Finding The One (Meadowview Heroes 1; The Meadowview Series 5) (13 page)

Mac cleared his throat, then said, “I like the visual impact black and white photography gives—bold, decisive.”

Trudy nodded in silent agreement. She traced a finger along the gunmetal frame. “Some of these are huge. Are they posters?”

“Nope. That’s an actual photograph.” He wrapped his arms around her neck and pointed toward the photograph. “I used my 1948 Speed Graphic large press format camera. Got it from an actual press photographer who worked for the New York Herald Tribune back in the forties and fifties. The negatives in that type of a camera are four by five inches, which allows for much greater clarity when enlarged. Sorry,” he added, “didn’t mean to get into a whole lecture mode.”

Mac’s heartbeat thudding steadily on her back caused Trudy’s pulse to race. She settled her hands on Mac’s forearms and tucked her head against his. “No, I like learning this. Do you use only antique cameras?”

“Mostly, but I have a few modern film cameras. I’m not too much into digital, though.” Mac nuzzled her neck. His mouth, warm and wet, made its way with slow kisses up her neck to her ear.

“Why not?” she asked, squirming in his hold, enthralled with the heady sensations his mouth brought to her body. Talking was overrated. His breath against her ear created a hot and delicious dampness. All it would take for her to feel that moist heat against her mouth would be to turn and—

Mac pulled away. He took a few steps toward a stationary display board centered in the middle of the room and shoved his hands in his pockets, staring at the unframed photographs tacked to the foam board. “I’m what’s considered a ‘purist.’ In essence, digital cameras
transcribe
an image—but film captures the actual moment. Some film purists vehemently detest digital, but I don’t. I simply prefer the realism offered by film. Some of the photographs I’ve taken using the wet plate collodion process, using a camera made in the late 1900s, seem so realistic you feel as if the person is standing in the room with you.”

“Seriously?” she asked, working to pay attention to his words. This was Mac—what made him who he was. His fascination with photography drove him, and she wanted to know that Mac. To see who he really was.

Because unlike her assumption that night at the gallery, when she’d pegged him as rich and vacant playboy, he was anything but.

“Here,” he said, waving a hand at her, “check out this picture.” He disappeared behind the display board.

Trudy followed, and rounding the display board, she stopped before a portrait of a woman. “Oh…” she breathed, the sound flowing out of her mouth in a mixture of pain, sorrow, and compassion. Mac had spoken the truth: although in black and white, the depth of field, clarity, and dimension of the photograph made the woman seem almost there in the room with them.

Mac slid his fingers between hers, placed his palm to hers. “I won the F-Stop Image Award for that photograph. That’s a little like winning the Oscar of the art photography world.”

“I can see why,” Trudy murmured. Her heart clenched. The photograph grabbed her and held on tight. The woman appeared to be suffering from an illness—cancer, maybe, given that she was bald. Her cheekbones jutted out sharply, the muscles of her cheeks and jaw tight and grim. She stared at someone just off to the right of the camera.

Mac had captured an expression that hinted of regret, pain, defiance, and a deep and utter knowing.

“Who is this, Mac?” she asked.

Silence filled the air. She said nothing, just waited.

He cleared his throat. “My mother. Anna.”

“Cancer?”

Mac tugged his hand from hers and swept it through his hair, spiking it in a myriad of directions. “Yes.”

“Was she looking at your father?”

“No,” he said abruptly. “She was looking at Doe. I took that photo a week before Mom died. Doe was only thirteen.”

A painful emptiness formed inside Trudy. She knew the pain of losing a mother. She’d been five, Milla had been seven, when they’d gone into foster care. Their mom had died shortly after, and they’d never even met their father. Memories of their mother were vague and not all that happy. Their mom had unsuccessfully tried to raise them on her own until homelessness and drugs overtook her life. Trudy found herself surprised wondering what their mother had thought when she’d lost her daughters to the protective care of Social Services. Had she been this much in pain knowing she’d messed up her life so badly she’d lost her daughters? What must Anna have been thinking as she gazed at her daughter that day?

