Gathering String (16 page)

“It’s a picture I took on Vancouver Island.”

“But it’s also painting,” he said and she nodded. “So how?”

“Well, it was an experiment really. I’d been reading about an old technique of fading down the colors to just the barest trace, and then painting them back in. It kind of pained me to do it at first; the greens of the original are so vibrant. But the more I worked it, the better it felt. I used an easel and watercolors and painted every single line.” She pointed to the canopy of leaves. “I had the best time playing those out. I can’t tell you how many different shades of green I used.”

He pointed to a shadowy figure, faintly marked with a few dark lines, in the misty background. “Just someone who wandered in,” her voice was very soft. “At first, I thought it ruined the shot, but it turned out he really made the whole thing.”

Jack shook his head, “It’s such detailed work. It must have taken forever.”

She nodded, “But I enjoyed every second. I got lost in it.”

“I can understand that. It’s what you love.” He looked down at her. The top of her head barely reached his shoulder. “Why aren’t you doing this kind of thing full time?”

“Oh, little things, house payments, health insurance, food and clothing.”

“Right.” He grinned. “But this is fabulous stuff, and here it sits, in this little house. People ought to see it. You’ve got to get it out there. Haven’t you ever thought …”

“Sure, of course I’ve dreamt about things like …” Tess felt a blush creeping across her cheeks, and didn’t give voice to them, saying instead, “Realistically there’s only so much time I can give it. I need to make a living.”

“I'm not buying that." She looked up in surprise, and his eyes were intense as he looked down at her. “Talent like this deserves everything you can give it, so screw making a living. Life is meant for taking risks."

"Come on, Jack," She laughed, suddenly uneasy.

"I'm serious. One second it's all in front of you, and the next it's fading away in the rearview mirror. You'd better get after it, because it would be a sin to let work like this just be a hobby. Dig in and see where it takes you." She stayed silent. He turned and set his empty beer glass down with a glance at his watch. When he looked at her again, he shrugged. “I'm sorry. It’s pretty late for the John Westphal, 'Take a Shot,' speech. Blame it on too much time spent with basketball coaches.”

She already knew better. If anyone knew that the only certainty in life was uncertainty, it was this man. “No," she had to clear her throat. "I’m flattered.”

He smiled and picked the book up off the table to put it back on the shelf, but as he started to flip it shut, another shot caught his eye and his breath. “Holy God, how did you ever get in so close? It looks like you’re right under it.” It was a picture of a shattered airplane, resting heavily on its splintered wing, engulfed in flames.

“Ah, well, actually that was only as far away as I got.” His brows drew together in question. “A few seconds earlier, I was in it.” His mouth fell open. “An aggressive landing,” she explained.

“When?”

“Three years ago," she paused, thinking for a second, “in another three days. It happened near Rapid City, during some Midwestern flooding."

He nodded. “Right, we had a mess here, too.” He looked back down at it. “Were you hurt badly?”

“Physically? Not too bad. I was certainly in the best shape of the three of us who were on board. Emotionally?” His eyes met hers as she hesitated. “I didn’t make the best decisions for awhile.”

She took the book and put it away, while he leaned over and grabbed his jacket off the sofa. “That’s a hell of a story. I’d like to hear more sometime.” She just smiled, and he looked at his watch again. “Well, I’d better go.” His arm went around her shoulders, his fingers lightly brushing the smooth skin of her shoulder in her sleeveless dress. They started toward the entryway. “Right?”

“I suppose so. You won’t be going back to Terrace Hill, will you?” The governor, his mother and his wife had all mentioned that they’d love to have Jack stay the night.

He shook his head. Opening the door, he looked up at the bright stars in a sky that hinted of spring. “It’s a great night for a drive. I’ll enjoy it.” But looking back down at her, holding his jacket over his shoulder, he was obviously reluctant to leave.

