Red (18 page)

B
ecky Lynn propped the photograph of Jack on the nightstand by her bed and during the long hours of the evenings and nights that passed, she gazed at it, memorizing everything about the image—the fuzzy lighting, Jack's smile and the way his gaze boldly met the camera's, the slightly off-center composition.

And every time she did, a little thrill of excitement ran through her. It wasn't a good shot by any stretch of the imagination, but to her it was the most precious thing on earth. She had taken this photograph. It was hers. It represented something she felt but couldn't touch—the good things, the way her life had changed, the way she had begun to change inside.

Nobody could take that away from her.

She picked up the photo and touched its glossy surface with the tip of her forefinger. She hadn't seen Jack since that morning two weeks ago, and her mood had swung between relief and regret. Relief because when she faced him, she had to remind herself who and what she was. And regret because he made her forget.

She narrowed her eyes, gazing once more at the photograph she had taken of Jack, longing burning in the pit of her gut. She longed to know what he knew, longed to do what he did, to be a part of something so special and exciting.

What would it be like to be able to create beautiful images? What would it be like to be able to capture the essence of someone or something on film, immortalizing it for all time?

It would be wonderful, she thought. It would be perfect.

If she could do that, she would have everything.

“B
ecky Lynn!” Brianna raced into the break room. “Sallie just called. She needs you to bring her her color box. Right now.”

Becky Lynn jumped up, gathering together the remnants of her lunch. “Where is she?”

“At Jack's studio. She's doing makeup for him—” Brianna sucked in a quick breath. “This is the most important job he's ever gotten, and I could tell from her voice that things aren't going well.”

Jack's studio. A shoot.
Becky Lynn's heart began to pound, her palms to sweat. She acknowledged anticipation. Tossing the rest of her Coke and bag of chips into the trash, she hurried to the doorway and Brianna. “But how will I get—”

“I already called a cab.” The hairdresser stuffed two twenty-dollar bills into Becky Lynn's hand. “Come on, let's get Sallie's colors.”

They did, and by the time Becky Lynn made it to the front door, the cab was waiting. Eighteen minutes later, the driver pulled up in front of Jack's building. She paid the man and stepped out of the vehicle.

Sallie appeared at the front door. “Becky Lynn, thank goodness. Come inside. Quickly.”

Becky Lynn did as Sallie asked. From her position just inside the door, she saw Jack in his studio setting up. He
looked shaken. Becky Lynn frowned. She had never seen Jack look anything but completely confident.

“Becky Lynn?” Sallie called from the kitchen. “My colors.”

“Sorry.” Becky Lynn dragged her gaze from Jack and followed Sallie into the kitchen. Two models, dressed in silky wraparound robes, sat at the table waiting, talking softly, their makeup half done. They spared her hardly a glance.

Sallie took the box of eye and cheek colors from Becky Lynn's hands. “I can't believe I forgot this. I never would have in the old days. It shows how little fashion work I do anymore.”

Becky Lynn folded her arms across her chest. “Brianna said this was an important shoot for Jack.”

“Uh-huh.” Sallie tipped the first model's head back and began applying blush. “Tyler Creative agreed to give him a crack at Jon Noble Clothiers. They're a small, high-end chain with a store on Rodeo Drive.”

“How come Jack doesn't look too happy about it?”

Sallie rifled through the box. “The photographer he hired to assist him today got another gig and stood him up. Jack's called everybody he knows, and no one's available.”

Becky Lynn glanced toward the studio, then back at Sallie, butterflies in her stomach. “Can he do it alone?”

“Sure. Close your eyes, please.” Sallie tested a color on the back of her hand, then applied it to the model's eyes with short, sure strokes. “It's a matter of appearances, really. He can do the shoot without an assistant, but it won't run as smoothly, or go as quickly. He assured the people at Tyler that he was a professional operation, and now it'll look like he's—” She smudged the shadow and
made a sound of frustration. “I can't talk now, Becky Lynn. I have to concentrate.”

Becky Lynn backed out of the kitchen and into the hallway. She gazed into the studio, at Jack adjusting the lights, his mouth set in a grim, determined line.

She could help him. Maybe.

She shook her head and called herself a fool. What did she know about being a photo assistant? She should make certain Sallie didn't need her, then catch a bus back to The Shop.

Becky Lynn didn't move. One minute became several, and her heart began to thrum. She inched toward the studio doorway, stopping when she reached it. Still, he didn't look up.