Instinctively, Trudy stepped back, away from the photograph. “These aren’t what I expected to see, Mac. I’m…”

“Surprised?” He cast a glance at her over his shoulder.

She let out a nervous chuckle. “Yes. And humbled. This
is
art, isn’t it?” She flicked her gaze around the room. “I’m sorry I didn’t believe you. Sorry I’d been such a close-minded nitwit.”

He placed his arm over her shoulder, steering her from the room. “You’re not the only one who thinks that way. Some art critics refuse to assess photography shows because of that way of thinking.” He held the door open for her and together they exited the room.

“You’ve had a few shows, haven’t you?” she asked.

He nodded and pulled his arm off her shoulders. He stuck his hands in his pockets and stared at the path before them. “A number of years ago. I’d put on a couple of successful art shows in New York, and one here on the west coast, in San Francisco. But when my mom died I guess I lost my touch. None of the photographs I took after that held any of the elusive quality that makes a piece ‘art.’ Technically, I could take a good photograph: the proper lighting, the balance of an object on the page, use of negative space…but somehow the photographs fell flat.” He kicked at an acorn on the path.

“Did you try?”

He drew a deep breath and dug his hands deeper. “Yes. I put on another show, about four years ago, and got panned by the critics. One guy, Tipper Michaels, wrote, ‘if an artist’s work speaks more about the artist than the art itself, then Mac Johns must lead one hell of a soulless life.’ That was the last time I did any art photography.”

Trudy snaked her hand in the crook of his elbow. “But you’re working on this Warrior Woman series. Planning a show. Why now?”

Mac stopped underneath a flowering fruit tree. He grabbed a low-hanging branch and shook it, laughing softly as the petals fluttered down to coat Trudy in pink confetti. “I keep finding myself amazed at women—at how strong you all really are. First my mother, tilting her sword at the cancer. She went head-first into that battle, never stopping to whine or complain or moan.”

Trudy closed her eyes and held up her arms, enthralled both with the soft pink petals raining down on her and with Mac’s explanation.

“Then years later, Doe found out she was a pregnant teenager and her boyfriend ditched her,” Mac continued, “and yet she still buckled her armor and trudged along, no matter that she was experiencing the heartbreak of a lifetime. And she’s been amazing with Aaron. These images of strong women kept coming back to me, over and over again. I started to realize an idea had taken hold, and that I had created a series of images in my mind. Those images wouldn’t let go. They clamored at me to translate them from my head to paper. So I started to look for a model who could convey this strength, this presence.”

“That’s when you found me.”

“Yep.” Mac broke off a spray of blossoms and tucked them behind her ear. “I knew the night I saw you at the art gallery that you intrigued me. You had those piercing eyes, that ramrod-straight back and rock-solid shoulders. Didn’t know at the time you were a model—I thought I just wanted to sleep with you. But once I realized you’d submitted your portfolio for the modeling contract, I figured I’d died and gone to heaven. I’d found my muse.”

She dropped her chin and stared at the ground. “I’m sorry,” she murmured. “I…I can’t. I can’t have nude photographs of me out there. If you were a painter, or a sculptor like your father, then I’d be fine modeling for you, but nude photos—”

“It’s all right, Trudy. I understand. Well,” he added, “I don’t exactly understand, but I’m not going to push you to model nude for me. I already texted my lawyer to tell him to draw up the appropriate papers to release you from the contract.”

“Will you at least complete the series? Even without me?” She shot him a sideways glance.

Mac squared his shoulders and spoke slowly. “I don’t know. Maybe the idea of the Warrior Woman series sucks. Maybe my photography might come out as lifeless as before. Besides, without a model…”

An image flashed through her mind—one of her friends who sometimes did live modeling. “I know someone who would be perfect,” she said, excited. “My friend Angie. My agent represents her. Mac”—her voice rang with enthusiasm—“you need to do this. You’re a brilliant artist. You
need
to create your Warrior Woman series. The world should see women the way you do.”

