Red (19 page)

“Seventeen.”

He tapped his finger against the side of his beer bottle. “Thanks for not taking that drink. I would have been con
tributing, although I can't say it would have been the first time.”

She looked away, out at the street, her head suddenly filled with the reek of whiskey. “That's not why I turned it down.”

“No?” He took another swallow of beer, his gaze still on her. “Then why?”

She looked at him, then away once more. “I knew some folks back home who drank. I'm not interested in becoming like them.”

For a moment, he said nothing. She glanced at him only to find him studying her. “What?” she asked, her voice thick.

“I was wondering… What's it like where you come from?”

She thought of the house she grew up in, of her father, the smell of whiskey and the taste of fear; she thought of the way Ricky and Tommy had laughed as they shoved a bag over her head.

“It's ugly,” she murmured, the memories choking her. “It's uglier than you could imagine.”

“I don't understand.”

She started to stand. “I should go. Thanks for the—”

He caught her hand and tipped his head back to meet her gaze. “I withdraw my question. Please don't go.”

She hesitated, then sat back down. They both stared silently out at the street, although he fidgeted—drumming his fingers on the porch floor, tapping his bottle against his knee, alternating between gazing up at the sky and out at the street.

Finally, he stood and prowled the porch. She saw what he meant about pent-up energy. She felt it emanating from him in waves.

“Today went great,” he said, stopping and looking at her. “The chromes are going to be fantastic. I feel it.” He saluted her with his beer bottle. “I owe a lot of it to you.”

She shook her head. “You could have done it without an assistant. Sallie said so.”

His lips lifted. “True. But today was important. Today I went up a rung of the ladder. Jon Noble's a retail account, but it's closer to editorial. It's closer to fashion.”

“What do you mean?”

He began to pace once more. “I don't want to be a retail photographer, Becky Lynn. I don't want to spend my life doing sale catalogs and department store circulars. I want to do designer work. I want to do editorial.” He stopped moving and met her eyes. “I want to do
Vogue.
”

That she understood. Because in a strange way, she wanted to do
Vogue,
too. She had always wanted to. “You will, Jack,” she said softly. “I know you will. You're so talented.”

He looked at her, into her eyes, and smiled. Her breath caught, and she had the feeling that for that brief moment she was the only woman in the world.

“I always wanted to be a fashion photographer,” he continued softly, his voice edged with steel. “It's the only thing I can ever remember wanting to be.”

She curved her hands around the cold Coke can. This was a new Jack she was seeing: intense, almost frighteningly determined, a man who would let nothing or no one get in his way. “You're so good, Jack. I can't imagine you as anything but.”

He laughed and shook his head, almost as if laughing at himself, and the intensity of the moment before evaporated. “Actually, I didn't have much of a choice. Sallie
didn't open The Image Shop until six years ago. Before that, she did fashion work for all the greats. She took me with her.”

He ran his index finger absently along the rim of his glass. “A lot of it was location work. I went to my first shoot when I was a month old. At six months, I did Valentino's spring collection in Paris. By ten, I'd been everywhere—Africa, India, London. Paris and Italy many times. So when it came time to pick what I wanted to do with my life, what choice did I have? Fashion's in my blood.”

She stared at him, feeling awed and inadequate and totally out of her league.

He met her gaze, arching his eyebrows in question. “Why are you looking at me like that?”

“Your life…it's been so exciting. And it all sounds so wonderful.” She leaned her head against the stair railing and sighed. “The Peachtrees back home went to Florida every year, to Walt Disney World. Once, they even went on a cruise.” She shook her head. “I thought them the richest, most sophisticated people in the world. But compared to you, they're just country bumpkins.”

He grinned. “Country bumpkins, huh?”

“Yeah.” She flushed and looked away. “Like me.”

“I don't think of you that way.” He squatted beside her, forcing her to tip her head back and meet his eyes. “You're too smart for that, Red.”

She gazed into his eyes, her heart in her throat. “I wish you wouldn't call me that. It makes me feel…” She swallowed hard and inched her chin up a fraction. “I just don't like it.”

