Just North of Bliss (8 page)

Mabel Clyde was the reigning queen of the
chorus line. Her photographs appeared in newspapers and magazines
everywhere, she showed up in more cigarette packages than Win could
name, and posters featuring Miss Clyde were used to advertise
everything from Pear’s Soap to laundry bluing products.

“Oh, Belle!” squealed Gladys Richmond. “What
a wonderful opportunity for you!” She clasped her hands at her
bosom, and her pretty eyes glowed with pleasure for her employee.
Win deduced the two ladies had become more than employer and
employee, and he honored Mrs. Richmond for her tolerance.

“Exactly,” said Win with conviction. He
smiled at Mrs. Richmond, grateful for her help, although could tell
Belle wasn’t convinced.

“I don’t believe I’d care to have my
likeness plastered all over the world, thank you very much, Mr.
Asher.” Belle turned to Gladys. “My family would be horrified, Mrs.
Richmond.”

That was only an excuse; Win would bet on
it. It was she who was the horrified party in this instance. “Think
about it, please, Miss Monroe. I’m sure you’ll recognize the wisdom
of this if you’ll only think about it.”

In a repressive voice, Belle said, “I fear I
don’t have the requisite personality for such an endeavor, Mr.
Asher. I’m sure Miss Clyde is a perfectly respectable young lady,
but . . .” She didn’t finish the sentence.

She didn’t have to. Win could read her
thoughts. She considered Mabel Clyde and all other women who posed
for cigarette cards and newspaper ads—or who sang in the chorus,
for that matter—little better than hussies, whores, and other
varieties of fallen females. She was probably right, but that
didn’t mean
she
had to be a fallen female in order to pose
for him, for God’s sake.

In fact, the whole point of the study was to
present the Perfect American Woman to the world. And, dash it, the
Perfect American Woman wasn’t a whore! Win experience an urgent
impulse to shake his finger under Miss Belle Monroe’s perfect
little nose and holler at her to stop being such a prig. But that,
as he well knew, would only infuriate her.

What he was going to do was chat with some
of his buddies in the newspapers and with some of his successful
business friends in the Chicago area. He and a fellow named H.L.
May had collaborated on projects before. Win could imagine H.L.
writing a moving article about the lovely Miss Monroe.

While Win didn’t know Belle’s story, he
could imagine H.L. coming up with something—or making up something,
probably—that would capture the public’s fancy and makes its soft
heart bleed. H.L. May was good at that sort of thing. He’d been so
good at it earlier in the fair season that he’d won the heart of
Buffalo Bill’s premier bareback rider, Wind Dancer. They’d married
a couple of weeks ago, and Win had photographed the event.

After he’d solidified his plans for the
series of photographs he wanted to take of Belle and secured H.L.’s
agreement to write articles to accompany the pictures, he’d
approach her again. At the moment, he figured he’d better not press
the issue. She was such a bullheaded young woman, he feared she’d
entrench herself in a position from which her pride wouldn’t allow
her to budge. “Why don’t we chat about it later, Miss Monroe.”

She sniffed. He sighed, but knew he’d only
be wasting breath if he argued with her at the moment.

Instead, he rubbed his hands and beamed at
the company seated around the table, most of whom were exhibiting
various degrees of sleepy repletion. “I want to get a couple of
shots of these two right now, if you don’t mind, Mr. and Mrs.
Richmond. And then I’d like to get one of Miss Monroe alone.” He
grinned at Garrett and Amalie, who’d given up on their ice cream
and had begun sagging in their chairs, looking bored. They perked
up as soon as they had something to do. Win was used to it.

In spite of the overstuffed condition of the
five of them, they walked with alacrity from the restaurant to
Win’s booth. Win unlocked the door and politely stepped aside. “Why
don’t you and Mr. Richmond take seats on the bench under the
window, Mrs. Richmond? I’ll take charge of the children.”

Gladys clutched her husband’s arm. “Oh,
George, this is so exciting.”

George evidently thought so, too, because he
fairly glowed at his offspring as they bounced across the floor in
Win’s company. Belle took a chair close to the Richmonds. Win
noticed that her posture was ramrod straight and she clutched her
tiny handbag as if it were ballast and she feared she’d blow away
if she dropped it. She didn’t remove her hat.

