Forsaking All Others (9 page)

“I would too if I could take a bite out of the back of your leg,” Vivien countered.

“Do you suppose we should demand to see a certificate from the local exterminator before setting foot in this place again?”

“To say nothing of the fire marshal.”

“I think maybe an extra life-insurance policy is in order before taking a job at Photo Images. How about you, Vivien?”

“Why, whatever makes you ask? I have a bad case of
pneumonia, slivers in my back from this log, flea bites, and my feet are scorching!”

“All right, you two . . . that’s it!” Allison announced, ending the session.

By this time it was almost ten o’clock, and they were all grateful to stretch and bend. As the overhead fluorescent lights came on, Allison rejoiced, “A hundred and fifty-four shots, and you two were fabulous!”

“I think she’s soothing our egos in hopes we won’t sue for damages,” Rick kidded as he and Vivien hurried off the sand.

“Damn pesky things!” Vivien exclaimed, dancing, scratching again.

“I really am sorry, and I mean that. You were both . . .” Allison searched for the proper word. “Intrepid!”

Vivien, looking puzzled, turned to Rick and asked, “Is she sayin’ I didn’t do so hot?”

They all laughed. “You were great, and I mean that sincerely,” Allison clarified. She had gained a new, healthy respect for the girl who—true—might not be exceptionally bright. But she had a glow that looked wonderful through the viewfinder and, more important, a willingness and tenacity, even under less than ideal conditions. Allison had worked with lots of models who grew increasingly irritable as their muscles tightened and the hours passed. Who knew what would happen if
they were asked to pose in a nest of sand fleas! But throughout it all Vivien had remained adamantly good humored and uncomplaining. “I know a lot of models who
would
sue!” Allison commented.

“Only thing that’ll make me sue is if you don’t let me get this oil off. I feel like a regular grease ball!” Vivien complained volubly, now that the session was over.

“Go ahead, you deserve it,” Allison said. “Straight through the dressing room to the shower. There are clean washcloths and towels back there and plenty of soap.”

Vivien disappeared through the dressing room, and Rick watched Allison remove the camera from the tripod, rewind the final roll of film, then begin disconnecting cables, pushing lights aside, seeing to the equipment.

“Can I help?”

“Absolutely not. You’ve done enough already.” She placed a lens cap on the camera. Looking up, she found him carefully scrutinizing her. Immediately she dropped her eyes to her work. Now that the camera was no longer before her eye, it was too easy to view Rick Lang as a man instead of a model.

Just as Allison had gained a healthy respect for Vivien, Rick had gained the same for Allison. She was a true professional, with an attitude and ability that made working with her a rewarding experience.

“Hey, you’re shivering,” she said, and Rick snapped out of his reverie. She was wrapping an electrical cord around her arm with brisk, efficient movements.

“Am I?”

“Yeah. Why don’t you see if you can find a robe in the dressing room until the shower’s free?”

Instead he moved across the space between them, taking the cord from her arm while she protested, “Hey, I can—”

“So can I. Don’t be so bullheaded and independent.”

“But you must be tired.” Somehow she acquiesced without realizing it.

“Yup, I am tired. How about you?”

“In a way, but whenever I finish a session that’s gone particularly well, like this one has, I’m so high I can’t come down for hours. I’ll go home and feel like I’m falling off my feet, but when my head hits the pillow it’ll take forever to fall asleep.”

“You do love it, don’t you?”

Suddenly their eyes met, and they forgot what they’d been doing. Allison’s hands fell still.

“Yes, I do,” she said, almost reverently. “There’s no feeling like it in the world . . . not for me. Tonight was . . .” She glanced at the set, the shrouded equipment, the cable release in her hands. Finally her eyes came back to his. “It was unadulterated joy for me,” she finished solemnly.

“You’re damned good, Allison, do you know that?”
He spoke quietly, admiring the strong sense of purpose she emanated. Her love of work seemed to radiate from her glittering, eager eyes.

The softly spoken compliment went straight to her heart. She smiled, and her eyes fluttered away. He had never called her Allison before. It warmed her almost as much as his opinion and the ungushing way he’d voiced it. In all the months she’d worked with Jason, he’d never once come right out and said as much. He’d glanced at the finished products with an eyebrow cocked. But if he admired them, it was always with a hint of egoism that left Allison feeling slightly empty.

She studied Rick now, comparing him to Jason, finding him totally opposite—warm, sensitive, considerate.

“Thank you,” she replied quietly, giving him the rare gift that to some comes so hard—accepting a compliment at face value, thereby lending it a value of its own. “So are you,” she added softly.

