Newport Dreams: A Breakwater Bay Novella (3 page)

In the distance, lights were blinking around the harbor. She was hungry. She could go out, but she hated eating alone—almost as much as she hated sleeping alone in the sleek king-sized bed in the next room.

This was no ordinary pied-à-terre. It was a huge loft in one of the harbor buildings downtown. White walls, open space, big and clean enough to be an art gallery. Perfect for her enlarged and mounted photos that were lined up against the wall on the floor. God forbid she stuck a nail in those pristine walls.

She slid the door closed, walked back past her belongings piled in one corner and went to the kitchen, carefully avoiding the mail and the envelope that had arrived that morning on schedule just as it did every month. Anytime now, the phone call would follow.

“Did you get the check?”

“Yes, Dad. Thank you.”

“How’s the job hunt coming?”

“Fine.”

“You know there’s a place—”

“I know.”

He’d grunt. They’d say good-bye and wait another month to have the same conversation when her next allowance check arrived.

The fridge was stocked with the usual: pâté, gourmet cheese, bottled designer water, two bottles of Moët champagne. Plenty of ice in the freezer for the stocked liquor cabinet. The cabinets held caviar, crackers and other nonperishables for her father’s clients.

She looked at the caviar, then reached onto the top shelf, where she’d stashed a loaf of twelve-grain bread and a jar of peanut butter. She didn’t bother with the bread but got a spoon out of the drawer and carried the jar, spoon and a bottle of Vichy water back to her workstation.

She sat down and pulled up a straight-back chair and put the water and peanut butter on the seat. She’d learned the hard way not to take a chance with food or liquid near her computer.

She stared at the screen while she licked peanut butter off the spoon, and selected the best—or maybe not best but most definitive for documentation—photos and dragged them into one folder that could be presented as a slide show. Then she cross-referenced them to the more inclusive folders.

For the next hour or so, she referenced and cross-referenced, culling out the “arty” photos that she’d taken for herself and putting them into their own folders. She did a quick sweep through the folders again. Closed the program. Stretched her back. Groaned out a yawn.

But instead of going to bed like a responsible working adult, she opened the folder with her photos in it. The ones she’d taken without planning, with no particular purpose other than that they’d caught her eye. The ones that called to her.

“And that’s more of your nonsense,” she told herself and jumped at the sound of her own voice. It sounded awfully like her father’s on their last visit.

That thought, more than her fatigue, should have driven her to bed. But instead, like the stubborn young lady—her mother’s words—that she was, she logged into her graphics program and began to play.

Slowly an unidentifiable detail took on a life of its own. She selected two versions, color and black-and-white, overlaid the two, slightly offset in alternating layers, so that if you looked one way it was a color photo and focused another it appeared in black and white. Then relayered in Carlyn’s sundrenched face and hair until a nimbus ran through the entire sequence, the sections nearly transparent as they fanned out like a deck of cards.

She leaned back in her desk chair and surveyed her work. The result sent shivers up her arms. Nice. Really nice. Almost spookily nice. And totally useless. Still, she felt good—a moment of contentment until she noticed the time on her computer screen.

It was past three and she needed to be sharp to navigate the Bruce Stafford-infested waters tomorrow. She hurriedly saved her work and closed the program.

She intended to be there early to set up a projector so she wouldn’t have everybody leaning over her to view the stills on her computer screen. She needed to keep her distance. From everyone, even the nice ones.

She certainly needed to keep her distance from Bruce Stafford. Geordie knew her men. And she knew this one was just looking for a reason to get rid of her.

She wasn’t about to let that happen.

Chapter 3

B
RUCE
S
TAFFORD STOOD
at the kitchen window at Gilbert House, nursing a cup of coffee and watching Geordie Holt climb out of her nifty little sports car. She was late. He glanced at his watch. Two minutes, but that’s not why he was watching her. He couldn’t seem not to.