She cleared her throat. “Jack?”

He met her gaze. She could feel his frustration and aggravation as an almost palpable thing. “Not now, Becky Lynn.”

She clasped her hands together. “Sallie told me what happened. Maybe I can…help.” The words squeaked past her lips, sounding high and frightened even to her own ears, and she wondered if she had lost her mind. What if he took her up on her offer?

He met her gaze again, this time in question. “You could help?”

“Maybe.” She drew in a deep breath. “You'd have to tell me what to do.”

He narrowed his eyes in thought, as if weighing her willingness to help with her lack of knowledge, then nodded. “You're about to get a ten-minute crash course in being a photo assistant. You're sure you can handle this?”

She clasped her hands tighter and tipped up her chin, not sure at all. “Yes.”

“Come on, then. We don't have a moment to waste.”

He moved through the studio like a whirlwind, dragging her into the maelstrom with him. “You'll have to adjust the lights and the reflectors.” He explained how each worked, how one reflector bounced light to fill in shadows, how another diffused and softened the light, eliminating any hard shadows.

“Make sure the seamless stays clean.” He motioned toward the large roll of white paper hung from a high rack at the back of the set. The paper had been unrolled to form a smooth, unrelieved background that spilled across the wooden floor. “Watch that it doesn't buckle or crinkle under the model's feet. Remember, anything out of order, no matter how small, can ruin a shot.”

“Watch for everything,” she murmured to herself, following him, wondering what she had gotten herself into.

He crossed to a roll-around cart. On it sat twin 35mm cameras. He picked one up. “You'll have to load and unload for me during the shoot. Watch.” He popped open the camera back, dropped in a roll of film, fitted the end of exposed film in place, closed the back and turned the crank on the top of the camera. “When I've finished one roll, I'll hand you the camera, you hand me the freshly loaded one. While I'm shooting, you unload and reload. If I have any special processing instructions, I'll have you mark it on the roll then. Got it?”

She nodded, so afraid, she could hardly breathe.

“Also, I'll need you to adjust the models and their clothes. Don't worry, I'll direct you, and I'll be specific. Tyler's art director will probably give direction, too. Whatever you do, don't get flustered. Even when you're uncertain what to do, act like you know exactly what
you're doing.” He looked her in the eye. “In this business, appearance and attitude is everything. It's all one big, beautiful illusion. If you look confident and self-assured, they won't question you.”

“Confident,” she repeated, drawing in a tight breath. “Self-assured. Anything else?”

“Yeah, no interruptions. If the phone rings, you get it. If someone comes to the door, get rid of them. I don't care if the president himself has come to call, I'm not to be disturbed.” He grinned. “Got all that?”

She didn't have a choice, because no sooner had the words passed his lips than the clients arrived. The two men—Tyler Creative's art director and Jon Noble Clothier's ad manager—were friendly, to a point. Becky Lynn had the sense that they were reserving judgment on Jack and his ability to handle their account until after the shoot.

Unlike the way it affected her, their
we'll see
attitude didn't seem to faze Jack. In truth, he seemed more cocky, more confident than she had ever seen him. If she hadn't known for a fact that ten minutes ago he had been nervous and on edge, she never would have believed it. And if he felt any hesitation, had any second thoughts about passing her off as his photo assistant, he hid them completely.

She sucked in a deep, calming breath. Create the illusion of confidence, she told herself. The illusion of self-assurance. They would believe it.

Jack introduced her as his new assistant, and she waited a moment for one of them to jump up and shout, “Fraud!” But neither did and the shoot got under way.

As he had when he'd shot Brianna, Jack fixed one hundred percent of his energy on his work. Nothing
escaped his eye; nothing intruded on his concentration. He was a marvel to watch, and several times Becky Lynn found herself holding her breath in awe.

After the first couple minutes of the shoot, she didn't have time for the luxury of awe. Jack's directions starting coming, and she had to react, and react fast.

“The model on the right's jacket is puckered…the one on the left's sleeve is slightly twisted…tilt the light on the right a quarter of an inch downward…tap the reflector in back…good, now get the light meter, it's on the trolley…”

When she shifted her attention momentarily from Jack to the models, she was awed all over again. They astounded Becky Lynn. They knew just what to do, just how to move. They never touched their hair, makeup or clothes, always waiting for her or Sallie to make the adjustment.

Becky Lynn watched them, envy balling in the pit of her stomach. Envy not of their beauty—although they were that—but of their self-confidence, of their ease with their own bodies. She couldn't imagine what it must be like to feel that way; she knew she never would.