Their eyes lingered on each other, and at last, unsmiling, he replied, “Thank you.”

Just then Vivien came bouncing out of the dressing room, swaddled in her fake fur and looking considerably revived. “Shower’s all yours, honey!” she announced, perkily strutting over to Rick. “But before I lose you, I want one real honest-to-goodness kiss out of that hundred-dollar-an-hour mouth of yours. I deserve it after all the suffering I’ve been through resisting it while it was half an inch away from me for four hours.”

Boldly, Vivien slipped her fingers around Rick’s neck and pulled his head down for an unabashedly lingering kiss.

He was taken off guard, and though Allison had a brief impression of his surprise, he acquiesced gracefully while Vivien audaciously demanded a full-fledged French kiss, holding his head until she’d received what she was after.

Looking on, Allison felt a little red around the collar, and again was bothered by a faint twinge of jealousy at the impudent woman who had no compunctions whatsoever about being so outlandishly forward.

Backing away, finally, Vivien gave Rick a sultry once over. “You are
reeeeeally
something. You ever want to get together where there’s no camera lookin’ on, you just give li’l Vivien a call, okay?”

Rick laughed into her upraised face, his hands resting on her waist. “Vivien, I just might take you up on that. Maybe we can compare fleabites,” he managed, ending the touchy moment gracefully, with exactly the proper touch of humor.

Vivien socked him playfully on the shoulder. “Hey, I like that. I like a man with a nice bod and a good sense of humor. You’re a real fox, fella.” She flitted out of his arms with no more compunction than she’d flitted in. “Well . . . gotta run.”

Allison, discomfited by watching Vivien’s dauntless, straightforward display, turned her back on Rick as she
gave the woman a one-armed hug and walked her toward the door.

“Vivien, you’re marvelous to work with, and I’d like to do it again.” She meant it. In spite of the past sixty seconds, which had been embarrassing, Allison meant it.

W
HEN
Rick emerged from the dressing room, Vivien was gone. Allison had wet down the coals and was scooping the sodden lumps into a metal garbage can. She heard the door open and watched him cross the long, open length of the room. She attended to her chore, conscious of his eyes on her while he stood nearby with his hands in his pockets, conscious, too, of the flustering memory of Vivien’s mouth demanding his to open. Throughout the shooting Allison had managed to keep her thoughts separate from her personal feelings, but with Rick standing beside her in street clothes, and after Vivien forcing that impromptu, final pose on him, Allison was suddenly at a loss, searching frantically for something to say. Her
hand trembled as she dumped the last dustpan of coals and clapped the cover over the garbage can. As the tiny clang drifted away into silence, she looked up at last.

“Vivien’s gone,” she said inanely. Rick’s hair was damp, clinging to his temples, coiling about his ears. The overhead lights reflected off his fresh-scrubbed forehead and nose, highlighting his skin.

“I know. And I’m sorry about what happened. I didn’t mean to embarrass you.”

Her cheeks flushed. “Oh, that’s okay, it’s none of my business.” She frantically tried to appear busy, to disguise her discomposure. She wiped her hands on her thighs and looked around. Everything was done. “I’ll clean up the rest tomorrow.” She checked her watch. “Goodness, it’s late! I’ll get your check so you can go.”

She escaped to her desk, picked up the check she’d made out while he was in the shower, and handed it to him, extending, too, her other hand in a gesture of good will.

Without taking his eyes from hers, he accepted the check with one hand, her cold palm with the other. But instead of shaking it, he held her hand firmly, refusing to relinquish it when she tugged away. She flashed him what she hoped was a dismissing smile and reiterated, “I really meant it when I said you were wonderful to work with. As soon as the transparencies come in, I’ll give you a call so you can see them.”

“Fine,” he replied, obviously not giving a damn about transparencies as he still refused to release her hand.

His touch sent paths of fire up her arm, and she frantically raked her mind for something more to say. “M . . . maybe I’ll get some extra color stats of the cover when it has the title and copy on, so you can see what the finished product looks like, too.”

“Fine,” he agreed disinterestedly, brushing a thumb against the back of her hand. His eyes remained fixed on hers. She knew instinctively it would not bother him in the least if he never saw the finished photos. It was becoming increasingly difficult to dream up things to say. Finally she stammered, “I . . . I’ll call when the stats come in.”

“And how long will that be?”

She forcibly pulled her palm from his. “Oh, maybe three months.”

“Too long.” He folded the check in half and creased it with his thumbnail without removing his eyes from her face.

“I’m afraid that’s entirely up to New York. After the transparencies leave here, my part is done.”