“I'm not making fun of you,” he murmured. “And it's
more than your hair. The name just seems to fit you. I don't know why, it just does.”

He touched her cheek, lightly, with just the tips of his fingers. She felt the touch clear to the pit of her stomach. She scurried to her feet, panicked, heart thundering. “I've got to go.”

He followed her up. “I didn't mean anything by that.” He made a sound of frustration. “It's just…the way I am. I wasn't trying, you know, to come on to you.”

“I know.” She cleared her throat, feeling both foolish and frightened. She descended one of the stairs, backward. “I've still got to go.”

“I'll drive you.”

She shook her head. “I'll take the bus.”

He swore. “Becky Lynn—”

“Thanks for today.” She took the last two stairs, her heart beating almost out of control. “I…enjoyed it. Goodbye, Jack.”

Turning, she walked away as quickly as she could without running.

For a long time after Becky Lynn left, Jack sat on the porch, thinking about her. Wondering about her—her fears, her past, what made her tick. She was just a kid, but she had a lot of guts. She had really helped him out today. She had stepped into the role of his photo assistant so effortlessly, it had seemed as if they'd been working together for years.

And then she had all but run away, and because of nothing more than a simple brush of his fingers against her cheek.

He frowned. When he had told her he hadn't meant anything by that touch, he'd been honest. He'd never had
a relationship with a woman that hadn't involved sex. Or the anticipation of sex. Until now. He didn't think that way about Becky Lynn; he hadn't imagined, not once, what it would be like to make love with her.

He took a long swallow of his beer, draining it. Why had he forgotten her unspoken rules? How could he have?

Becky Lynn didn't like to be touched. It frightened her.

Jack stood and went inside for another drink. He dug one out of the fridge, twisted off the cap and smiled. He felt relaxed with Becky Lynn. There weren't any power struggles between them, sexual or otherwise, no clashing egos. Hell, she didn't even seem to have an ego of her own. And she was good for his—she thought he was a wonderful photographer, she hung on his every word. Maybe it made him a power-hungry, egotistical jerk, but he liked her praise.

He took a swallow of the cold beer. He didn't have to prove himself to Becky Lynn, he didn't have to prove he was as good as Giovanni, or Carlo, or anybody else.

With Becky Lynn, he didn't have any ghosts.

He could work with her, he realized. He would like to work with her.

But could she work with him? Would she make a good photo assistant? He narrowed his eyes in thought. Photo assistants had to be tough under pressure, unflappable and able to deal with fourteen different crises at once, including temperamental models, clients, art directors and photographers.

It wasn't an easy job. The pay sucked.

But if you loved the work, he acknowledged, it made all the negative aspects worthwhile.

Becky Lynn loved the work. He knew that without even asking her. And she was a natural. She had a good eye, she had the creative bent.

But she was young. She lacked the technical skills.

He wandered back out to the front porch and the clear early evening. He gazed up at the darkening sky. Technical skills could be learned. A good eye couldn't. And even though she was chronologically young, he had the feeling she had lived more than a lifetime already.

The question was, could she do it? Did she have what it would take to do the job, and do it great? He drew his eyebrows together in thought. She would have to get over her fear of being alone with him. Of being touched. She would have to learn to go toe-to-toe with him or any other man.

Could she do it? he wondered again, settling on the top step. How could he be sure?

Richard Avedon was in town this week, shooting an editorial spread for
Vogue.
Wednesday, Sallie had said. She had agreed to do the makeup as a favor to the photographer, an old friend.

Jack tapped his beer bottle thoughtfully against his knee. He had planned to go; he never missed an opportunity to see Avedon shoot. He could invite Becky Lynn to come with him. It would give him another opportunity to assess her potential, her interest in photography, her ability to tolerate him. It would also give her the opportunity to see the difference between a retail shoot and one for a fashion editorial spread. To take the job, she had to have a clear idea of where he intended to go.

