“You don’t have to do it, you know,” May continues when I don’t reply, "You could always pull the temperamental artist act and tell that editor to kiss your ass.”
I laugh, despite the apprehension in my belly, as I imagine the elegant editor of American Homes, an internationally renowned architecture and design magazine, and one of the most powerful people at Gilt publications, doing anything as unsophisticated as kissing anyone’s ass. “Nobody tells Grace Conlin to kiss their ass. If I did that, I’d have to move to Montana, and maybe get a job tending horses.”
“At least you’d meet some hot cowboys,” May laughs. “Think of all the hard muscles and tanned skin.” She sighs. “But seriously Liv, I don’t think you should go back, and Chace agrees with me."
Chace and May, the only real friends I made in the four years I spent in Foster High School. They’re married now, surprisingly. Two people who couldn’t be more different. Where May has always been talkative and bubbly, Chace is studious and reserved. He was always a science nerd, and soon after college, it paid off when he made a lot of money from patenting some new kind of metal coating. Now he heads a private research facility where he can indulge his love for science. May is a dermatologist, one of those miracle ones that take new clients only by recommendation. Together, they make a sort of power couple, albeit being the most unlikely pairing I could have imagined back in high school.
It makes sense that they wouldn’t want me to return to Halcyon. They’re among the few people who know the whole story of everything I went through seven years ago. They know how long it took for me to become a fully functional person again, and they’re worried about me, as real friends would be.
I yawn and look out the windows again, watching the river gleam in the late summer sun, the same river that flows through the back of the grounds at Halcyon, marking the edge of the property. I turn away from the view, closing my eyes as I fight a wave of tiredness. I’ve only just returned from shooting a newly renovated chateau in the south of France for a well-known magazine, and I was only able to spend a few moments in my apartment before I had to start my journey to Halcyon. I should feel lucky that I get to travel and take pictures of exotic places, but sometimes all I want to do is sleep.
“It’s just a house.” I tell May, “and an empty one at that. The family isn’t there now. It’ll just be me, and the crew from Gilt. We won’t even be staying there. We have rooms at the Foster Inn for the duration of the shoot."
“Well, if you say so.” She doesn’t sound convinced.
“Photographing a house like Halcyon for Gilt is a wonderful opportunity for any photographer.” I add reasonably, in a final attempt to convince her, or myself.
Not that it isn’t. When Grace Conlin had called me about the chance to photograph Halcyon for a two hundred page book that would contain detailed articles and pictures of the most important homes in the United States, I couldn’t ignore the fact that it was a great career opportunity for me. Halcyon had never been really photographed before, and I would be the first photographer to do an extensive feature on one of the most beautiful homes in the United States, for a book from a publishing giant that would grace coffee tables and libraries from New York to Timbuktu.
Yet, my first instinct had been to refuse, and I’d almost said no. The thought of returning to Halcyon and facing the people who had hurt me was enough to make me panic. I didn’t want to face all those demons from my past. I didn’t want to return to the scene of my disillusionment and re-live the pain again.
“Of course you should know the house belongs to Jackson Lockewood,” Grace had said. She was one of those well-kept women whose age it was always impossible to guess. Her power and position however, were fully apparent as she sat across from me on her massive chrome and glass desk, with the Manhattan skyline showing through the windows behind her desk. She gave me an arch look to make sure I knew that she was talking about the Lockewoods. The two hundred year old dynasty that had survived the Civil War and the Great Depression, produced two presidents, three senators, successful businessmen, and at least one extremely eligible bachelor in every generation. For a moment, I wondered what she would say if I told her just how well I knew them.
“However, he doesn’t live there, and neither do his sister and aunt,” she had continued, unaware of the direction of my thoughts. "So it’ll be just you, Elaine Black, who’s writing the feature, Nick Fischer, who’s in charge, and whoever else he requires to assist. The staff at the house will assist you with everything you need.”
Ultimately, it was the chance to see Halcyon again without having to encounter Jackson or his family that had made me accept the job. That, coupled with the fact that nobody said no to Grace Conlin.
“I want you to be strong enough to face your memories without any problems,” May is saying now on the phone, “but as your friend, I can’t help being worried.”
“It’s just a few days.” I reassure her, “and I won’t be alone with my memories. Nick Fischer’s in charge of the feature and the shoot, and some short fiction writer with a couple of literary prizes is writing the article. Nick will probably try to get into her pants, and whether she says yes or no, there’ll be enough drama to keep my mind off my memories.”
“Ah, Nick.” I can almost hear May’s smile.“Cute bastard."
“Bastard being the operative word,” I say with a laugh. Nick Fischer is the m
ost talented editor I know. I first met him when he was a features editor at one of the men’s style magazines owned by Gilt. Since then he has risen to the position of international editor at large, with regular features in any one of the many magazines under Gilt’s portfolio. When he’s not trying to see if any of his lines would work on me, he can be a good friend, an effective mentor, and a perfect occasional date at work related events, but he’s also a man whore to the depths of his soul. With his smooth British accent, deep pockets, and impossible good looks, women fall over themselves to get to him, and keep coming back for more regardless of how carelessly he treats them.
“Maybe you should give him a chance,” May offers. “I’ve heard that promiscuous men like him often make ideal husbands when they settle down.”
“Try telling him he’s promiscuous,” I say with a laugh. “He thinks the words, ‘promiscuous’ and ‘man’ are synonyms." I shake my head. “Anyway, Chace didn’t have to be a man whore in the past to become an ideal husband.”
I can almost hear her happy smile. “Chace is different,” She says, “He was made for me.”
And Jackson was made for me. I don’t say it, though the words almost slip out. I shake my head, disgusted with myself. Seven years, and I still can’t imagine a life with anyone else.
“Well I’m going to take a nap,” May says, unaware of my thoughts, “being pregnant and all.” She pauses, “All the best in Foster, Liv, and stay happy.”
“I will.”
Less than half an hour later, I get to my stop. Across the street from the station, there are a couple of taxis. I originally planned to take one of them to the Foster Inn, but Nick sent a text saying he’ll come to the station to pick me up. He’s been in Foster with Elaine Black for almost a week already, working on the story and an angle for the feature.
My phone rings and I hold it to my ear with one hand while pulling the case containing my equipment, as well as my luggage and purse with the other.
“I can see you,” Nick says, his velvety voice and sexy accent filling my ears like a caress. No wonder the women could never get enough. “Just stay where you are." He continues.
I spot a deep green jaguar coming along the road. It’s sleek and sexy, with a sound like the deep purr of a jungle cat. It stops right by me, and the glass rolls down, revealing Nick’s dark gold curls, handsome face, and cocky smile.
He looks unbelievably hot in a dark blue polo shirt and tan trousers.