’t be the one to enlighten him. She rose. “If that’s
all…”

“Oh. Of course.” He put the
brochure in his pocket. “I’ll come back or have my wife call Monday. Thank you
so much for your help. Sorry to delay you.”

At his prompt retreat, irritation
fled. He seemed nice enough and unlike many men, he wanted photographs taken of
his wife and not some tramp he was seeing on the side.

Not that Iris understood women
posing for Autumn’s photographs. Women dressed in those scanty things for one reason
and one reason alone: to arouse the lust of decent men.

But she’d worked at Private
Portraits for over thirty years, since it had been Merriwell Studio and before
Laura and Parnell Merriwell had inherited the business from old Horace
Merriwell and changed the name. Iris might not approve of what Autumn was doing—intimate
photography indeed! Pornography was more like it—but she didn’t have any say-so.
Older women not yet eligible for Social Security had hard times finding jobs.

Besides, Autumn was like her
grandfather, easy to work for. Not half as demanding as Laura Merriwell had
been, the old witch.

I ought to be counting my
blessings
.

Iris gathered up purse and coat. She
had steady employment, a good boss, and health insurance, even if the premiums
were ridiculous. Lots of women her age didn’t have that much.

Locking the studio, she checked
her watch as she got into her car. Eight minutes past six. Not bad. Good thing
she’d brought her suitcase so she could leave from here. Once she got to
Birmingham, she’d forget about work. She’d even turn off that blasted cell like
Autumn said she was going to do. Nothing urgent ever came up when they were
closed.

If she hurried, she could reach her
daughter’s house in time to help put the baby to bed, the little darling.

The polite man was forgotten.

Chapter 5

As Iris Cabell headed toward
Alabama, Autumn and Rennie arrived at Unicoi State Park near Helen. To
celebrate her second wedding anniversary, Elena Degardovera Kinsellen had
rented a three bedroom cottage and invited several friends to join her and her
husband for the weekend.

“This must be it.” Rennie pulled
the Lexus into a parking space beside a late model Ferrari. “Hey, we have a
view of the lake. Sweet.”

Autumn stretched. “Even if it is
kind of far off and hidden by the trees.” One thing had run through her mind
the whole way. If Jane was out of the picture, Rennie was available.

Not that she intended to court
another humbling rejection from a man who’d told her years ago she was like
another sister. Not after he’d all but warned her off Fran today.

Rennie didn’t want her in the
family.

Darn. She needed to stop thinking
of Rennie and the departed Jane who’d personified his ideal woman and who was so
opposite to everything Autumn was or could hope to be.

“Still a nice view. Kind of isolated,
though.” Rennie unbuckled his seatbelt. “Wonder how my party-loving sister decided
on it.”

“Laney said John needed a restful
weekend.”

“Looks like he’s found the right
place.”

The modified A-frame cedar was
one of four that stood in a secluded cluster between the main part of the park
and the camping areas. Several spaces beside the road were laid out for
parking. Railroad ties marked steps down to the cabins, rustic and dark to
blend in with the surrounding woods.

Autumn nodded toward the Ferrari.
“That isn’t John’s car.”

“No, but the porch light’s on at
the next cabin. It probably belongs to whoever’s staying over there.”

As if on cue, a woman appeared and
started up the steps.

Rennie opened his door. “Look,
Autumn, she’s wearing your coat.”

Autumn got out, too. Sure enough,
the newcomer wore a blue swingy jacket. A closer view showed workouts and
surgery hiding an age somewhere between thirty and sixty. Blonde like Autumn,
her pixie ’do was bleached and toned by a professional.

Nearing, she waved at Rennie. “Don’t
tell me. You must be one of Elena’s brothers. Y’all look so much alike.”

The touchier Degardoveras spouted
off whenever someone commented on their resemblance.

Not Rennie. “Yep, I’m one of
them.”

The woman extended a manicured
hand, weighted down with green, red, yellow, and white gemstones. “Karalene Ballencer.
Call me Kiki.” The smoke-hoarse voice assumed they recognized the name. “Happy
to meet you.” She looked Rennie over. Her grin widened. “Elena told me all
about her family. She didn’t say her brother was so good-looking, though.”