Chapter One
Darla looked again at the number on the door, a simple 83 in peeling gold foil. Yep, this was the place. Shabbier than she’d expected, at least from the outside—a dilapidated three-story walk-up in the artsy part of the city, flanked by a tattoo parlor and a pottery studio.
Well, no worries. This guy was supposed to be the best in the business. It was probably gorgeous inside.
It was hideous inside, a long climb up creaky steps to a hallway with a painted tin ceiling high overhead and plank floorboards underfoot. Shorter corridors branched off from the main one, creating a bewildering rabbit warren. Darla shifted her purse and tote bag from one shoulder to the other.
She wandered past heavy wooden doors that offered no clue to what was behind them, aside from suite numbers and the occasional cryptic hint scrawled on taped cardboard or on the door itself. “L.N.R.” “Karma, Inc.” “NO ADMITTANCE, THIS MEANS YOU!!!” Her nose wrinkled at the mingled aromas of incense, pizza, disinfectant, and, yes, stale pee. Some kind of New Age music emanated from an unseen location.
Had Konrad Drummond even mentioned the suite number when she’d called to schedule her appointment? She couldn’t recall, had assumed she’d have no trouble locating the studio of one of the country’s premier figure photographers.
Darla wandered the jumble of hallways, feeling her blood pressure surge with every step. She was in the wrong building—she had to be. Finally she happened on an open doorway. Green and mustard yellow paint had been splashed around the doorframe. Deliberately, it would seem. It looked like the Jolly Green Giant had upchucked a batch of bad peas.
She poked her head in. Here was the source of the incense and the New Age music. A zaftig woman sporting strawberry-blonde cornrows and a dashiki perched on a lawn chair before an eight-by-four slab of plywood, flinging green and yellow paint two-handed from plastic squirt bottles.
“Excuse me?” Darla said.
“Third door on your left.” The woman never broke stride.
“Uh...”
“Kon Drummond, right?” The woman glanced her way at last and paused to size Darla up. “Lonely housewife’s last hope. Third door on the left.”
“Thanks. I’ll... Third door on the left. Okay, thanks.”
Darla counted doors. One. Two. Lonely housewife? That was so insulting. To her and to Konrad Drummond. The man was an artist. A genius behind the lens. He’d been featured in major magazines and newspapers. 60 Minutes had done a segment on him last fall.
Three. She peered closely at the teeny label-maker strip slapped under the doorbell. “Photography.”
Photography? In itty-bitty ten-point type? That was how the preeminent photographic artist in the Northeast announced himself to the general public? No wonder Darla had missed it on the first go-around.
She raised her fist to knock as the door swung open. She jumped.
“My two-o’clock, I presume.” Konrad Drummond jerked his head, wordlessly ordering her inside.
“Uh, yes, I—”
“Take off your clothes.” He stalked back inside, ignoring her proffered hand. “Toss ‘em anywhere.”
The studio was, very simply, a holy mess. Tables heaped with photos and fast-food wrappers. Books and papers stacked on the floor. Supplies spilling from open cabinets. A stack of cardboard cartons teetered in a corner, each bearing a scrawled label. “Assorted Props.” “Filters.” “Reflectors.” “Costume Jewelry.”
The front end of the room, however, was all business. Stands supported lights and reflective white umbrellas. A stiff white paper backdrop draped the wall and floor.
Darla stepped tentatively inside. The heavy door slammed shut on its own, startling her. “Umm... I want to thank you for fitting me into your busy schedule, Mr. Drummond.”
His back was to her as he attached a camera to a tripod. He said nothing.
“I mean, I’ve seen your work. It’s, well, it’s incredible. I want you to
Darla looked again at the number on the door, a simple 83 in peeling gold foil. Yep, this was the place. Shabbier than she’d expected, at least from the outside—a dilapidated three-story walk-up in the artsy part of the city, flanked by a tattoo parlor and a pottery studio.
Well, no worries. This guy was supposed to be the best in the business. It was probably gorgeous inside.
It was hideous inside, a long climb up creaky steps to a hallway with a painted tin ceiling high overhead and plank floorboards underfoot. Shorter corridors branched off from the main one, creating a bewildering rabbit warren. Darla shifted her purse and tote bag from one shoulder to the other.
She wandered past heavy wooden doors that offered no clue to what was behind them, aside from suite numbers and the occasional cryptic hint scrawled on taped cardboard or on the door itself. “L.N.R.” “Karma, Inc.” “NO ADMITTANCE, THIS MEANS YOU!!!” Her nose wrinkled at the mingled aromas of incense, pizza, disinfectant, and, yes, stale pee. Some kind of New Age music emanated from an unseen location.
Had Konrad Drummond even mentioned the suite number when she’d called to schedule her appointment? She couldn’t recall, had assumed she’d have no trouble locating the studio of one of the country’s premier figure photographers.
Darla wandered the jumble of hallways, feeling her blood pressure surge with every step. She was in the wrong building—she had to be. Finally she happened on an open doorway. Green and mustard yellow paint had been splashed around the doorframe. Deliberately, it would seem. It looked like the Jolly Green Giant had upchucked a batch of bad peas.
She poked her head in. Here was the source of the incense and the New Age music. A zaftig woman sporting strawberry-blonde cornrows and a dashiki perched on a lawn chair before an eight-by-four slab of plywood, flinging green and yellow paint two-handed from plastic squirt bottles.
“Excuse me?” Darla said.
“Third door on your left.” The woman never broke stride.
“Uh...”
“Kon Drummond, right?” The woman glanced her way at last and paused to size Darla up. “Lonely housewife’s last hope. Third door on the left.”
“Thanks. I’ll... Third door on the left. Okay, thanks.”
Darla counted doors. One. Two. Lonely housewife? That was so insulting. To her and to Konrad Drummond. The man was an artist. A genius behind the lens. He’d been featured in major magazines and newspapers. 60 Minutes had done a segment on him last fall.
Three. She peered closely at the teeny label-maker strip slapped under the doorbell. “Photography.”
Photography? In itty-bitty ten-point type? That was how the preeminent photographic artist in the Northeast announced himself to the general public? No wonder Darla had missed it on the first go-around.
She raised her fist to knock as the door swung open. She jumped.
“My two-o’clock, I presume.” Konrad Drummond jerked his head, wordlessly ordering her inside.
“Uh, yes, I—”
“Take off your clothes.” He stalked back inside, ignoring her proffered hand. “Toss ‘em anywhere.”
The studio was, very simply, a holy mess. Tables heaped with photos and fast-food wrappers. Books and papers stacked on the floor. Supplies spilling from open cabinets. A stack of cardboard cartons teetered in a corner, each bearing a scrawled label. “Assorted Props.” “Filters.” “Reflectors.” “Costume Jewelry.”
The front end of the room, however, was all business. Stands supported lights and reflective white umbrellas. A stiff white paper backdrop draped the wall and floor.
Darla stepped tentatively inside. The heavy door slammed shut on its own, startling her. “Umm... I want to thank you for fitting me into your busy schedule, Mr. Drummond.”
His back was to her as he attached a camera to a tripod. He said nothing.
“I mean, I’ve seen your work. It’s, well, it’s incredible. I want you to
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