Fear of Falling (16 page)

Olivia's heart felt like a stone in her chest. How ironic. She who always argued for truth, claiming it was the best option in all situations, was facing a truth she didn't like one bit.

Olivia was in love with Rafe. She'd never felt so miserable in all her life.

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

C
OURAGE
STRUCK
O
LIVIA
like a thunderbolt. At least, that was the excuse she gave herself for staying up past midnight at her computer, scrutinizing her photographs with the critical eyes of a jeweler. Too often, she'd looked at her work with nostalgia or to boost her ego as she frittered away another evening alone. But not tonight.

The minutes flew by as she selected her best shots of friends, strangers, landscapes, insects, flowers, animals, sunsets, boats, lighthouses, sky, earth and water.

This was her fifth pass tonight and though she was tired, she was determined to send every subpar photograph to her trash bin.

By one o'clock, she'd discarded nearly a thousand shots. To her surprise, she still had over five hundred color and black-and-white images in her “keep” folder. They were the winners.

Well over a year ago, Olivia had compiled a list of magazines and online publications that she believed would be a good fit for her talents. She'd tucked it into her desk drawer, and for a long time it was just something she pushed aside when pulling out her checkbook to pay her rent or her cell phone bill.

Tonight she'd gone over the list as if she'd never seen it before. She crossed off the
New York Times
and the
Washington Post
as well as
National Geographic
. Olivia was serious about going for her dream, but she also believed that applying to places that didn't take newcomers would only result in a pile of rejection letters that would depress her terribly.

She had beautiful interior photographs of Mrs. Beabots's parlors and dining room that could be well-suited for
Veranda
and
Victoria
m
agazines.

There were action sequences of her friends as they rowed across idyllic Indian Lake, which were perfect for
Vermont Sports Magazine
or the
Outdoorsman
.

And of course, there were wedding photographs. She'd take the plunge and submit them to
Bride's Magazine
, but she knew it was a long shot. Still, nothing ventured...

The most surprising revelation had been the volume of animal shots. She had five times as many animal photographs as any other category. From tree frogs to lop-eared rabbits, Olivia zoomed in on animals. She'd always been drawn to the natural world, but this was ridiculous.

It took close to an hour to get through the insects alone, but it was when she counted up the horses that she sat back and took a deep breath.

She'd been capturing horses on film since she'd accompanied Sarah to her dressage classes. It was no wonder she felt a strong bond with Rowan, Pegasus and the rest of Rafe's horses. Olivia remembered often stopping along a country road and shooting photographs of horses romping in springtime pastures or lazing with their foals. It was a wonder she ever reached any of her destinations for all these moments she caught on film.

Yet, she had not a single photo of herself on a horse—or any riders, really. The horses were always running free across fields or woods.

Her shots of the Indian Lake Hospital Race were the exception. In two short minutes she had taken over a hundred photographs of Rowan with Jenny, along with all the other horses and jockeys. Each photo was sharp and astoundingly lifelike, as if the runners would come right out of the screen.

Putting her elbows on the desk, she dropped her face into her palms. “I gotta get a handle on this thing,” she chided herself. When it came to taking pictures of horses, her trigger finger was out of control.

She raised her head as an idea brightened her thoughts.
Maybe this is a sign telling me I'm on the right track. Maybe this means I'm supposed to be a horse photographer.

Olivia knew she'd have to be extraordinarily talented to compete with professionals. She went back to the computer and scrolled through her Rowan file.

Twenty minutes later she was staring wide-eyed at the screen. These were the photos. These images just might get her somewhere.

It was an honest assessment. If anything, she was ultracritical of her work, which was one reason she'd never ventured out into the marketplace. If she kept telling herself she could get better, work on her skills, buy more advanced equipment, then she'd never have to enter the race. Never have to risk failure.

She leaned closer to the screen and stared into Rowan's huge brown eyes. When she'd taken this shot, she'd sensed that she'd found something unique in Rafe's horse. There were a great many people who didn't believe that animals had souls, but Olivia wasn't one of them. In Rowan, she'd recognized everything from intelligence to determination. There was nothing ordinary about him. Now he'd proven that to the world.

It didn't matter that he had lost by a nose. It was the running time that would define Rowan. His power on the track. The people in the racing world would be talking about him for many years to come. He would be coveted. His progeny would bring a great deal of money to Rafe, if he decided to breed him.

One afternoon, one race, and Rowan and Rafe's future had been rewritten. And now Olivia realized hers had, too.