“So,” he said softly, and his hand moved down from her shoulder to her back, and pulled her close. The kiss was soft, and Tess felt her heart thump harder as his mouth moved over hers, growing gradually stronger, parting her lips, lingering finally at the corner, and at last pulling away. Standing close, he pressed his lips to her forehead, then said softly, “Think about what I said, about your pictures.” She nodded, a little too breathless to speak. “OK then.” She felt the resonance of his voice deep in her chest. “I’d better go.” But he bent his head instead, kissing her again, and she felt her knees go weak. “Right?” He pulled back just a little to speak, and she ran her hands over the heavy muscles across his shoulders, pressing hard. He dropped the jacket, and both hands went to her waist, pulling her closer. “You sure I should go?”

She sighed, putting her hand against his chest, tempted, but unsure. “I’m going to need a little time.”

He sighed, took a step back, and picked up the jacket. His dimples played along the corners of his mouth. “I don’t suppose you’d be interested in taking a trip up to Lindsborg sometime? I’d like to show you the operation.”

“I’d like to see it.”

“Then we’ll work something out. Well …” He would have reached out for her again, but her smile deepened, and she gave him a little push back toward the door.

“Good night, Jack,” she laughed softly as he rolled his eyes, and then he was gone, jogging toward his Jeep. She heard the roar of the engine as he blasted down her block, still smiling as she locked the door.

Tess enjoyed being wooed. With funny, quick emails, goofy texts, or a bunch of spring violets sent to her office, she heard from him nearly every day. A couple times he turned up at the
Record’s
front desk, waiting patiently, working on his laptop until she finished for the day to take her out to a movie or to grab a bite to eat. It was a long drive for such a simple evening, that always ended with necking in his Jeep, but he didn’t push for anything more.

Soon, on nights when she didn’t see him, there was a call, made late when he’d finally finished working. They always went on too long and kept her up too late. But he was fun to talk to and she learned more about him than she would have face to face, when her attraction to him distracted her from what he said. She heard more about his business, his farmland and his family in small mentions and quick funny stories.

He asked all kinds of questions too, the leading kind at which reporters are so good. He’d get her talking about the places she’d go and the pictures she’d make if she had more free time. The fact that he hardly slept amazed her. The fact that he spent a lot of time thinking about her was balm to her spirit.

Late one afternoon she came dragging home from a shoot down on the Raccoon River, muddy and not very happy with the results, to find him in her front yard, trimming the hedge. “How long have you been here?” she asked as he came over and took her camera bag as she got out of the car.

“Not long.” He held up the clippers. “I thought I might as well make myself useful. Your garage was unlocked. Maybe you ought to watch that.” She opened her front door. “I was in Ames, talking with an ag professor for a story, and I remembered that there’s a great little dive just a few blocks from here called Marino’s.” He put her bag down in a corner. “I figured why not take a shot. You hungry?”

She nodded, glad to see him, yet a little provoked. “Just out of curiosity, what would you have done if I’d have pulled in with a date in my car?”

He brushed the hair back from his forehead and shrugged with a hangdog expression. “I suppose I’d have pretended I was your gardener.” She had to laugh.

When he brought her home, the sun had just gone down. She fiddled with her keys, looking up at him as he leaned one heavy shoulder against the door frame, the spring breeze ruffling his hair. Pleasantly warmed by the wine and desire in his deep brown eyes, she asked, “Want to come in? It’s pretty early, especially for you.”

He stayed silent for a long moment, just staring down at her, and then he shook his head. “I caught you by surprise tonight.” He looked into her fatigue-ringed eyes. “You’re tired. And if I come in, I’ll forget my manners.” His hand ran down her arm as he pulled away, and she almost called him back. But she knew he was right. She was exhausted, grubby and travel-worn. And the simple courtesy of his courtship felt awfully good.

The following week she pulled a shoot in Sioux City. Normally photographing a cattle auction would have her grousing, but it occurred to her it wasn’t that far from Lindsborg. When his midnight call came in that night, she floated the idea. “I was wondering if I should swing by on my way back to Des Moines. I couldn’t stay long, but we could have dinner together or something.”

