Chapter
One
copyright 2013 Sandra Norton Flynn
Chapter One
Things were not going how he’d planned.
When he was a senior in college, he knew what he wanted
and had mapped it out to the last detail. He knew where he wanted to live, what
he wanted to do with his life—he had even chosen the type of person to spend
that life with. He’d set out to fulfill every one of those dreams. He’d done his
part and paid his dues. He should have the world in his pocket by now, but no.
Forced to leave his job, to move out-of-state to avoid
the ugliness, and to build a new life from the ground up, he could barely face
each day. What had he become?
And
this woman … she was the worst of all. He could never make her happy, no matter
how hard he tried. She found fault with everything he did. Some days he jumped
through all her hoops and some days he didn’t even try—she treated him the same
regardless. He’d decided a long time ago to stick with the basics and let all
the extra little niceties go. She didn’t deserve them anyway.
He reached into his camera bag and pulled out his 35mm
f1.4 and a polishing cloth. He took his time, wiping away all the dust, not
that there was any—he took better care of his camera equipment than most people
took of their newborn babies. Then he held the lens up to the light, checking
for residue, particles, water droplets, scratches—anything that might have
escaped his attention when he put it away last time. Finally satisfied, he
placed it next to the camera on the table and pulled his notebook closer.
His life’s goals and dreams were written down the
left-hand side of the first page, with notes on how to accomplish them on the
right. The handwriting was starting to fade—he’d made this list in college, a
long time ago. He was surprised that the notebook itself had held up through
the years of being pulled in and out of moving boxes and carried from town to
town. Always buy American made, he
thought.
Reading the list had become his bedtime ritual. Sometimes
it made him feel nostalgic to look back at the idealistic youth he’d once been.
Other times, he was filled with anger at all that had been taken from him.
Tonight was an angry night. He grabbed his lens from the table, a bit too
roughly, and then apologized to it. He had no right to treat it so unkindly—it
was his only friend. One of his only
friends, he amended. His other lenses sat nearby, patiently waiting their turn
to be useful to him.
He affixed the lens to his Canon, tucked the notebook
away, then slipped out the door. No matter what was going on in his life, no
matter how abused or mistreated he felt, these little moments were his, and no
one could take them away from him.
***
Erin’s head snapped up as her boss, Adam Bailey, threaded
his way across the floor to the table where she worked. She didn’t know why she
was so nervous—after all, she’d already landed the account that would make her
career—but there was still something in her relationship with Adam that didn’t
sit right with her. He was a little too intrusive, he seemed to know things
about her that a boss really didn’t need to know, and he acted like he held her
fate in the fashion industry in his well-manicured hand. That wasn’t true,
though—her fate was in Kristen Davenport’s well-manicured hand and would be
until she finished this line. Nothing like a pampered, fading starlet bent on
having her own way to put a damper on someone’s creativity.
“Erin, we need to talk.” Adam motioned toward her office
with an impatient flick of his head, and she followed like a kid trailing after
a mama goat. Adam smelled, as he always did, of too-expensive cologne and
brandy. Erin supposed that when the entire world knew who she was, she could afford to drench herself in stinky perfume and
drink herself into oblivion, but for now, she would just have to breathe in his
fumes and suffer.
Adam closed the door to her office and whirled to face
her, his violet paisley scarf becoming momentarily airborne. “I’ve looked over
your sketches for the second half of Kristen’s line, and I have to say, they’re
fabulous.”
“They are? I mean, you like them?” Adam didn’t give
praise often, and she wanted to be sure she heard right.
“Of course. You’re inspired. And you’re also the talk of
the town.” Adam sank into the leather chair in front of Erin’s desk, and she
wondered if he saw the clutter on the surface. “The fashion magazines are going
nuts, wanting to know all about you. Who you are, where you trained, how
Kristen found you—this is going to be excellent PR for the company. I want you
to do all the interviews, and be sure to mention Adam Bailey Designs every
chance you get.”
Erin hid a smile. Adam’s uncharacteristic friendliness
now made sense. “All right, I can do that.”