She liked to think she was the master of her own fate, though her past had certainly given her reason to believe otherwise. But now fate had given her an opportunity, and she had to make the decision to seize it.

Olivia filled out applications for a few online magazines and uploaded appropriate samples of her work. With each submission, she grew bolder. She sent Mrs. Beabots's elegant Thanksgiving dining room table setting to
Veranda
and emailed a dozen photographs of Annie and Timmy with Beau to
Golden Retriever Weekly
.

She saved the best for last. To
Louisville Magazine
, she submitted the action shots of Rowan's race. The still photographs of Rowan, Pegasus, Rocky, Misty and Merlot she sent to
Horse Illustrated
.

It was nearly dawn by the time she finished filling out the applications and writing cover letters. Oddly, she wasn't the least bit tired.

Seeing her reflection in the computer screen as day lit the earth outside her window, Olivia stared at her inbox, hoping it would soon hold the message that would change her life. Or maybe it wouldn't. Maybe no one would want her work.

If that happened, she would have to face the fact that she'd tried and lost. All these years she'd leaned on the excuse that her career was yet to come, that she wasn't quite ready for it.

But now she had no more excuses.

In her head, she heard the blaring sound of the horn that had signaled the start of Rowan's race. He'd bolted out of the starting gate because being held back was the worst feeling in the world to him. Olivia had been mired at the starting gate for so many years, its confines had become comfortable.

Taking those first few steps was terrifying, but it was what she needed to do.

As she stood to make coffee, she remembered her promise to Rafe.

“What have I done?” she moaned as she opened up her sent folder.

Quickly, she opened up the application from
Horse Illustrated
and reread the fine print. It clearly stated that any work submitted would not be reprinted without consent of the photographer. The
Louisville Magazine
submission had the same stipulation.

She leaned back in her chair and blew out a deep sigh. “I'm okay. Everything's okay.”

Olivia smiled. She'd taken the biggest step of her life. She wondered why she still felt the same. She'd expected to feel empowered and fearless after all she'd done. Instead, it was just another day, and if she didn't hurry, she'd be late for the morning crowd at the deli.

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

O
LIVIA
ADDED
HALF
a cup of mayonnaise and three beaten eggs to the white sauce in a deep-lipped skillet before throwing in a huge pod of oven-roasted garlic, still warm and squeezed from its skin, of course. After adding two cups of steamed broccoli florets, she poured the mixture into the buttered soufflé dish that her mother had used when she was a little girl. It still made the best broccoli soufflé on the planet. She put it in a water bath and slid it into the oven.

She washed her hands and then consulted the menu that Gina Barzonni had given her for Liz's baby shower that evening. Cold smoked Atlantic salmon with lemon dill sauce. Check. Italian bread with flower butter molds. Check. Field greens, walnuts, feta cheese and strawberry salad with strawberry vinaigrette. Check.

Maddie was bringing an antique wicker tram filled with her exclusive lemon-curd-filled lemon cupcakes. Knowing Maddie, they would be spectacular.

In addition to Liz's friends, Gina had invited a dozen or more women from her Catholic Church Sodality. Gina had explained that since this was her first grandchild, her friends were looking forward to this baby almost as much as she was.

While the soufflé baked, Olivia went to her closet to pick out something to wear. Gina had told her not to wear anything that resembled a uniform because she was both the caterer and a guest. Of course, she could use one of Gina's pretty aprons while putting the food out, but that was all. Gina had hired two servers who would clean up so that Olivia was only responsible for making the food and organizing the buffet table.

Olivia frowned as she flipped through her wardrobe of chef's jackets, black slacks for formal catering and white slacks for summer events. She had more than a dozen full-length aprons fresh from the Indian Lake Laundry, bleached, pressed and hung on hangers. There were tunics, shirtdresses jeans, cargo pants and T-shirts she wore when photographing, but no pretty dresses or skirts to wear on dates or to parties. Her closet revealed the life she led.

Pulling out her large clip, she let her hair tumble down her back. There was a very good chance that she'd see Rafe today. Surely, he knew about the shower with all the fuss Gina had been making about it.

She didn't have time to run down to Judee's and buy a dress, and though Katia and Sarah lived only a few blocks away, both of them were several inches taller than she was. Borrowing from them was out of the question.

There was only one woman who was about the same height as Olivia. She looked at her watch. She only had two hours till she had to leave for the shower. She pulled her cell phone out of her jeans and dialed. The call was picked up after the first ring. “Oh, Mrs. Beabots! You're home. I need a favor.”

