His Darling Bride (Echoes of the Heart #3) (7 page)

“Another foster sister?” Mike asked, letting go of whatever he’d been about to say.

“Twin sister,” Shandra quipped.

Bethany nodded. “This is—”

“Shandra.” Mike touched the brim of his hat in another greeting. “I heard. And it’s Cowboy Mike, not Bob.”

“She’s my forever sister,” Bethany clarified. Today of all days, Shandra needed to know Bethany was in for the long haul. “Once a Dixon, always a Dixon.”

Her sister beamed.

Mike did, too, as if their very personal moment had touched him. He held his hand out to Shandra. “It’s a pleasure to meet you.”

Shandra shook. “Wow. Oliver didn’t say you were a hottie. No wonder Bethany’s been keeping you to herself all this time.”

“Gotta go.” Bethany shook his hand as well, purely for the benefit of their audience. “Thanks again, Mike.”

His grip held firm, as if he regretted saying goodbye as much as she did. He lifted her fingers to his mouth for a kiss. “The pleasure’s been all mine.”

“I . . .” She pulled free. “I guess I’ll see you around town sometime.”

“Sure,” he said. “See ya around.”

Bethany practically dragged a gaping Shandra through the riveted G&Bs crowd, to the door, and then outside to her truck. Bethany should have locked herself inside the thing in the first place and sent Shandra to pick up their cheesecake. Because as hopeless as Bethany was at being on time, she was evidently even less skilled at ignoring the reckless things men like Mike Taylor made her feel.

Drifting men.
I’m not going to be around for long
guys. But while they
were
around, did they have to know how to push all the right buttons?

She fired the truck’s engine and groaned at the dashboard clock. “We’re going to be late.”

“Mike’s really cute,” Shandra gushed.

He really,
really
was. Cute, and a passel of other surprising things beneath all of his easy-on-the-eyes charm.

“You sure you can’t make Mike an exception to your no-dating rule?” her sister asked.

Bethany didn’t trust herself to answer as she flipped her blinker and turned onto Main Street.

“Thought you’d pulled up roots and headed out for another contract gig,” Mateo said.

Mike’s transgender Atlanta neighbor ran the tattoo parlor around the corner from Mike’s building. He was out for an afternoon stroll with his two Chihuahuas, Areeba and Undalay, and his Chiweenie, Paco.

“I’m wrapping up a few loose ends.” Mike locked up his Jeep where he’d parked it at the curb. “George will be on point while I’m away. You boys look sassy.”

The three-hundred-pound former bodybuilder was in mid-transition and wearing one of his favorite turbans, a colorful scarf he wrapped around his bald head as often as he did his neck. Befitting the warm August afternoon, the rest of him was decked out in cargo shorts, flip-flops, and a fuchsia tank top. Each dog wore a vest in an identical hue.

“Not all of us can pull off impoverished cowboy chic, love.” Mateo and his entourage breezed down the road. “Get yourself a little somethin’-somethin’ while you’re gone this time. This isn’t a good look for you.”

“What look?” Mike took stock of his standard uniform when he wasn’t working: clean shirt, reasonably clean jeans.

“All work and no play.” Mateo waved over his shoulder. “Giddyup, cowboy. I expect to see you smilin’ next time.”

Chuckling, Mike headed down the building’s alley to his entrance. He typed a code into the electronic keypad to bypass the security system, while an image of another brightly dressed beauty filled his mind. The lock reengaged as he took the steep steps two at a time, reaching the top and typing a second code to access his apartment. He was greeted with the glare from the overhead skylights, and a not entirely unexpected growl of annoyance.

“Morning, sunshine.” He dropped his backpack onto the edge of his battered, aircraft carrier–sized desk.

Georgina Spenser, his business manager, was typing away on Mike’s keyboard, files and folders, papers and highlighters and Post-its strewn across his desk. Her hair, curling madly, mocked the headband she’d slid on to control it.

“Aren’t you supposed to be settling down in Small Town, USA?” she asked. “Filling up your wandering well. Staying out of my hair for at least a couple of weeks.”

“I’m just back for—”

She pointed a fluorescent green highlighter at him like a switchblade.

“
Don’t
tell me you’ve already bailed on your gig and have some project in mind you need me to drop everything and help you make happen. Not unless you’re hankering for an IRS audit, because I haven’t gotten enough done yet to even file an extension. I put off dealing with taxes until I knew you were good and gone.”

“I’m gone.” He headed into his small bedroom in the back corner of his studio. Not much was there except a twin bed, a closet for his meager wardrobe, and an enormous flat-panel TV that covered most of one of the walls. He plucked a three-ring binder from the rumpled bedclothes. “Just as soon as I get my mother to stop texting about this donation she won’t take no for an answer about.”

“She hasn’t been taking no for an answer about it for weeks. Why not keep on ignoring her for a while?” George was the youngest of five children, the rest boys—a tomboy to the core. She snatched the binder from Mike when he returned to the desk. “I’ve been looking for that. You never put your toys away when you’re done playing with them.”

She slid the notebook into the row of identical binders that spanned the top shelf of the long, low bookcase behind the desk.

“This is
my
apartment,” Mike reminded her, removing the book, double-checking the label George had printed up for the binding, making certain he had the right one. “You’re not the boss of me. You haven’t been since we were kids. Remember, I can fire you anytime I want and find someone who doesn’t commandeer my space every time I step away from it, or nag me about what I do with my own stuff.”

“You told me to crash here while you’re gone. I’ve got the rest of your year to sort out once the taxes are done, and a ton of scheduling to finalize. It’s enough to keep me busy for a month, and I can spread out better here. Don’t even think about popping in over and over like you’re peeing on trees to mark your territory. This is
my
tree for the foreseeable future.”