He brought his beer to his lips, satisfied with his plan. He would clear her missing work with Sallie first. With that hindrance out of the way, Becky Lynn wouldn't turn down the chance to go to a
Vogue
shoot. He knew her well enough already to know that.

And if she did turn him down, he would have his answer.

B
ecky Lynn did not turn down Jack's invitation. She was surprised by it, suspicious of his motives, and more excited than she had ever been in her life. She was going to a
Vogue
shoot; she was going to see the great Avedon at work. Never in her wildest dreams would she have believed it. She wasn't certain she did now.

When she had asked him why, Jack had said he wanted to thank her for her help the other day. He had insisted he wanted to bring her to the shoot even though she assured him it wasn't necessary. Something in his voice had nagged at her, and she'd had the funny feeling he wasn't telling her everything, that he had a reason for inviting her along other than thanks.

In her eagerness to go, she pushed the feeling aside.

The shoot was being held at the L.A. Children's Museum, and by the time she and Jack arrived, the set already bustled with activity. The hair and makeup people were hard at work; Sallie managed only a curt nod of greeting in their direction. Richard Avedon was a slight, wiry man with a quick smile, huge eyes and boundless energy. He seemed to be everywhere at once, his photo assistants scurrying after him.

Becky Lynn hadn't imagined it would be so wild, so frenetic. The magazine pictures she poured over looked so controlled, so flawless. She hadn't imagined their creation
would be so filled with life and human frailty—tempers flared, obscenities flew and laughter abounded.

“It's so different than your shoot,” she murmured, lifting her gaze to Jack's.

“That was retail, even though high-end. This is editorial fashion. This is what I want to do.”

Jack stayed right by her side, although he seemed to know just about everybody. To the people who stopped to say hello, he introduced her simply as Becky Lynn, and she saw more than a few eyebrows raise in question.

As they made their way around the set, Jack pointed out the various personnel—there were so many more than at his small shoot—and described their functions: the magazine's art director and fashion editor, the photographer's assistants, the hair and makeup artists, the fashion consultants. He expanded on what she had already learned about lighting and equipment. Fascinated, she hung on his every word.

When Avedon began to shoot, she looked at Jack in surprise. “His camera is different than yours.”

“That's a medium-format camera, a Rolleiflex. It gives a larger, finer-grain image than a 35mm, and a lot of professionals prefer it.”

“But you don't?”

“I have one, but I like the 35mm more. I like the way it feels in my hand, the way I can move with it.” He shrugged. “Equipment choice is extremely personal. Every professional needs something different from his camera.”

He fell silent a moment, then leaned toward her once more, indicating one of the models. “Every shooter has a different style. A different kind of energy they bring to a shoot. See the way Dick has her exaggerate her move
ments? See how dramatic and theatrical it is? That's pure Avedon.”

She did see, and time slipped by as she watched, totally enthralled.

Every once in a while, Jack wandered from her side, only to return minutes later. When he did, he would continue his narration for her, explaining every aspect of the proceedings. Becky Lynn had a sense that he wasn't just being nice or solicitous, but that he was actually trying to teach her.

“A fashion shoot like this one is a costly affair,” he murmured, close to her ear. “For one thing, photographers fly all over the world on location. They bring whatever models they've booked, as well as their entire shooting staff. The client, in this case
Vogue,
pays everybody's expenses.”

Becky Lynn knew her eyes must be as big as saucers. “So Avedon doesn't live here?”

Jack shook his head. “Paris, Milan and New York are the three most important fashion centers in the world. Los Angeles is the next. A great many American models and photographers make their home base New York because it's so convenient. But it's not absolutely necessary to live there. A good number prefer the sun and fun of California, even though it's a smaller market.”

The minutes ticked past. The models changed into one frothy spring concoction after another—gauzy print shirts and short flounced skirts, revealing halter tops and skimpy shorts, long lacy dresses in vibrant pastels. Avedon had them frolic in the waterworks machine, splashing each other and laughing; he had them make giant bubbles and pop them in one anothers' faces; he had them don motor-
cycle helmets and hike up their long skirts to straddle the police motorcycle in the City Streets exhibit.