He decided to concentrate on the kids. Maybe
Belle would relax when she realized what a benign business he was
proposing. “I’m going to shoot two plates in front of my normal
background, Amalie and Garrett. I just want to see what you two
look like to the camera.”

“Won’t we look like ourselves?” Amalie
asked.

Garrett tugged one of her pigtails. “It’s
called being photogenius, stoopid.”

Win laughed. “Photogenic is the word you’re
looking for, I think, Master Garrett.”

Garrett shrugged. “I knew it was something
like that.”

Amalie stuck her tongue out at her
brother.

“I’m afraid the children are exhausted, Mr.
Asher. I don’t think nighttime is the best time for this ambitious
project of yours to be carried out.”

That, as Win might have expected, had come
from Belle. He sighed yet again. “I’m only taking three pictures
tonight, Miss Monroe.” He spoke in a gentle, measured tone, so as
not to offend her. She, obviously, didn’t care if she offended him
or not, because she gave him a furious frown and sniffed. Figured.
“I only want to see how the three of you look as subjects.”

“I see.”

The way she said it didn’t give Win a
feeling of encouragement in his soul, but he wouldn’t give up. This
job was too important to him. Besides, he could out-stubborn pretty
much anyone when he put his mind to it.

It occurred to him that, if Miss Monroe
couldn’t be persuaded to pose for artistic reasons, she might
succumb to greed. He’d keep that option in his back pocket to drag
out if he needed it.

“All right now. I want you to sit there,
Amalie.” He gestured to a log he’d set up for his “rural” poses.
He’d learned shortly after he’d seriously begun to consider
photography as a career that the farther folks moved away from
their rural roots, the more they clung to the vestiges thereof.

Amalie plopped down on the log. She was a
natural subject, because she possessed no grown-up vanity yet and,
therefore, had no self-consciousness. Unlike her nanny, who looked
at the moment as if she wished she were made of plaster. Win heaved
another sigh. “All right. Now Garrett, I want you to stand behind
your sister. Put a hand on her shoulder.”

Garrett bounded up onto the platform where
his sister sat on the log waiting for him. He lifted his hand high
in the air as if he aimed to set it down hard, and Win hastened to
say, “Softly! Don’t hit her. Just lay your hand gently on her
shoulder.”

Garrett didn’t appear happy that his fell
scheme had been foiled, but he did as Win asked. Amalie stuck her
tongue out at her brother, who promptly squeezed her shoulder hard.
Although Amalie winced, for good reason, she didn’t start bawling
or anything, so Win guessed he wouldn’t reprimand Garrett. Anyhow,
he’d learned the hard way that parents didn’t appreciate
photographers administering disciplinary instructions to their
precious brats.

Not that these two were brats. He hated to
admit it, but Belle had been right about them. It was late, they’d
been through an exciting and exhausting day, they’d just finished a
huge meal, and they needed to get to bed. “This won’t take long,”
he assured them all. “Stay still now, you two, and I’ll take the
picture.” He ducked under the black curtain, pulled the chain, the
flash powder exploded, and both children jumped, then squealed,
then giggled.

“Good job, you two!” Win was quite satisfied
with them, as they’d waited until after the flash to move. “I think
the one shot will give me an idea as to how the two of you look in
a photograph. You can come down here and sit with your parents
now.” He braced himself and turned to face Belle. With the sweetest
smile he had in his repertoire, he said, “Your turn, Miss
Monroe.”

“Very well.” After heaving a sigh that told
Win exactly how much she was looking forward to this ordeal—about
as much as she’d look forward to thumb screws or the rack—she
marched up to the platform, climbed the one short step, and turned
to face him.

She reminded Win of a general facing
rebellious troops. He endeavored not to grimace or in any other way
convey his doubts about her. Those doubts grew larger by the
second, though. She was going to have to relax if his vision was
ever to come to fruition. “Um, can you put your handbag down, Miss
Monroe? You can set it down on the log, if you will.” She was
squeezing it to death, actually.

With ill grace, she complied with his polite
request. When she turned to face him again, she lifted her chin,
set her lips, and stood as straight as a string. Win suppressed
another sigh with difficulty.

