The Baby Album

Casey cleared her throat. She wasn’t sure what to expect. Was this the whole interview? Would he tell if she was still in the running? Would he pay her for today as promised?

Shifting from foot to foot, she finally blurted, “So what happens now?”

Wyatt slowly lifted his head. “You may go if you like. There’s no need to help me pack my equipment.” His tone was as cool as the look he bestowed on her.

A faint frown creased her brow. “How should I handle printing the pictures I took? I have an old printer dock at home, but I can’t get anywhere near the quality you’ll want. Or do you not want these? Was this all a waste of time?”

“No, of course not. I hadn’t considered the printing. I guess you’ll have to give me your chip. I assume you have a spare. I can off-load the photos and have this wiped clean for you when you come in on Monday to see if there are any assignments.”

She popped out the chip and paused before dropping it in his outstretched palm. “I’m confused. Did you just offer me the job? And what do you mean, come in to see if there are any assignments? Your ad made it sound as if you needed a full-time photographer.” She paused again. “Coach Granville mentioned that your studio’s been closed. For a year, I believe. Does that mean you’re starting over, rebuilding your clientele? I’m afraid I need a steady income, Mr. Keene. Being on call won’t work for me.”

“Please…call me Wyatt. Bear with me if you will. I’ve never hired an employee before. When I ceased operations, uh, yes, approximately a year ago, Keene Studio was producing at peak. It will naturally take some time to reconnect with clients who’ve moved on to other studios. Uh…my specialty is sports photography. And animals. I don’t know if you’ve had any reason to look through ranch trade magazines. I did most of those photographs for local ranchers. Weddings, run-of-the-mill family portraits were handled by…” His voice trailed off, and his hands stilled until he hurriedly picked up more equipment, shoving things carelessly into his bag. When he spoke again, his voice was rough. “All domestic photos were done by…someone else.”

Casey waited, still unsure what he expected her to say. Was he suggesting that he outsourced weddings and portraits? Hired a freelance photographer? In that case, what exactly was he hiring her to do?

As time dragged on and Wyatt didn’t elaborate, Casey felt the need to remind him that she was still there—waiting for clarification. “When I worked at Howell Studios in Dallas, I had a full range of duties. I printed all my own pictures, as well as many shot by the studio owner, Len Howell. He trusted me to choose templates, crop, enlarge, lighten. You name it, I did it.”

“Yes, I remember you had a lot of experience, and you came highly recommended. I thought…well, my studio isn’t large. Until the business takes off again I don’t see any need for us to trip over each other. Not when I can just as easily start out doing most of the computer work myself. Those services you mentioned—cropping, enlarging, touching up—I can do those for now.”

“I see. I hope you don’t think I’m too pushy if I ask how you intend to make your business take off? Are you sending notices to former clients to let them know you’re back at work?”

“I haven’t yet, but I suppose I could send out a flyer. Do you really think enough people would pay attention?”

“I had something classier than just a flyer in mind. A beautician I know mailed four-by-six glossy postcards to previous customers when she returned to work at a new salon after having a baby. I did the photo and designed the card. We showed her working on someone at her new station. She said most of her old clients came back.”

Wyatt’s eyes lit momentarily. “It seems plausible. We…I…have a comprehensive database on everyone who used Keene Studio in the past.”

“I’d be happy to help do up a postcard. If you’d like me to, that is.”

His nod was slow to come, but just when Casey thought they were making progress, Coach Granville came back and again claimed Wyatt’s attention.

Chapter Two

“EXCUSE MY INTRUSION,” Mike Granville said to Casey as he placed a hand on Wyatt’s shoulder and drew him aside. Wyatt hung back though, and the men stopped to talk only a few feet from Casey. She wasn’t trying to eavesdrop, but the coach made no effort to lower his voice.

“I’m assuming we’re finished here, Wyatt. Give me five minutes to make sure all the kids have left, and then I’ll be in my office. Stop by when you’re ready. I’ll give you a list of the parents who pre-paid for additional copies of the pictures you and Casey took today.”