“That’s not what I meant.” With unnerving slowness he pulled a billfold from his hip pocket, inserted the payment, then tucked the billfold away again. “Thank you, though it doesn’t seem right taking money for a job I’ve enjoyed as much as tonight’s.”

Common sense told her this was no time to make
jokes about Vivien or fleas or pneumonia. “You earned it, Rick,” she said simply, gesturing nervously, then twisting her fingers together.

He shrugged, dropped his eyes to her desk, and still didn’t move. He stood there, his weight on one foot, considering the clutter of photos, bills, lenses, filters. The old building emitted faraway nighttime sounds—the soft clang of a radiator pipe, the hum of a clock, a janitor’s pail way off in the distance.

Finally Rick looked up. “I didn’t have any supper, did you?” he asked.

“No.” Her eyes met his, then flitted away. “But I’m all out of tuna and eggs.”

A long silence followed while Allison commanded her eyes to stay off Rick, who seemed to be considering deeply as he stood before her.

“I don’t want any of your damn tuna and eggs. I want to go somewhere and talk to you and get to know you.”

Her startled eyes flew up. “I told you—”

“Hey, wait.” He pressed open palms against the air. “A sandwich and a cup of coffee and some talk, okay? No commitments, I promise. You said yourself you’re so keyed up you won’t sleep if you do go home, so let me do the buying and you can bubble off your enthusiasm on me, okay?”

“Thank you, Rick, but the answer is no.”

A slow grin climbed one cheek. “Would you reconsider if I threatened to sue for the fleabites?”

A quavering smile tipped her lips up, but a warning fluttered through her heart. Afraid of eventualities, afraid of letting anyone close again, afraid of being hurt as before, she drew in a sharp breath, stifling the sweet enjoyment she felt being with him.

“I think I’ll have to call your bluff, and just hope you won’t.”

“Then just come because I ask, and because I can’t sleep if I go straight home, either.”

Uncertainly she stood before him, pressing her thighs hard against the edge of the desk, as if its solidity might anchor her to earth when she was so tempted to drift above it at his invitation.

His eyes fell to her tight-clenched hands, then rose to her face again. He moved around the side of the desk, captured one of her wrists, turned and towed her toward the door, affecting an injured tone. “Hey, you owe me. After I helped you lug six tons of bricks up here for that set, not to mention one illegal log, which put me in jeopardy with the law, and after almost getting pneumonia from the cold in here, as well as a bad case of fleabites. You can’t put a man through all that, then refuse to have a cup of coffee with him.”

“Rick, listen—”

“Listen, my ass, I’m done listening. You’re coming with me.” He moved decisively, retrieving her jacket from the hat tree and turning again to face her with the garment held wide, waiting.

With a sigh of resignation, she turned to slip her arms in. As she buttoned up, he hit the light switch, plunging the room into darkness, except for the vague light from the hallway, which fell through the old-fashioned glass window of the door.

He stood close behind her—too close for comfort—so, rather than turn again to face him, she reached for the doorknob. His hand moved quickly to cover hers and prevent her from turning it. Immediately she yanked free of his touch, burying her hand in a pocket. But his palms fell lightly on her shoulders, turning her to face him once more.

His fingers circled her neck, under the jacket hood, pressing on her collarbone, the thumbs pushing the wool fabric lightly against her throat. A spill of brightness from the hallway washed one side of his face, leaving the other in shadow, and Allison experienced an unruly wish to photograph him this way, for his profile was pure, sharp, perfect, the sober expression in his eyes accentuated by the fact that one eye was thrown totally into shadow.

She was conscious of the scent of soap lingering on his skin and of the warmth from his hands seeping through her coat to circle her neck.

“For some reason you don’t trust me,” he said softly. “I can tell it. Yet I think you enjoy being with me, and I know I enjoy being with you. I won’t push—that’s a promise—but neither will I give up on a relationship with definite possibilities.”

“I . . . I’m not looking for a relationship. I already told you that.”

“Hey.” He shook her gently, cajolingly. “People don’t look for relationships. They just happen, Allison, like heaven-sent gifts, don’t you know that? Afterward, the two people can work on them. But meeting is the accident.”

“No, I don’t know any such thing.” She herself had spent years, it seemed, always
looking
for a relationship, only to be wounded when she found it, and it ended just like the one before, against her wishes.

His gaze was intense as he studied her face, half-lit from the hall. She found it impossible to pull her eyes away. “What are you afraid of?” he asked, his voice gone slightly gruff.