Meri and Carlyn had been here when he arrived a half hour ago and for a second of relief and disappointment, he’d thought that Geordie had already given up. He could hear them singing some soft rock song as they organized the “business office.”

Bruce took another sip of the hot joe, realized he wasn’t just watching Geordie Holt, but was staring at her butt. Granted, it was the only part of her he could see. The rest of her had disappeared into the back of the car to retrieve, hopefully, some descent photos.

He was tempted to go out and give her a hand, but he didn’t. Just kept looking.

Why was it he could go for weeks at a time without even noticing women, then out of the blue he’d catch himself starting at some inappropriate body part of a complete stranger? Today the inappropriate body part belonged to a beyond totally inappropriate person.

Life was weird. He turned from the window and strode down the hall to Carlyn’s office. She was always good for bringing someone back down to earth. Maybe they could talk about the dismal state of the project’s finances until he could get his mind off the new photographer.

But when he got there, the two women were standing, heads together, Carlyn holding a cardboard box of ledgers and Meri holding a broom like a microphone, as they gyrated to “Sweet Caroline.”

Bruce stood in the doorway until they noticed him. Instead of stopping, they motioned him in. Meri handed him the broom. He wasn’t sure if he was supposed to sing into it or start cleaning.

They finished with a choreographed hip-wiggle thing. Carlyn put her box down on an ancient wooden desk and fisted her hands on her hips. “Stop frowning. You should take up karaoke. In fact we just happen to have an opening in our group.”

Bruce made a face. “Not in a bucket.”

“Really,” Meri asked. “What is it about men that none of them can sing?”

“Too macho,” said Doug from the doorway. He looked around, then he frowned, too. “Where’s—?”

“Unloading her car,” Bruce said drily.

Doug shrugged. “Carlyn, would you tell Geordie that on my crew, ‘on time’ means early?”

Carlyn saluted and headed for the door. Everyone followed her so that they arrived just in time to see the photographer struggling through the back door with an armload of equipment and a portfolio.

Geordie looked up, startled and wary. Carlyn and Meri rushed to take things from her.

She gave them a tentative smile. She looked like shit.

Bruce wanted to give her the benefit of the doubt. Sort of. He’d reserve judgment until he saw what she’d brought them. But if she’d been out partying all night instead of organizing photos, she was history.

“Where do you want to set up?” Meri asked. “Stupid question. You’ve barely seen the place. What about in the annex, at least it’s fairly empty and has electricity.”

“Sure.”

God, take some initiative
, thought Bruce.

Meri and Carlyn started down the hall and Geordie followed them.

“Might as well see what’s she’s got,” Bruce mumbled under his breath.

Doug grabbed his sleeve. “Hold up a sec. Let them get set up.”

Bruce turned to face his friend and colleague, already feeling defensive.

“What’s up? Are you really not okay with the new photographer? I can kill her if you want, but that will mean Meri will have to do double duty. And she’s going to be doing that already until I can come up with some decent interns.”

Bruce shook his head.

“It’s something else? Want to share?”

“It’s me.” Bruce shot his fingers through his hair, immediately felt stupid for such a dramatic gesture. “I’m broke, I have way too many clients demanding work, not all of them paying on time, and I should be doing the paying work for them instead of what I want to do here.”

“You’ll get paid . . . something. But I understand if . . .” Doug shrugged, giving him an out, maybe even expecting Bruce to bail. And he wasn’t going to do that, not unless he had to.

Doug was an independent like him. They knew going into it they would always have shoestring budgets at best, and might have to work gratis in between grants.

“I’m in it for the long haul,” Bruce said. “I knew what I was getting into when I went solo. I just didn’t expect to be so busy.”

“Better than the alternative,” Doug said.

Bruce cringed. Here he was complaining about being broke, when Doug not only didn’t have enough work, couldn’t take work that he was qualified for because of his injury and had a family who depended on him.