“Oh, and one more thing.” Adam reached into the pocket of
his silk jacket and pulled out an envelope. “This was just delivered. I
happened to run into the courier on my way up here.”
“You happened to?”
“Okay, you caught me. I was flirting with the courier. But that doesn’t change the fact that
you got a letter.”
He handed it over, and Erin knew immediately it wasn’t
just a letter. The return address label indicated that it had been sent by
Kristen Davenport’s company, True Confessions. Erin’s heart rate sped up as she
looked at it.
“Well?” Adam tapped his foot impatiently on the floor.
“What is it?”
“You know, I worked through lunch earlier and I’m
starving. I think I’ll head down and grab a bite.” Erin tucked the envelope into
her purse and walked out of her office, trying not to run. She needed privacy.
She knew what was in that envelope, but she didn’t know how much was in that envelope, and she
certainly couldn’t open it in front of her boss. He’d get his cut—as per their agreement—but
this moment was hers alone, and she was going to insist on that right.
“Hey, where are you going?” Lauren, her gorgeous
Jamaican-born, New York-bred assistant, called out as Erin zoomed through the
work area.
“Lunch. Be right back.”
Erin paid very little attention to anyone she passed as
she maneuvered down the hallway and caught the elevator. She needed fresh air,
she needed space—she needed a warm cookie.
Seated at the counter of Benny’s Deli, her favorite lunch
spot ever since she’d started working at Adam Bailey Designs, Erin finally had
the anonymity she felt she needed. No one was peering over her shoulder, trying
to get into her private life. She pulled out the envelope and opened it. She
gave herself a paper cut as she ripped the seal and wished she’d taken the time
to use her butter knife, like her mother used to do when opening mail. She
stuck a bit of napkin on her finger to soak up the blood, and then pulled out
the document. Her breath caught when she saw the attached check. Her bonus was
much bigger than she’d been expecting—and everything over the standard
commission was hers to keep. She didn’t have to share with Adam.
Her hands shaking so hard she could barely push the
buttons, Erin waited impatiently while the phone rang. Michael’s warm and sexy
voice filled the earpiece when he answered.
“Hey, honey. What’s going on?”
“Kristen Davenport just paid me for the first half of her
new line, and it’s a lot of money. I mean, a lot.”
Michael chuckled. “That’s terrific, sweetheart. What do
you want to spend it on?”
“You know.”
He laughed. “I do. And I think you’re brave and
wonderful.”
Erin pulled in a deep breath. She’d dreamed of starting
her own company for so long. This wasn’t quite enough money and she still had
some obligations to fulfill with Adam, but this check would bring her leaps and
bounds closer to her goal. “Am I crazy?”
“Absolutely not.”
“I’m so glad you said that.” Erin nodded her thanks as
Benny set her lunch in front of her with a wink. He always winked—and he was
always a little odd. But he made outrageous food, and she figured she could put
up with a little oddity if it meant getting to eat the ambrosia of the gods.
“So can we talk about it when I get home tonight?”
“Sure, we can talk about it. But we both know you’re
going to do it. This is your dream, Erin—this is your chance.”
Erin swallowed against the loud squeal that crept into
her throat. She figured it wasn’t very professional to start bouncing up and
down in her seat in public.
“I’ll see you at home and I’ll listen to everything you
say. Unless you start talking about fabric swatches or something like that, in
which case I won’t listen at all. But I’ll nod a lot.”
“Thanks, honey. You’re the best husband I’ve ever had.”
“I’m the only husband you’ve ever had.”
Erin smiled as they exchanged their habitual banter, then
hung up so she could dive into her lunch. As always, it was delicious—the
pastrami sliced so thin she could probably see through it, piled high on soft
rye bread.
Benny stopped by again, wiping his hands on his white
apron. “How’s the food?”
“Perfect as always. I don’t know how you do it.”
Benny grinned. “I just do what my mama taught me. Now,
what’s going on with you? You’re looking especially happy about something.”
She paused for a minute, trying to decide how much to
tell him. “Oh, I just got some good news. Nothing I can really share yet.”