“Sounds good, Mike. I’ll be there in a few minutes. Beginning Monday, Casey will be working with me,” Wyatt said with a quick glance in her direction. “I’ll probably continue to take any future sport photos you need. I thought I should let you know that my studio is going full service again. If you hear of anyone who’s looking for a photographer perhaps you could pass that on.”

“As a matter of fact, my wife’s parents are celebrating their fiftieth wedding anniversary at the end of this month. The other day I overheard Pat and her sister, Anna, making plans for a big blowout. If they haven’t booked a photographer yet, I’ll have Pat call the studio. Or is it better to drop by your house like I did?”

“Either. I need to get back in the habit of keeping regular studio hours. Or maybe I’ll split the in-studio time with Casey,” he added, as if in an afterthought.

Still listening, although she’d begun to collect her equipment, Casey couldn’t help feeling hopeful. Splitting studio time sounded far more promising than checking in for assignments.

Did that mean Wyatt Keene had had a change of heart? She hoped so.

The men wound down their conversation and Mike went out a back door, presumably to scour the locker rooms for any stragglers. Wyatt walked out on the court and began breaking down his tripods and folding light bars. He acted surprised to find Casey still there when he returned for the case of cameras he’d already packed.

“I thought you’d left. But I guess we didn’t set a time on Monday for you to come in. Is ten o’clock too early?”

“Ten is fine.” Casey waited, but Wyatt didn’t seem inclined to say anything more and turned to go. “I hate to sound crass,” she called, “but my understanding was that I’d be paid for helping out with your shoot today.”

“That’s right!” Wyatt dropped one case with a thump and awkwardly patted his clothing. At last he dragged a crumpled envelope out of his back pocket. “Greg gave me a check before I left his office the other day. Greg Moore. He’s my accountant,” he said by way of explanation. “Well, we’ve been best friends since college.” He broke off, looking uneasy, as if he’d shared too much personal information.

“I meant to let you know that in the future Greg will mail your paychecks. So if you move from your current address—not that you will, but if you do—he’s the one who needs that information.” Wyatt made a halfhearted attempt to smooth the wrinkles from the envelope before handing it to Casey.

“I’ll keep that in mind.” She glanced down, then back up, into his eyes.

“You know,” he said, speaking slowly and deliberately, “it just crossed my mind that instead of driving from Round Rock to Austin every day to see about work, in the beginning, anyway, perhaps you’d rather I called you if I’ve booked any sittings.”

“So, I’m hired, but I wait until you get in touch to say there’s a job for me to do?”

“For the time being I think that makes sense, don’t you?” He gathered his cases again.

“I’m not sure. How much will I earn?”

“Greg suggested a seventy-thirty split of the fees charged for your jobs. Once we get up to speed and you take on more sittings, we can renegotiate. Is that suitable?” Appearing antsy as he waited for her agreement, Wyatt backed toward the door.

Casey caught up quickly. “I don’t know if that will work for me. I need a job that can provide me with steady income from the get-go. This check you gave me today may keep my phone and electricity from being cut off,” she said with a nervous laugh, “but it won’t pay the mortgage that’s due at the end of next week.”

Wyatt stopped halfway out the gym door. “That’s a joke, right?” He frowned in confusion. “Mike heard you tell one of the students that you’re married. What about your husband, Mrs. Sinclair? Is he out of work?”

Casey winced as she stared into Wyatt’s dark, suddenly wary eyes. The whole miserable truth about her situation was on the tip of her tongue—every sordid detail about how Dane took off with his frat buddies, leaving her pregnant and dead broke. But she felt a rock wall go up between her and Wyatt Keene, and the words died in her throat before she could speak.

“It is Mrs. Sinclair,” she managed to mumble. “Please, just call me Casey. And if you don’t mind, I’d rather we kept our private lives private.”