Becky Lynn smiled to herself and turned to comment to Jack. As she did, a hum moved through the room, a collective murmur of excitement and surprise. Becky Lynn craned her head to see what the furor was all about.

A man strode across the set. He moved like a king and as if he were, the crowd parted in deference before him. Her mouth dropped in surprise, and she found herself taking a step back, making room for him to pass.

Avedon had become aware of the commotion and stopped shooting. He turned, his furious expression shifting to one of surprise and pleasure when he saw the man.

“Can it really be?” Avedon said, smiling, handing his camera to his assistant. He crossed the set to meet the other man, and the two embraced.

Jack grabbed her arm, startling her. She turned toward him, the naked animosity in his expression taking her breath. “Jack, what—”

“We're getting out of here.”

“But—”

“I'm going. With or without you.”

He let go of her arm and stalked off. She hesitated a moment, trembling with fear and surprise.
What had happened? What had she done?
She glanced around her, at the crowd of strangers. Some of them were staring at her, obviously having seen and heard Jack.

Her cheeks heated, and she felt suddenly the way she had at three, standing barefoot and dirty in the market line with her mother and brother, the other mothers staring at her.

She didn't belong here.

Heart thundering, Becky Lynn turned and hurried after Jack. By the time she pushed through the museum's front doors, he was halfway to his car. “Jack! Wait!”

He didn't hear her, and she started to run. By the time she caught up with him, he had reached the car. He saw her and yanked open the front passenger door. “Get in.”

She hung back, heart pounding. “No.”

He scowled. “Becky Lynn, get in the goddamned car.”

She took a step backward. “No. I'm taking the bus.”

He swore and dragged a hand through his hair, visibly working to get a hold of himself. After a moment, he took a deep breath and met her gaze. “You're not taking the bus,” he said quietly. “I brought you to the shoot, I'm bringing you home.” He motioned the open door. “I've got it together now, I'm perfectly capable of driving. Please, get in the car.”

She hiked up her chin, fighting the tremor that moved through her. “Why did you act like that? Did we leave because of that man?”

“Yes.” Jack shifted his gaze, a muscle working in his jaw. “We left because of that man.”

Becky Lynn lifted her chin a fraction more, resisting the urge to look away, to drop the subject and hide. “Who was he?”

“Giovanni.” Jack spit the word out. “The great and powerful.”

The fashion photographer.
She drew her eyebrows together. “But why did you—”

“Why did I leave like that?” Jack met her eyes, and she caught her breath at the coldness in his. “Because I hate the son of a bitch, that's why. Could you get in the car now. Please?”

She made a move to do just that, then stopped and looked him square in the eye. “Don't ever grab me like that again. I won't be manhandled by you or anybody else.”
Never again. Not as long as she had a breath in her body.
“Do you understand?”

He met her eyes, and in them she saw something she had never seen before. Something like respect. “Yeah,” he said softly, “I do understand. It won't happen again.”

She nodded and climbed into the car, sitting as close to the door as possible without hugging it. He went around to the driver's side and slipped behind the wheel. He didn't make a move toward starting the car, and for long moments stared straight ahead, his expression tight. Finally, he turned and met her eyes. “I am sorry, Becky Lynn. I shouldn't have taken out my anger on you.”

She curved her arms protectively around herself. “It's okay.”

He started the car, and silence fell between them. As Jack drove, Becky Lynn felt his anger and tension evaporate. She glanced at him from the corners of her eyes. She saw that the line of his jaw had softened, that his grip on the wheel had relaxed, and she felt her own tension begin to dissipate.

They stopped at a red light, and he turned toward her. “Where do you live?”

“You can drop me at The Shop.” He had picked her up there.

The light changed, and he started through it. “I'll take you home.”

“That's not—”

“I'll take you home,” he repeated. “Where do you live?”

“On Sunset. In Hollywood.”

She gave him the address, and they didn't speak again until he pulled up in front of the motel. He turned to her, eyebrows arched in disbelief. “You live here? At the Sunset Motel? I thought the only people who stayed here booked rooms by the hour.”