“Look, do what you need to do but don’t get bitter. Nothing is worth that.” Doug wasn’t bitter, at least not that he showed. He’d recovered and gone about finding a place in restoration work that was satisfying and where he could make a contribution.

“I’m not going to bail.” Bruce tried for a grin. “I may have to sleep on your couch.”

“Deal. My wife always liked you.”

Both of them laughed. It was forced. But it was there and Bruce felt marginally better until they reached the annex. The room was a rectangle, a late addition, probably used for storage or as an additional dining room. It would eventually be pulled down, but for now it was fine for extraneous equipment and occasional meetings.

Meri and Carlyn were moving boxes away from one wall while Geordie set up an expensive-looking projector and connected it to her laptop.

The girl had money from somewhere. Maybe they could make good use of it before she lost interest and moved on.

G
EORDIE LOOKED UP
when Doug and Bruce entered the room, trying to looked assured but not managing to stop the jaw-cracking yawn that greeted them.

“Must have been some party,” Bruce said.

Geordie held back the next yawn. The ass thought she’d been partying all night? That was so typical. She’d been up most of the night working on her presentation. She wasn’t even sure what they wanted. A slide show, wide shots then close-ups, or a whole series of wide shots, then another file of close-ups.

And she’d purposely dressed in her worst pair of jeans. There was nothing much she could do about her hair, but she’d kept the makeup light, left off her concealer so the dark under her eyes would let them know she’d spent most of the night working—and they thought she had been partying instead of working.

She turned her back on the architect and booted up her laptop. Spent a minute or two making adjustments and getting her temper under control.

“I thought you might want to see larger shots than you can see on the computer screen, then if you want hard copies, I can print them out.”

“That’s fine,” Doug said and moved to stand off her right shoulder.

Bruce stood over her left.

This is just what she had hoped to avoid, colleagues breathing down her neck while she tried to navigate unfamiliar territory.

Carlyn and Meri filled in until they were standing in a little clump at the table.

Geordie sighed. “Just tell me if you want a hard copy or a different angle and I’ll tag the photo.”

She clicked on the front facade.

Bruce sighed into her ear. She shifted closer to Doug.

She’d planned a little commentary for the presentation, but the architect was impatient. She moved to the next photo. A close-up of the steps. Then the broken eave ornamentation. The photos continued around the house.

“Hold it.”

Geordie’s finger froze above the trackpad. What was wrong now?

But Bruce merely leaned over to enlarge a detail and stayed there, talking to Doug over her head. He leaned across her to move the cursor over another detail, brushing against her shoulder as he did. Geordie had to resist the urge to move back.

What was this sense of entitlement, that he just took over her computer like he owned it?

“Hey guys, yoo-hoo,” Carlyn called. “Some of us have work to do today. Could you curb your enthusiasm for a minute so we can get through the slides? Geordie will enter them in the database and you can play all you want.”

The two men moved away. How did Carlyn do that?

“Go on, Geordie.” Carlyn smiled at her, girl to girl, and Geordie felt marginally better.

She showed another photo.

“Hold it. Isn’t this another shot of the front steps?”

“Yes.”

“It’s out of order. You should have kept this photo with number . . . Are these photos numbered?”

Geordie didn’t answer. They were in order, or so she’d thought.

“They are time coded on my camera.”

“Well, they have to be time coded in the data that accompanies each photo. Which includes sector number, and detailed notes.”

Sector number? No one had told her about sector numbers. Had they even been in the house long enough to have drawn up sector numbers?

“You didn’t do any of this, did you?”

She could lie but what good would it do? She must have missed that chapter when she was cramming for the job. Of course it made sense and if she’d been thinking clearly and known what she was doing, she would have realized it. But from the minute she shook hands with Doug, she’d been totally busy trying not to drown.

Her ears began to ring, and she tried furiously to think of something calming so her skin wouldn’t flush and give her away.

“What’s the point of wasting time and money taking shots if we don’t know what the hell we’re looking at?”