Plastering an encouraging smile on his face,
he said quietly, “What I need for you to do now, Miss Monroe, is
pretend I’m not here.”

The look she gave him at this suggestion
confirmed Win in his opinion of her as a self-conscious prig. He
didn’t give up. “Perhaps you can turn slightly, so that I have a
three-quarters view of you.”

She did it reluctantly, but she did it. Win
decided to accept small gifts and hope they’d grow in time and with
enough verbal fertilizer. “And now, if you could bend over just a
little bit—as if you were tucking a beloved child into bed at
night.”

Turning to face him again, she looked for a
moment as if she might rebel. Win braced himself. He got help from
an unexpected source.

“You do that all the time, Miss Monroe. You
tuck us in every night. And you love us, don’t you?”

Belle’s expression softened so suddenly and
unexpectedly that Win caught his breath. “Of course I do, Amalie,
darling.”

“That’s it!” Win cried in mounting
excitement. If he could only get this woman to cooperate with him,
this series of photographs would be fantastic. It would be the
making of his career as an artistic photographer of international
repute. “That’s it exactly! Now, turn around again, the way you
were before, and bend over slightly.”

After shooting him a scowl, thereby ruining
the expression Win had hoped to capture, Belle did the first part.
He wanted to stamp his feet when she didn’t bend over slightly—or
even at all. Restraining his impatience and irritation, he
requested once more, “All right. That’s the perfect angle, now bend
over slightly.”

Still she refused to comply with his
request. A suspicion began forming in his mind. It was confirmed
only seconds later when Belle muttered through what looked like
seriously clenched teeth, “I can’t bend over, slightly or
otherwise. I can’t bend over at all.”

Slumping with disappointment, Win grumbled,
“Corsets.”

She spun around precipitately. “Well,
really! There’s no need for vulgarity.”

Win blinked at her. “Vulgarity?” Did the
word
corsets
equate with vulgarity? He gave an internal
shrug and decided it must, where she came from. Dammit, why
couldn’t she be from New Jersey or Massachusetts, or some other
up-to-date state? Why’d the perfect woman have to hail from the
benighted South?

Belle sniffed. “Yes. I don’t believe it
proper to refer to ladies nether garments in public.”

Amalie and Garrett giggled. Win saw their
mother give them a stern look, although she, too, appeared amused.
Win might have thought Belle’s insufferable prudery amusing, too,
if it wasn’t interfering with his inspiration.

“This isn’t a public place,” Win muttered
under his breath. Because he didn’t want to foment an all-out
mutiny on her part, he forced another smile. “Well, we don’t have
to try for that pose this evening. If you’ll just turn to the
three-quarters view once more, I’ll take this picture, and we’ll
see how it turns out.”

“Very well.” She turned.

Win tilted his head and wondered if this was
going to be worth it in the long run. Instantly he took himself to
task. Certainly, it was going to be worth it. Hell, he was only a
little tired tonight. All he had to do was charm this Southern
belle of an ice maiden into complying with his wishes, and he’d
never have to deal with her again in this lifetime.

Thus encouraged, he spoke in a friendly tone
when he said, “Good. That’s perfect, Miss Monroe. Now, try to
recapture that expression you had a few minutes ago. You know, when
you were tucking your precious cherubs into their beds at
night.”

He caught the caustic glance she cast at him
from the corner of her eye, but opted not to react to it. It would
behoove him to keep his temper, no matter how difficult a task it
was. If he blew up, she’d vanish, and he’d never get to undertake
the project that had become so important to him.

“Think of tucking me in, Miss Monroe,”
Amalie suggested sleepily.

Now there, Win thought with some bitterness,
was a female who knew her worth and wasn’t terrified of the world’s
opinion. He wished he could borrow a portion of Amalie’s
self-confidence and easy-going nature and sprinkle it over Miss
Belle Monroe. It was a sad fact that life wasn’t that simple.

“I’ll try to do that, dear.”

The strain and doubt discernible Belle’s
voice was marginally discouraging to Win, but she did a better job
than he anticipated. As soon as she’d changed her facial
expression, he ducked under the black cloth and pulled the chain.
An explosion again sent the children into fits of giggles. As soon
as the flash died, Belle seemed to do likewise.