* * *

STEPPING
INTO
M
RS
. B
EABOTS
'
S
closet was like taking a trip back in time to a world of Parisian elegance Olivia had only read about.

“What is all this?” Olivia asked.

“Chanel, mostly,” Mrs. Beabots said as she pulled Olivia deeper into the enormous walk-in.

“This is the size of my bedroom.” Olivia gasped as she took in the double racks, built-in drawers, glass-enclosed cabinets that held purses and hats, and an entire wall of shoes.

“It was a bedroom once. A nursery, to be exact,” Mrs. Beabots explained. “Frankly, it was a jumble until Luke came to live here before he and Sarah got married. He revamped the whole thing, putting in these double rows so I can hang the blouses on top and the skirts on the bottom. Then on this side, as you can see, are all my dresses, coats and gowns.”

Olivia studied the dozens of ball gowns encrusted with pearls and sequins, bugle beads and jet beads. “Where in Indian Lake would you wear something like that?”

“I didn't wear them here,” Mrs. Beabots replied in the clipped manner she sometimes used to cut off an inquisition once she felt the questions were getting too personal.

Mrs. Beabots had many secrets. She never talked about her life before she and her husband, Raymond, moved to Indian Lake. They had owned the Rose Street Grocery for a time and then sold it to Louise Railton, who turned it into the ice cream and candy shop. Standing in this closet, Olivia realized just how much she didn't know about her octogenarian friend. She wondered if Mrs. Beabots would ever share her past.

Mrs. Beabots walked past a swathe of black-and-white blouses and skirts, considered the pearl-gray section, then continued to a group of pink, coral and sky-blue blouses and spring floral skirts. She stopped and pulled out a soft apricot silk blouse with long sleeves and a ruffled collar. Then she matched it with a full, black cotton skirt. “Do you think this blouse is too dated? The color would be lovely with your brown eyes and dark hair,” Mrs. Beabots said, holding the pieces up to Olivia's body and assessing them with a very critical eye. “You'll need earrings.”

Mrs. Beabots went to a drawer built into the far end of the closet. Above it were several shelves filled with ornate Art Deco and Art Nouveau perfume bottles. Olivia recognized them instantly as collectors' items. Below these were current perfumes. She peered at the labels. Shalimar. Boucheron. Chanel No. 5. Coco. They were all French.

Mrs. Beabots twirled around. “These!” She held up a pair of dangle earrings fashioned of coral stones and crystal.

Olivia smiled and shook her head. “Too flirty. Not really my style.”

“Hmm. That's right.” She raised her index finger, and her eyes widened. “I have it!” She turned back to the drawer and withdrew a red jewelry box, which she handed to Olivia. “These will be perfect for you.”

Olivia opened the box and stared at two glimmering, white pearl studs. “What are these?”

“Mikimotos. Raymond gave them to me for Christmas one year. I don't remember when. You should have them, Olivia. They're understated. Simple. Elegant.” She reached out and held Olivia's chin between her forefinger and thumb. “That's what you are. A pearl. Hidden in her shell.”

Olivia sighed and dropped her shoulders. “You're right. I've just begun to see that.” Emotions she'd never acknowledged but which had been buried in her psyche for years, perhaps all her life, were threatening to overtake her. “For so long, I've just been making ends meet. And I was happy enough helping my mom, putting in another day at the deli. Even planning events was exciting—for a while. Now it's not enough. Nothing is. I feel like I'm between worlds. I'm filled with anxiety. I feel like I don't have enough time and yet when I have time to myself, I don't know what to do with it. I daydream about things—er, people—I shouldn't. I have no idea what's happening to me.”

“I do,” Mrs. Beabots replied calmly. “You're coming into your own.”

“My own?”

“Your real self is breaking out of its cocoon. I can relate. I was twenty-four when it happened.”

“Twenty-four. I'm twenty-seven.”

“My observations have been that most people hit that pinnacle of illumination about your age. Thirty-two is average.” She leaned forward and winked. “I like to keep track of things like that. Makes me feel like I've learned something in all these years I've spent on earth.”

“So you think what I'm going through is normal?”

Mrs. Beabots folded her arms across her chest and gave Olivia a stern look. “Only if you've done the one thing you should have done by now. Have you sent your photographs out to magazines?”

“Funny you should ask because just last night, I did. I've been putting together a digital portfolio forever, but I haven't had the courage to actually send it out. I figured it was worth a try, though they probably won't get the emails, anyway.”