“Great! That’d be great.” There was no mistaking he was pleased. “I’ll be here at the
Journal
. Just come in on the main street and take a right on Maple …”

“It’s a small town, Jack. I’ll find it.” She hung up and snuggled down into the pillows with a little smile, thinking the time had come to find out if Jack Westphal was as good as he looked.

The visit to Lindsborg was a disaster.

Maybe it would have gone better if the last day of April hadn't pushed the season by hitting 90 degrees, or if air conditioner hadn’t quit in the company car she was driving. Maybe it was because all hell broke loose right after she arrived. Or maybe it was just the brass-haired bitch behind the counter.

Tess was hot and sticky, and her head ached when she came in the front door of the
Journal
. For a moment she stood taking in the beautiful old building, with its long windows and high ceilings, and she smiled at the musky scent of ink and the soft rumble that shook the floor from the press running in back. At both the
Tribune
and the
Record
, the presses were miles from the downtown newsrooms.

“Yes?” A woman with badly colored hair, swept up in a slightly askew French roll came from the side office to the long counter, just as Tess took a few steps toward the bay where a huge roll-top desk filled the space.

“Well he’s in a conference, no telling for how long. Mayor Sanderson can be real windy.” It sounded more like a threat than simple information.

“OK. Mind if I have a seat?” Tess plunked down in an empty chair near the counter. It was then that she noticed the glassed-in conference room, just to the left of the doorway to the back and, presumably, the pressroom. She could see Jack through the window sitting with one hip on the table, in deep conversation with a much smaller, older, balding man.

“He’s pretty busy,” the brassy woman sniffed and walked back into her messy office, leaving the door open so she could keep an eye on the new visitor.

For a few minutes Tess slumped in the chair, eyes closed. Jack said he'd updated the building, and he must have put in a whopper of a central air conditioning unit, because it was mercifully cool. When she opened her eyes again, she could see that the discussion in the conference room was turning heated. Jack’s mouth was pulled down in a thin line, and his arms were crossed over his chest as he shook his head.

Then a tall, thin man, grimy with ink, came out of the production room with a page in his hand and rapped on the door. Still arguing with the small man, Jack barely turned to take the sheet. But once he looked at it, he stood up abruptly, his mouth dropping open. In a quick stride, he was out the door, yelling, “Stop that thing!” He rushed toward the pressroom in the back, out of sight, but his voice drifted back, “Hold up guys!” Someone shouted something in return, and Jack yelled back, “I don’t care. It’s not going out like this.” And then his voice came even louder as he walked back, calling, “Laramie! What the hell is this? Did you even look at this picture?”

A moon-faced young man with a cheesy mustache leaned back in his chair to see around the edge of his cubicle. “What?”

“This guy who opened the new butcher shop out on the highway, he’s got horns coming out of his head!” Jack was almost past Tess when he caught a glimpse of her and stopped short. “Hey, I didn’t know you were here already. Give me a minute?”

She stood up. “What is it?”

He hesitated, clearly not pleased to show it to her, but as Laramie approached he handed it over, and turned to the boy, saying, “What else did you shoot out there? What else can we use?”

It was true. The new market had a pair of longhorn steer horns hung over the front door. Laramie had taken the picture out in the parking lot, probably because it was easier to shoot in natural light. He’d apparently crouched and shot upward, so that it appeared the man loomed above him. By sheer, dumb chance, the guy’s face was centered in the doorway. In the picture he seemed to be levitating in midair with the horns jutting out either side of his head. Tess had to catch her lower lip to keep from laughing out loud.

Jack stood at Laramie’s computer, clicking quickly through the shots, shaking his head and finally muttering, “These all suck.” She came over to take a look, and saw again that he was right. There were two more, similar to the satanic one on the press, and one of the owner with a woman, presumably his wife. Her eyes were shut. “We’ve got to run out there and get something better. Grab a camera, and let’s move. It’s costing a fortune, having that press stopped, but the paper’s not going out with crap like this.”

Before he could turn to the door, the small man he’d been arguing with in the conference room shuffled up behind him. “Jack, as long as the press is stopped, can’t you just pull that story?”