She tried to ignore the surprise on Wyatt’s face, and told herself she hadn’t lied—exactly. She was technically Mrs. Sinclair. Her divorce wouldn’t be final for a few weeks. And if Keene seemed to want her married, so be it. For all she knew, he had a jealous wife at home who demanded that kind of assurance.

She needed this job more than she’d ever needed anything. There’d be time to make a full confession after they’d worked together for a while. After Wyatt saw how competent a photographer she was.

Maybe she didn’t seem quite as competent now, with her sweaty hands slipping nervously along her camera and purse straps. Casey chewed the inside of her lip and held her breath. She knew she’d been abrupt, even a little rude, and she wouldn’t have blamed him if he’d changed his mind about hiring her.

He didn’t do that. In fact, he seemed relieved when he said, “A professional relationship suits me just fine. Tell you what, since money is an issue and I can’t afford to lose you over something so simple, I have a plan. Your suggestion of notifying my old customers makes a lot of sense. Go ahead and come into the studio on Monday at ten. I’ll have a complete list of former clients ready. I’ll pay you to put together and send out the type of postcard you mentioned. Do you have a computer?”

“It’s not state of the art, but yes.”

“Well, if your equipment can handle it, I guess you can do a postcard at home. It’ll save you the gas. I’ll have Greg cut a check for supplies. That’s the best I can do until orders start rolling in.”

“I’ll take it,” Casey said, grateful she wouldn’t have to give up the job before she’d started. Still, the lump in her throat got bigger instead of going away. She hated lying to her new boss—even by ommission. It niggled her into blurting, “I’d never expect to be paid for doing nothing. I promise I’ll give you fair work for fair pay.”

“I don’t doubt it,” Wyatt said stiffly as he held the door open wider and motioned for her to pass. After it slammed behind them, he issued terse directions on how to reach Keene Studio.

Casey took in the information, still gripping the envelope with the check. She walked quickly to her car without saying goodbye. She worried that if she didn’t get away, she might be sick on his shiny black boots and ruin everything they’d just agreed to.

WYATT STARED AFTER CASEY’S departing figure, and tried not to be concerned about what he was getting into as he loaded his gear into the back of his Subaru Forester. The woman seemed to be a bit odd. But certainly cute, as Mike had pointed out. Which had nothing to do with why he was hiring her. Wyatt couldn’t find one thing wrong with how she’d interacted with the kids, or with the glimpse he’d gotten of her pictures. And yet doubts about working with her swirled through his head.

CASEY HAD BARELY CLEARED the parking lot and turned the corner when her nausea made her pull over. She was thankful the clinic nurse had suggested carrying bags with her for the next few weeks in case morning sickness extended into all-day sickness.

Lord, she hoped it wouldn’t. If she could manage to survive on a partial wage until Wyatt’s business escalated, she might be able to get through the morning sickness without having to face too many clients, she thought as she waited for her nausea to fade, and for the shakes to recede.

Casey knew it wasn’t wise to remain parked so close to the school. Her new boss might pass and stop to see what she was doing. She needed a service station with a bathroom. No way could she drive all the way back to Round Rock with this taste in her mouth.

Determined not to worry about what she’d do if this morning sickness kept up, she pulled away from the curb and stopped at the first gas station to appear.

After sponging her face and rinsing her mouth, she actually began to feel human again. Casey found three broken crackers in a plastic bag at the bottom of her purse. She ate the pieces slowly, then couldn’t resist, and ripped open the envelope with the check. A hundred dollars. She squeezed her eyes shut with relief. Something to add to Wyatt Keene’s plus column—he was generous.

Driving home, Casey allowed her mind to drift back over the day. As well as generosity, Wyatt had everything going for him in the looks department. If he’d been off work because of illness, she couldn’t tell. He was robust, tan and all around fit. She’d admired the ripple of muscles when he bent to change filters. From any angle he was attractive.

Not that how he looked mattered. What mattered was if he liked the photos she’d taken today.