Mac shot her a bemused look. “I thought so at the time, but now…”

“Oh, pish, Mac. Don’t be such a wimp. Besides,” she added. “I want to help.”

“Really?” Mac’s smile conveyed an open excitement.

She nodded, then added with a laugh, “Absolutely. Just don’t ask me to pose nude.”

“Speaking of…do you want to see the photos I took of you when you were in the Warrior Woman pose?”

Sobering slightly, she shook her head. “I’d rather not. It’s too difficult, still.”

He kissed the top of her head and murmured, “No problem. But you were beyond amazing in those photos. I’m sorry you can’t bring yourself to see what I see.”

A
ctivity rocked the Goldpan Pub
, where Trudy sat in a corner booth, next to Mac. Kids ran around tables, chasing each other and ignoring their dinners. Loud laughter burst out from various tables. Quite a bit of back-slapping and hugging occurred whenever anyone new entered the business. The heavenly aroma of burgers and bacon and ribs filled the air. Across the table sat a petite dark-haired woman, Lia—the same woman in the bridal photograph Trudy had seen in Mac’s workroom. Next to her a buff man in a Meadowview Fire Department T-shirt had his arm draped protectively over her shoulder. Jack Gibson, Lia’s husband.

Trudy had assumed when Mac asked her out to dinner that they’d be dining in an upscale restaurant, where people spoke in low murmurs and waiters wore starched white shirts with collars.

Nope.

This was nothing like what Trudy had expected, and she loved it.

Loved how one of the little girls she’d seen in Delilah’s Diner the other morning (Fifi, right?) had run up and greeted her with a hug the moment she walked in the door, clamoring, “Miss Trudy’s here!” Loved the fact that Delilah herself had brought her into the kitchen to meet Jeff Brewer, the middle-aged but attractive owner of the Goldpan. Loved how Mac had invited Lia and Jack over to meet her.

Loved the sensation of Mac’s hand on her knee under the table.

“If you’re not from a small town, this can take a bit of getting used to,” Lia said from across the table, after another little girl bumped into their table, sending beers sloshing.

“It’s great, actually,” Trudy said, smiling and motioning to the kid that everything was okay. She and Mac had been dating for a week, and each time he brought her into Meadowview, she’d learned a little more of its history and met a few more of its citizens, all of whom she found welcoming—
and
intriguing, if not downright eclectic. At least she’d finally discovered who the golden retriever she always saw in town belonged to. It sat next to her, leaning against Jack, its owner. Remington, named after the fake detective on the old TV show and
not
the gun, Lia had informed her, smiling.

“You’re not too overwhelmed meeting everyone?” Lia asked.

“It took a little getting used to,” Trudy said, “but everybody is so friendly. And the town isn’t just picturesque, it’s practically perfect. So pristine and safe.”

A shadow crossed over Lia’s face, and Jack pulled her in close to him. He cleared his throat, then said, “We have our fair share of issues even in a place as pretty as Meadowview. Lia here runs a sanctuary for battered or homeless women and their children, actually. It’s a safe, warm, and supportive environment for women and children going through difficult times. Helps keep families together.”

A jolt shot through Trudy and her smile faded. How different her life might have been if her and Milla’s mother had a place to stay when times got tough. She might not have lost custody of her two daughters. Might not have ended up on the streets. Might not have died, leaving the two girls permanent wards of the state, jumping from foster family to foster family, constantly unwanted. Odd, how being with Mac had triggered so many thoughts about her own mother—thoughts that had been absent for years.

“Thanks, again, Mac, for taking our wedding photos,” Lia said, her soft voice carrying even over the raucous sound of the pub.

Trudy pulled her attention back from the past, where it didn’t need to be.