“My fault,” Carlyn said calmly. “I was so busy I forgot to rustle up the forms we use. I’ll get them when we finish and enter the data then.”

Bruce scowled at her. Carlyn wasn’t fooling him or anybody else. But why was she covering for her? Why?

“But like I said, some of us have work to do. Things like applying for a few more grants so Geordie will have a reason to take photos.” She gave Doug what Geordie guessed must be her version of an evil eye, but it held more humor than demand.

“Right. Go on, Geordie.” Doug turned back to the screen.

Geordie went through photo after photo, naming the area and explaining the detail. There was nothing wrong with her memory. She recognized most of them and hedged the others. She might have to go over the house to refresh her memory, but by God, she’d have them entered correctly before tomorrow.

She opened another file and ran through the stills of each room. She tagged the photos to be detailed and moved them into a separate file. The room had become totally quiet. So quiet that Geordie could here the cars on the street. A motorcycle rumbling at the stop sign. The radio from a road crew on the next block.

“Next.”

The words almost in her ear startled her. She’d let her mind wander again. She had high powers of concentration if she was interested in something.

She’d always been that way. Her mother had even had her tested for adD, but she passed with flying colors.

They said it was a discipline problem. She should try harder. But she’d seen something outside the window by then and hadn’t heard what they said.

She switched to the foyer file. The octagonal walls, the front door, transom window. A close-up of several portions of the glass design. As much of the ceiling as she could get from the floor. Geordie stifled another yawn. She needed another cup of coffee. Zoomed in where the paint was thin and revealed a play of dark and light. A pattern beneath the paint. That would be interesting.

The corner molding. The window sill. The shaft of light pricking the wood and fanning into a dozen sections and the arc of light—

“What the hell is that?”

“Sorry.” Geordie moved quickly to the next photo. She must have been tired to get things mixed up like that. And even more tired by the time she clicked through this morning before breakfast to make sure she’d gotten all she needed.

She sat up, refocused. No more slips like that.
Mind on your work, mind on your work, mind on your work.

“Wait a minute.” Meri leaned over the computer. “That was amazing. Can we see it?”

“Maybe you girls could look at it later?” Bruce said. “Doug and I need to get to work.”

What did he think the rest of them were doing? Oh, how she was tempted just to tell him off. And he would fire her, which would put her right back where she didn’t want to be, headed for Daddy’s corporate office.

Carlyn rolled her eyes. Meri pressed her lips together. They were more amused than upset. Maybe Geordie was just oversensitive.

She sped through the rest of the slides, tagging and ditching and counting to ten, twenty, a hundred. Then it was finished. She waited for the architect to pass judgment.

But all Bruce said was, “Okay. Put the tagged ones in one file and send it to the database along with all the rest. With all the data filled in.”

He walked out of the room.

“Good work,” Doug said and patted her shoulder, which was almost as bad as being barked at.

As soon as they left, Meri sat down. “You’ll have to forgive the boys, they get into the zone and forget their manners. You got some great photos.”

Geordie just looked at her.

“So now can we see the photo you were so quick to hide? I may be going crazy but I swear I saw Carlyn’s face in that photo.”

“No way,” Carlyn said, moving closer.

Geordie pulled a face. “It just got in there by mistake. It was late when I decided on the final presentation”—
for all the good it did me
—“and it just slipped past me.”

“And we’re glad it did.” Meri pulled up a chair. “Show.”

Geordie scrolled through the photos until she got to the “Wood” photo. She took a breath and opened it. It appeared on the wall before them.

“Wow,” Meri said.

“What is it?” Carlyn asked.

“Me playing,” Geordie said. “There was this shaft of light hitting the windowsill.” She moved the cursor to a separate image. “That’s the original. It looked like it pierced the wood, like it would shatter it, but not in pieces like glass but in slices revealing the form in black-and-white as well as the manifestation in color. But right after that, I caught the sun glowing on Carlyn’s hair, not shattering it but glowing and—” She stopped abruptly.