“Yes, ma’am.” Mike smiled and flipped through the book.

“Seriously,” George said, her tone losing some of its playfulness. “Do you really think this is the right time of the year to be dealing with your mother? I can read the calendar. The anniversary is always hard on you. I figured it was mostly why you suddenly decided to get away from things here. Why dive back into family drama now?”

Mike scanned the images he’d been staring at most of the night before he’d left for the suburbs, ignoring the childhood friend who’d helped keep him sane since he’d bolted from New York an angry, nineteen-year-old young man. He couldn’t help thinking about Bethany and her drama. And how she and her siblings and friends seemed to weather things together.

“I’ll be gone before you know it,” he said, “and stay gone this time.”

“Uh-huh,” was George’s reply to his non-answer. “How are you settling into nirvana?”

“The locals are loving me. Eating out of my hands. I’m probably the most well-known
new
guy who’s ever rolled into Chandlerville.”

“Well-known or notorious?” George leaned back in Mike’s desk chair. “Is it possible you’ve pissed someone off already?”

“Not exactly.” He flipped through more of the low-resolution digital proofs George had painstakingly organized into binders by years taken and series and subjects.

He consoled himself that Bethany had gotten around to enjoying their conversation at Grapes & Beans almost as much as he had. She’d let him make her laugh while he got to know her better, while he’d held and kissed her hand . . . The attraction between them had been as unmistakable as her compulsion to bolt from him—and as real as his knowing that he should let her go.

“I need to get a look at August’s and September’s schedules,” he said to George. “You were working on them when I left.”

She plucked one of the color-coded folders from the stand at the edge of the desk and laid it in front of him. He stared at it as if it might bite.

“What’s going on with you?” she asked when he went back to flipping through the binder. “Getting something printed and framed is a week’s work. Plus riding herd on our vendors because you’ll want everything perfect. Then there’s the hassle of packaging and shipping it all up to New York. Neither one of us has time for that right now.”

“We’re just talking one image.” He reconsidered the project. “Maybe two. At the most a small series. No rush. I’ll pick the proofs and make notes for cropping the group. We’ll talk mat and framing options later. But it’s got to be the right set of shots. I’m thinking opposites, sunrise and sunset, same scene. It should say something about exploring and finding your way . . .”

Home
, he finished silently.

A home he’d never know again.

He always thought about the past more in August. But there was something about being in Chandlerville the last few days that had made looking back less painful than usual. And if sending his mother the framed prints she’d been harping for was a harmless way to be close to her and the memories—why not go ahead and get it done?

When he surfaced from his thoughts, George was watching, waiting. It seemed sometimes as if she’d been holding her breath for ten years. She tossed her highlighter on the desk and folded her hands.

“You’re taking a break from all of this, remember?” she asked. “You’re caught up on orders. You don’t owe anyone anything. Your mother won’t stop calling, but she never wants to actually talk. You needed to be out of touch, but not as long as it would take to go hiking somewhere so remote you’ll start talking to the wildlife and expect something furry to answer back. I don’t recall your getaway plan including locking yourself away in your darkroom, mumbling over capture and contrast and exposure. You wanted to be with people who don’t know anything about photographers who specialize in obscure mediums. You wanted to blend in, mind your own business, kick back and cruise for a while.”

“Yeah . . .” He yanked off his hat and threw it onto the other guest chair. “That was the plan.”

He’d dabbled in everything since he was a kid, as surprised as anyone at how quickly he’d mastered whatever form of photography he’d studied. Large-format, infrared, underwater, macro, panoramic. He used an array of processing techniques and papers when he developed film, mostly specialized treatments for high-resolution digital images. His prints were in more demand every year, while his pseudonym kept his private life private.

In the fine-art circles where his work was well-known, his limited output was seen as a selling point rather than a limitation. So he set his own hours, chose subject matter that appealed to him, and hand-selected the patrons he sold to and galleries that represented him. And when he was off the grid, needing a real-life fix to keep him going before he dug back into a creative vein, he was typically gone, no exception.

“This isn’t about your mother wanting what she wants when she wants it.” George had never been a fan of Olivia’s, though she regularly ran polite and professional interference between Mike and his mother. “Cruella’s always on your case about putting your work in a gallery she’s partnered with, or some art show one of her cronies is curating. And you’re always ignoring her.” George read the label on the binder’s spine. “This time it’s about Jeremy, right?”

Mike slipped his hat back on and met the gaze of the only piece of his childhood he’d hung on to.

It was always about Jeremy.

George motioned with her chin toward the binder. “Those are the images from the last trip you took for him just before he died.”

It had been the August Mike had broken with his parents, needing to get the hell out of New York for good once his brother was gone. Mike’s fiancée at the time had seen her life going a different direction. She’d expected marrying him to be her entrée into his family’s money and position in Manhattan society. So that was the August he’d left her behind, too.

George, more Jeremy’s friend at first and closer to his age, had been the only person Mike had kept in touch with regularly when he’d first struck out on his own—causing his mother’s dislike for her neighbor’s youngest child to grow exponentially. By the time Mike had begun to take his work seriously, George’s double major in business and art history had made her a perfect fit to manage the things he didn’t have the patience to.

These days she was a cross between a brutally honest friend, a meddling big sister, and a demanding business partner. Wherever he wandered now, George helped him set up shop. She helped keep the work—and occasionally Mike’s demons—from overwhelming him.

He studied the series of images he’d selected. He’d promised never to tap into them commercially. When he looked at them, he only wanted to picture the joy on his older brother’s face when Jeremy had first seen them. They’d shared a love of the outdoors, and Mike’s passion had become bringing the world back to Jeremy long after his brother could no longer explore nature himself. It was a bond their mother had been more than a little jealous of toward the end. But maybe now would be the right time to finally share these particular memories with her.