Mac smiled, and said, “Now that you two are hitched, any plans for babies soon?”

Lia laughed, the sound light and lilting. “At some point, sure. What about you? You’re so good with Aaron, I could see you as a dad.” Suddenly she whipped her gaze to Trudy and made an apologetic face. “Oops, I shouldn’t have said that. You two just started dating, correct?”

Glancing up at Mac, Trudy opened her mouth, ready to respond with a cavalier statement, then froze, surprised by the way he was looking at her. Warm. Steady. A little glowy. Whoa—wait. Mac could not be imagining her and him having babies together. No way.

“Well…I
did
just meet her entire family,” Mac said, reaching up to brush a strand of hair from her face and tuck it behind her ear. “They were great. Wonderful. Just like Trudy.” His gaze was soft…warm…almost…

Uh oh… That was the same expression she’d seen Jason Montgomery give her in eighth grade when he’d declared his undying love.

The man had to be thinking of something other than her. Right?

Remy suddenly appeared by her side and motioned for her to scoot over. Whew. Saved by the bell. Well, saved by the sheriff, actually.

“How’s the campaign going?” Mac asked as his friend joined them at the table.

“There’s a little competition for me now,” Remy said ruefully. “The former judge, Allan Reinhardt, is considering backing my opponent.” He reached for a fry, dredging it in ketchup before popping it into his mouth.

“But all of Deloro County loves you,” Lia said, smiling at the sheriff with genuine warmth in her expression. “You’re sure to win.”

“Campaign?” Trudy asked, switching her attention to the man in uniform and working to forget the look Mac had given her moments before.

“Position of sheriff is an elected position in this county,” Remy responded. “I’m on the upcoming ballot this fall.”

After Trudy wished him well on his campaign, she found herself drifting off as the other four at the table switched the topic of conversation to other local concerns. No matter what she did, the memory of that soft, glazed-eyed expression Mac had when he’d talked about her family and looked at her stuck in her mind.

He couldn’t be getting serious about her, could he? But if he was…how would that make her feel?

If the tingles dancing around on her arms and legs were any indication, it would make her feel pretty darned good. And no way was she ready for
that
.

* * *

T
he next three
weeks found both of them busy with work—Trudy won a small contract modeling for a sports clothing designer, and Mac hired her friend Angie Matson to model for his Warrior Woman series. He also continued to schedule shoots for weddings and babies—and pets (if one could consider the Gerber family’s purebred Holstein Lulu a pet—apparently
they
did, they’d named her Lulu). But even with their busy schedules, they saw each other almost every day, and Mac had even informed her they were exclusive.

Trudy wasn’t sure what to make of that—apparently Mac rarely was exclusive with women and usually embraced his playboy status—but since they were boinking like bunnies, she both needed and wanted that reassurance of exclusivity.

And at the end of each date, they would spend night in Mac’s bed, limbs tangled together, heartbeats synched in rhythm.

Trudy loved staying at Mac’s place. Not only was the sex awesome, but with each passing day she learned a little more about Mac. And the more she learned, the more he grew on her. She’d been a bit disappointed to learn that his father, Gregor, would be in Europe until the winter—she wanted to meet the man who’d helped to mold Mac into the man he’d become. A man who rapidly was becoming part of the very essence of her life.

Trudy still found Doe a bit distant and slightly acerbic, but knowing what she did about the loss of Doe’s mother, Trudy didn’t push too hard for a relationship. She reasoned that if she and Mac continued dating, sooner or later she and Doe would connect.

Instead, she focused on the baby Aaron, who didn’t seem to mind her lack of experience with babies. She learned how to blow raspberries on his belly, and found she loved to lay the floor reading to him from one of his board books. He’d hike his chubby legs straight up in the air and hold his feet as she turned the pages, his eyes fixated on the book.