“I'm curious, Olivia. What is it that terrifies you so much about going after your dream?”

She shrugged. “Failing. Not being good enough. As long as no one sees my work, they can't criticize me. Then I won't have to deal with rejection. And these days it's everywhere, from everyone. We have a website for the deli and our catering and for the most part, our customers are complimentary. A couple of times we were understaffed and didn't have enough ingredients to fulfill an order, and that criticism was so awful that I've never forgotten it. Once I send my work out there—” she made a sweeping gesture with her arm “—every person who sees it can go online somewhere and tear me down. It doesn't matter if they have an educated, trained eye or not. Their voice today is as loud as a New York photography judging panel was back when you were wearing all these Chanel suits.”

“My goodness, I had no idea. I don't play on the internet, so I don't know about all these things.” Mrs. Beabots gave Olivia a soft smile. “What I will tell you is that even back in the sixties, photographers were exposed to derision in their own way, as well. If their photos didn't sell to the nondiscerning masses, they didn't keep their jobs, either. Francesco Scavullo may have been the top fashion photographer back then, but he had to get started just like you must do. He had to take that first step.”

“I know, but—”

“You've already taken the first step, Olivia. Your heart is leading you to do the right thing. Now you have to keep at it. Send a hundred inquiries, if you must, until someone hires you or buys your photographs. Don't leave a single stone unturned. You're not a whole person until you explore all the facets of your talent. You're just beginning to understand the depth of your courage. Just how far will you go to reach your dream? Take chances and see what happens. If you fall or fail, get back up on that horse and ride it. That's what life is about—taking chances and making mistakes, and hopefully, you will learn from those errors.”

Olivia looked down at the pretty blouse and skirt. “You know, I used to have pretty things like this in my closet. In high school, you know? But ever since then, I mean, after my father left, there hasn't been any money for nice things for either me or my mom. I was thinking that if I could sell some of my photographs, maybe I could help her out a little more. We could even take a trip to Florida like she wants.”

Mrs. Beabots put her hand on Olivia's shoulder. “So thoughtful and giving. That's what I've always seen in you, Olivia. Your generosity. It spills out of every pore. Sarah is like that, too. All my girls have that quality, and that's why I don't mind doing extra little things for them when they need it. You keep the blouse and skirt. I won't wear them again. Too young.”

“Are you really sure?”

“Of course, my dear.” She smiled. “And the pearls. I'd rather you have them now than after I'm dead.”

“Don't talk like that!” Olivia gasped. “You're the youngest person I know, in spirit.”

“I believe in biting off a huge hunk of life every day. Spend your hours wisely, Olivia, no matter what your age. You can't get them back.”

“I'll remember that. Thank you for all this.” She followed Mrs. Beabots out of the big closet and into her enormous silver, gray and pink bedroom, complete with Art Deco daybed and two matching club chairs around a white marble-faced fireplace. She checked her watch. “I'd better get going. I still have to change and get my soufflé out of the oven.”

Mrs. Beabots led the way to the front door and as she opened it she asked, “Olivia, when were you going to tell me about Rafe?”

Olivia drew up short, her eyes wide. “Who told you? Sarah? Maddie?”

“Why, no one's said a word, dear,” Mrs. Beabots answered sincerely.

“So you were guessing that there's something between us?”

“Not exactly.” Mrs. Beabots smiled compassionately and said, “I saw you at the race with him. In the winner's circle, remember? When he kissed you, you closed your eyes as if you were drinking in every nuance of the moment. That wasn't the first time he kissed you, was it?”

“Oh, no. You could tell that, too?”

“Actually, that
was
a guess. I purposely used that horse-riding metaphor earlier to test you. You smiled ever so slightly when I said that. That's when I knew. So, you like him?”

Olivia nodded. “I know I shouldn't.”

“Why on earth not?” Astonishment filled her eyes. “He's from a good family, and from what I know of him, he seems pretty levelheaded. I know he's a hard worker and takes his responsibilities seriously. These days, that's saying a lot.”

“It's all too fast. I feel like I've been hit by lightning or something. I think about him all the time. I've never been like that about a guy. I'm hoping I'll see him this evening, but I'm not sure. And if I don't, I'll be very disappointed.”

“So it's the same fear that has kept you from contacting publishers for your photographs? You're afraid you won't measure up.”

“Is that it?”

Mrs. Beabots kissed Olivia on the cheek. “It was until you hit Send on your computer. In your heart is where you'll find courage, Olivia.”