“Are you sure? ‘Cause you can tell Uncle Benny anything.”
That was awkward. Erin took a sip of her drink to create
a little space between them. “I’ll tell you as soon as I can.” Uncle Benny?
Where had that come from?
Erin finished her sandwich and walked back to her office,
a bubble of joy swelling up inside her. She’d thought that marrying Michael
would make her the happiest woman on earth—and it did. She’d thought that
getting this incredible opportunity to design a collection for Kristen
Davenport—arguably the most famous actress alive—would have fulfilled every
dream. And it did. But now she realized that all the pieces were falling into
place and she really would get to have it all. This was the right thing—she
could feel it. She just wished her parents were still alive to see it all come
true.
But enough daydreaming—she had work to do. She went back
to the office, pulled her auburn hair into a ponytail so it wouldn’t tickle her
face, and hunkered down with her sketchbook. She had things nearly finalized
for the collection, but one blouse eluded her.
An
hour later, she was interrupted in the middle of contemplating sleeve length by
a knock at the door.
“Delivery.” Lauren entered with a huge bouquet of white
roses in a vase and set the arrangement on Erin’s desk. “Wonder who these are
from.” She winked, then left Erin to read her card in solitude.
I’ve always
fantasized about making out with the CEO of a large corporation. Hurry and
start yours, would ya?
Be
mine,
Michael
Erin grinned. Their third date had taken place on
Valentine’s Day, and when Michael brought her home, he gave her a box of
conversation hearts. She really hated that kind of candy and threw the box in
the trash without opening it. The next morning, she got a text from Michael,
asking her if she’d eaten the candy and that he wanted her to call him when she
was finished. She checked the garbage, only to find that her roommate had taken
it out that morning.
Frantic,
Erin ran down to the giant Dumpster in the corner of their apartment building
parking lot and dug through all the bags until she found that box. When she
poured it out on the counter, she saw that every single heart said “Be Mine.”
Michael must have sorted through fifty packages to get that many. She called
him immediately, he told her he wanted to be exclusive, and their relationship
exploded from there. No Valentine’s Day ever could have been more perfect, and
for Michael to remember that today—and white roses, which were her
favorite—meant the world.
Erin
dug out her phone and sent him a text.
Yours
forever and ever and ever.
***
He
hadn’t meant for it to happen. When the woman caught a glimpse of his camera
lens peering through her window, she darted out of the house after him. His
shoe caught on a root of the bush where he was hiding and he sprawled on the
ground, unable to dash away. The next thing he knew, she was screaming and pummeling
him with her fists. He’d never come in physical contact with one of his
subjects before, and the adrenaline coursing through his body took over. He
swung his arm around to knock her away, and her head connected with his camera.
His
first worry was that he had damaged the lens. Cursing himself for acting so
impulsively, he pulled out a handkerchief and wiped smears of blood off the
glass. When he was sure he hadn’t broken anything, he took a step to run away
and tripped over the woman who lay on the ground. Blood trickled from her
forehead where he’d hit her, but it poured out of the back of her head where
she’d struck it on the sidewalk when she fell.
For
the smallest flicker of a moment, he felt sorry for what he’d done. But then
the moment was gone, replaced with clear understanding. If only she had stayed
inside, this never would have happened. It was her fault for initiating the
conflict—she was stupid to think she could best him.
Her
pose as she sprawled out on the ground was artistic in its own way, her blond
hair fanned out around her face soaking up the blood and giving her a crimson
halo. Her lips, relaxed into a gentle smile, were the same color as her blood.
He wondered for a moment what brand of lipstick she used. It was such a perfect
match, but she couldn’t have known that when she bought it. Her eyes stared
straight ahead, not scared—just accepting. He raised his camera and took a
shot, unable to help himself. Beauty in all its forms appealed to him, and she
was beautiful in death.
He
glanced over his shoulder. The neighborhood was dark and there was no sign that
anyone had seen him. Time to head back into the city. Time to find his next
work of art.
copyright 2013 Sandra Norton Flynn