She grabbed the door handle. “I haven't found another place yet.”

“Are you looking?”

“Saving,” she retorted. “Not all of us were born with silver spoons in our mouths.”

Jack stared at her a moment, then burst out laughing. “The only thing in my baby mouth was a latex nipple, like the majority of other kids out there. I suppose pablum and formula would have tasted better out of sterling.”

Her lips curved into an involuntary smile. “Yeah, I guess.”

“Look—” He rubbed the side of his nose with his index finger. “I'm not trying to be critical of your choice here, but this is a real iffy neighborhood, especially at night.”

“I'm careful.”

He pursed his lips. “I'm sure you are, but this is a big city, Becky Lynn. And stuff happens here. Bad stuff.”

“Stuff happens in small towns, too,” she said softly, remembering. “I can take care of myself.”

He looked at her. She saw the questions in his eyes and shifted her gaze. “Well, thanks for today. I really—”

“Are you hungry?” he asked suddenly, interrupting her. “I'm starved.” As she opened her mouth to answer, her stomach growled loudly. He laughed and shifted back into drive. “I know a great pizza place just down the street from here. We can talk about the shoot.”

Fifteen minutes later, Becky Lynn faced Jack across a
red-and-white-checked tablecloth. After the waiter had taken their order, Jack eased back in his chair and grinned at her. “So, what did you think of the shoot? Did you like it?”

“I loved it.” She leaned toward him, bubbling over with excitement. “But it was different than I thought it would be.”

“In what way?”

“I don't know, it was crazier. More spontaneous. I guess I imagined that the models would pose, the photographer would take a picture, then they would pose another way and the photographer would take another. I didn't expect the models to move so much, or for Avedon to take so many shots.”

“He probably took four hundred today, only six or seven will be chosen for the spread.” Jack leaned forward and rested his elbows on the table. “Did you see what he was trying to do, what look he was going for?”

She thought of the clothes, the location, of how Avedon had asked the models to move. She smiled. “He wants the spread to be fun, right? Jubilant, like spring.”

“Exactly.” Jack nodded. “Most of the country has been in a
deep
freeze, and people are sick to death of cold, gray days. So
Vogue
's giving them color, and fun, and heat.”

The waiter brought their drinks, beer for Jack and a Coke for her. Jack took a swallow of his, then continued. “The aim of a retail shot is to sell a dress, or a suit, or a pair of shoes. But that's not what a fashion shot's about, not really. A fashion shot's about look. About image and attitude, no matter whether it's for a designer, a perfume, or an editorial spread for a magazine. This industry sells fantasy. The fantasy of being beautiful, of being desired, sexy. That's what women want, it's what they dream about.

“The female consumer looks at a shot of let's say, Isabella Rossellini. They want to look like her, they want to be like her. So they buy the dress she's wearing.”

“But that's not what they're really buying,” Becky Lynn murmured as the waiter set the steaming pizza in front of them.

“Bingo.”

She drew her eyebrows together. “But aren't they disappointed? I mean, the dress isn't going to change the way they look. They're never going to look like Isabella Rossellini.”

Jack helped himself to a piece of the pie. “But for a time, they do believe the dress changes them. They believe the fantasy. And by the time they don't anymore, there's another shot, another dress, more fantasy.”

“It seems kind of silly to me.” Becky Lynn frowned and transferred a piece of pizza to her plate. “I mean, it doesn't matter what I'm wearing, when I look in the mirror, I know what's there.”

He met her eyes. “And what's that, Becky Lynn? What do you see?”

Tears stung the back of her eyes, and, horrified, she shifted her gaze. “Come on, Jack. I think it's obvious.”

“Maybe to you. Not necessarily to anyone else.”

“Right.” She pushed at the piece of pizza, her hunger gone.

“You want to know what I see when I look at you? I see a bright, talented girl whose talent is wasted at The Image Shop.” She lifted her gaze to his, and he smiled. “What I'm getting at is, I need an assistant. I think you could do the job.”