Her biggest test came the first time she had to load film. Her hands shook so badly she almost dropped the camera. But finally, on her third try and just as Jack had to have the camera, she got it loaded. She handed it to him and he nodded, just tipped his head the littlest bit in acknowledgment of her accomplishment, and her heart took flight.

It was a giddy, heady sensation. That moment and every moment after. She forgot her nerves. She forgot she didn't know anything about photography and simply followed Jack's directions. She even found herself laughing at something Tyler's art director said, found herself reacting
to details she saw needed adjustment a moment before Jack asked her to.

It was weird, almost as if she could read his mind. She caught his eye once and saw that he thought so, too. She saw that he was surprised. And pleased.

Time flew. Before it seemed the session had even started, Jack called it a wrap. With a sense of shock, she realized she had done it. She had made it through the shoot without embarrassing Jack or herself.

She swung toward Jack, so happy she felt like shouting it, wanting to share her happiness, wanting his approval. Her smile faded. He was with the models, thanking them with hugs and kisses, congratulating them.

She turned away quickly, feeling foolish. Uncertain what to do with herself, uncertain what a real photo assistant would do, she made herself busy. She turned off the spots, hung and straightened the garments the models had worn, rolled up the seamless, arranged the equipment on the trolley.

Sallie came up to her and touched her lightly on the shoulder. “You did a great job, Becky Lynn. For Jack, thanks.”

Sallie's thanks warmed her, but Becky Lynn sensed the other woman was trying to make up for something her son had—or hadn't—done. “You're leaving?”

“I need to get back to The Shop. I've got a four o'clock appointment.”

“I'll come with you.”

“No.” Sallie smiled. “Take the rest of the day off. You earned it. Tell Jack I said goodbye.”

While the models changed into their street clothes, Jack huddled with the art director and ad manager. She couldn't
hear what they were saying, but she could tell by the animated way they talked, that they were pleased. Very pleased.

After much laughing and backslapping, Jack walked the clients to the front door. One of them looked back at her and smiled. “Thanks, Becky Lynn. See you next time.”

Next time, she thought wistfully, returning the man's smile and wave. She had fooled them; they had believed her to be a real photo assistant. But there would be no next time.

The models left next, leaving her and Jack alone. Suddenly self-conscious and uncomfortable, she clasped her hands together. “It was really fun, Jack. Thanks.”

He smiled and shook his head. “Hey, I should be thanking you. You did great, Becky Lynn. You were fantastic.”

She smiled, her cheeks warming. “I'm glad I could help.”

“As soon as Tyler pays me for the job, I'll get a check to you.”

“I didn't do it for money. You don't have to—”

“Yeah, I do. You did a job, Becky Lynn. And you did it well. I'll pay you the same thing I would have paid Troy.”

A dozen more “buts” jumped to her lips; she swallowed them all. She could use the money. “Well…okay.” She took a step backward toward the door. “I suppose I better go.”

“Stay.” She looked at him in question, and he dragged his hands through his hair as if needing something to do with them. “After a shoot, I have all this energy. If you leave now, I won't know what to do with it.” He motioned in the direction of the front door. “We'll sit on the porch. I'll get us a beer.”

“I don't know.” She caught her bottom lip between her teeth. “I shouldn't, I—”

“Aw, come on, just one drink.” He cocked his head and grinned at her. “What else do you have to do?”

She stuffed her hands into her pockets, not really wanting to go, anyway. “Okay. But I…I don't drink alcohol.”

“That's cool.” He went to the refrigerator and rummaged around inside, then looked back at her. “I have a Coke or an orange Nehi.”

“Coke.”

“Great. I'll be out in a minute.”

Becky Lynn stepped out onto the front porch. The late-afternoon breeze was cool against her cheeks, and she pressed her hands to them, realizing that she was flushed. Realizing that the fluttery sensation in the pit of her stomach was excitement instead of fear. She smiled to herself, then laughed out loud.

“You have a nice laugh.”

She swung around, startled and embarrassed. The heat in her cheeks became fire.

“You should do it more often.” He pushed through the screen door and crossed to her. “I hope a can's okay. I forgot to fill my ice trays.”

“That's fine.” She took the soft drink from his hand, not surprised to see that her own shook. She sank onto a stair.

Jack followed her down. He took a long swallow of his beer, then turned to look at her. “How old are you, Becky Lynn?”