“I’m not afraid. I just view things . . . people . . . more cynically than you do. Besides, heaven has never sent me a gift that turned out to be worth two cents, so you’ll pardon me if I don’t take a very optimistic view of heaven.”

“Maybe I can change your mind,” he ventured.

“I doubt it.”

“Do you mind if I try?”

“That depends.”

“On what?”

“On what you want from me.”

“Why do you think I want something?”

“Everybody wants something.” She swallowed. “Only they usually want it for nothing.”

“Who was the last person who wanted something from you for nothing?”

“Nobody!” she retorted too sharply. Then quieter, “Nobody.”

His eyes assessed her, carefully tracking the defensive expressions across her face with its downturned mouth. “You’re lying,” he said softly. “Somebody hurt you and left you distrusting the rest of mankind, and left me with the job of proving to you that not everyone in this world is a rat.”

“You’ll have a tough time doing that during the course of a quick cup of coffee.”

“I believe I will,” he agreed amiably, leaning around Allison to open the door. “It may take more than just tonight, but you’ll find that I’m a very patient fellow.” Waiting for the elevator, he asked, “Would you like to ride in my car?”

Again she watched the changing numbers above the door, knowing he was studying her. “No, I’ll take the van and meet you.”

“Where?”

She eyed him sideways. “Wherever we’re going for coffee.”

“Where would you like to go?”

She shrugged, caring only that it wasn’t too dimly lit or intimate.

“Do you like big, fat, juicy hamburgers dripping with cheese and crisscrossed with bacon strips and sour
pickles and fries?” He sounded like an ad for a fast-food hamburger place.

She couldn’t help grinning. “I think I’m being prompted. Do
you
like big, fat, juicy hamburgers dripping with cheese and crisscrossed with bacon and dill pickles and fries?”

His eyes lit up merrily. “How’d you guess?”

“Go ahead, name it.”

“The Embers—my favorite.”

“And what if I said no, I don’t like big, fat, juicy hamburgers, that I want a . . . a bowl of chili and a corn dog?” She pursed up her mouth in mock petulance.

“I’d say, tough! I said first, and I said hamburger. So whaddya make of it, huh, lady?” The elevator arrived and he punched her arm playfully, dancing through the open doors on the balls of his feet.

She fell back convincingly against the elevator wall. “I give!” Her hands reached for the sky. “I love hamburgers, I swear I love ’em!”

He shadowboxed his way to her, stopping close, playfully raising her chin with one gloved fist. “Yeah?” He grinned into her eyes. “Well, youse is one smart broad if youse already learned not to cross me when I want hamburgers.”

By now she was laughing out loud, her shoulders shaking as she leaned against the elevator wall. He was incorrigible. If he couldn’t get her one way, he got her another. It was becoming harder and harder to resist
him. She found herself smiling all the way to the restaurant. Entering and scanning the booths, she found she’d arrived first.

When Rick came in minutes later, he sauntered up to her booth, leaning negligently against the backrest across from her, looked around shiftily, and asked, “Hey, ah . . . lady, ah, you’re a pretty good-looker. You got anybody in particular hidin’ in the men’s room or somethin’?”

“That’d be tellin’,” she replied in her best gun moll’s accent. “With me you take your chances, bud.”

Smiling, he slipped into the booth, across from her. They talked for two hours. During that time he learned she was from a small farming town in South Dakota, where her family still lived, that she’d come to Minneapolis to attend school at Communication Arts, and had stayed because the city offered opportunities for an aspiring young photographer that couldn’t be found in Watertown, South Dakota. Her ambitions were to own a Hasselblad camera and to sell a fashion layout to
Gentlemen’s Review
magazine.

“Why
Gentlemen’s Review?
” he asked.

“Why not? It’s the epitome of prestige to be published in
GR
, so why not set my goal as high as possible?”

“But why a man’s magazine?”

Without thinking, she answered, “Because I’m good with men.”

“Are you now?” he purred. His eyelids drooped to
half-mast, and he picked up his cup, smirking as his lips touched its rim.

She colored and stammered, “I . . . I mean with a camera, of course.”

“Of course,” he agreed, clearing his throat, again hiding behind his cup.

“Quit smirking and get your mind out of the gutter,” she scolded, sitting up straighter. “I can see you leering behind that cup. It’s the truth, I
am
good with men. I have a good eye for men’s clothing and for backgrounds that flatter masculine features and for bringing out ruggedness, suaveness—whatever. I have to work much harder to achieve those things with women.” She toyed with her cup. “I suppose that sounds egotistical, but it’s imperative in my line of work to recognize where my strengths lie and pursue that direction.”