Once Doe had come upon the two of them sprawled out on the living room floor, children’s board books surrounding them. “You know,” she’d said in an offhanded manner, “you and Mac would make some pretty damned cute babies.”

Trudy had responded by getting up and walking out of the room. Doe had ignored her for several days after that, presumably in a tiff over being ignored, and Trudy knew she needed to give the girl some explanation, but still she hadn’t been able to voice the word “infertile” to anyone.

But today, Doe, along with ten other women, was crowed in Trudy’s loft in Sacramento, raising mimosas in a toast to Milla. Trudy had roped Mac’s little sister into helping her plan Milla’s baby shower, figuring the girl would know far better what Milla might like than she. And the girl had made the place beautiful—ropes of grape vines draped over every window, and fresh wildflowers were in Mason jars scattered throughout the loft.

Trudy glanced around at the beauty and swallowed, hard. She didn’t know how much longer she could keep this place—the bank had called earlier in the morning and informed her she was so far behind in mortgage payments that they were close to considering pulling the loan.

She’d be homeless.

Not really—she could sell the loft and move in with Milla, but relying on her big sister for housing wasn’t how she wanted to handle things.

Milla raised a champagne flute filled with orange juice and propped it on her watermelon-shaped belly. “Attention, everyone, you’re attention please…” Ignored, she turned and gave Trudy an exasperated look.

Trudy tried to get the attention of the chattering group but also didn’t meet success, until Griswold brayed several times outside her window. That shut the chattering women up quick. Aw, she’d miss Griswold when she sold the loft. But those depressing thoughts were for another day—this moment was all about her sister and her soon-to-be-born niece. Or nephew.

Yeah, who was she kidding? The watermelon would turn out to be another niece. Milla and Jarrod refused to find out the gender, figuring they’d be happy no matter what. Trudy knew they secretly hoped for a boy, though.

“The mom-to-be has something to say,” Trudy said, a smile on her face.

Milla cleared her throat. “I simply wanted to thank my sister for this fantastic baby shower. Gertrude T. Prendergast,” she said, turning to face her sister, “I don’t know how you managed to pull it off, but this shower has been amazing. I only hope that someday I can repay you and throw you as fantastic of a baby shower in return.”

An emptiness inside expanded, pushing at her ribs. Her face went cold. God, no. She couldn’t feel the pain now—this moment was supposed to be about Milla. She worked to suck in a breath, only the phone rang . Her shoulders sagged in relief. Saved by the bell—literally.

“Excuse me,” she said. “I’m expecting an important call.” She wasn’t, but she didn’t want Milla to see her emotions. Not now.

In moments, she’d stepped inside her cramped office space and had grabbed the phone from its cradle.

“You got the contract,” her agent blurted out when Trudy answered the phone.

“What contract?” she asked. As far as she knew, Lisa hadn’t submitted her portfolio for any jobs coming up, because there were none.

“The contract with Essentially Green.”

Trudy frowned. “The clothing company? But Jacquie won that job. They hired her a few weeks ago.”

“She quit. Met a big executive in Hong Kong and got married. You were next on their list, so with Jacquie absorbed in connubial bliss, the job’s yours.”

Oh, God. Her knees went weak. Was this really happening?

Lisa continued jabbering, her excitement for her client evident. “This is such an amazing opportunity. You’ll be the face of the company for the next five years. Five
years
, Trudy. You won’t have to take any of those ridiculous modeling jobs you were doing for artists—this contract will be all you need.”

Trudy sank down in her office chair, her knees close to knocking together. She’d won her dream job. “Lisa,” she stuttered, “I…I don’t know what to say…”

“You can say thank you. And that you’ll keep your clothes on.”

“Um…what?”

“The only reason you didn’t get the contract to begin with is that they didn’t much like the fact that your naked image was an internet meme. They liked you, but not so much your past. With Jacquie gone, they’re willing to look beyond that because they still think you’re fantastic, but don’t run around naked.” With that, Lisa severed the call.