Since she was no longer nervous about being interviewed, Casey had time to ponder some of the unanswered questions she had about her new boss. Why had he closed a studio that was producing at its peak? She’d never pry, but she was curious. Or maybe it shouldn’t concern her.

But he seemed to jump right on her request to keep their private lives separate. What did he have to hide? Had he been in jail? The thought burst into her head.

Maybe he’d been in rehab for an addiction of some kind.

Stop jumping to conclusions, she warned herself sternly. In this case, guessing served no purpose. She just needed to dig in and do a good job. She and Wyatt could swap life stories later if they lasted as a team. Her energy would be better spent thinking about what he might say once she had to tell him she was pregnant and would need time off when she had her baby. A boss would have every right to be annoyed with an employee for not mentioning that during an interview.

Casey pressed a hand to her still-flat stomach. She needed time. Time to save money to buy a few baby supplies. And pay for the delivery. At the clinic, her exams were free, but there would be a fee at the hospital. All she could do now was hope for a lot of work and several months to squirrel away some savings.

The only thing for her to do was work hard on each job, and stay out of Wyatt’s way as much as possible.

IT WAS AFTER TEN Monday morning before Casey managed to stop throwing up long enough to shower, dress and haul herself out to her car. She felt worse than a cat dragged backward through a knothole. Probably looked like it, too.

Her stomach still felt awful as she drove up the on-ramp to the highway. Her cell phone rang unexpectedly. She pulled over to the shoulder and fumbled the phone out of her purse. She couldn’t imagine who’d be calling. “Hello,” she snapped, louder than necessary.

“Casey? It’s Wyatt Keene. Where are you? I thought you were going to be here at ten.”

“I’m on my way. Traffic,” she added hastily. “In the future I’ll have to allow more time for it.” She glanced in the rearview mirror and made a face because she realized her tone had been too harsh. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to bite your head off,” she said, trying to sound pleasant. “I pulled off the road to take your call. I thought maybe it was an emergency.”

“No, nothing like that. I don’t mean to rush you, but I just got a call from a horse breeder I worked for a couple of years ago. Bill Morrisette. He wants me to come out to his ranch and photograph a horse he plans to advertise at stud. It’s quite a drive to his spread—I figure it’ll take three hours. I told Bill I’d check with you, then let him know when I’ll be there. He needs to groom the stallion—you know, gussy him up for pictures. Take your time. Drive safely. There’s no huge rush or anything.”

Casey thought about the directions he’d given her to the studio. “I should arrive in twenty minutes. Twenty-five at the most.”

“Okay. I have a set of keys to the studio for you. I was wondering…I know we said you’d work on the notices at home…but since Bill phoned here, maybe other clients will, too, given that the number’s still in the phone book. If you don’t mind holding down the fort, we may pick up a few more jobs even before our notices go out. You’ll be paid for the hours, of course.”

“Sure, no problem. Will you have a minute to show me how your calendar’s set up? I know how we booked appointments at my foster parents’ studio, but yours may be different.”

“Is that who I spoke with in Dallas? The man who gave you glowing references was your foster parent?”

“If you talked to Len Howell, then yes. He and his wife, Dolly, own the studio. She mostly keeps the books and answers phones. I know it seems sketchy having him vouch for me, but I majored in photography at college. Besides, Len and Dolly wouldn’t risk their reputation giving me references I hadn’t earned.”

“I wasn’t criticizing. I—Wow, you’re touchy. He did give you high marks, but I judged your work myself. I didn’t mean to imply anything negative.”

“I am touchy,” Casey said hoarsely. “And it’s important you don’t blame the Howells if I screw up on this job. They’re good, decent people.”

“Okay, I believe you.”

Casey caught a trace of humor in Wyatt’s tone. “Um…I’ll climb down off my soapbox. If that’s all,” she said with less force, “I’ll get back on the road.”

“Right. By the way, I’ve printed the pictures we took Friday. You’ll get a chance to see them before I send them out.”

“How are the ones I took?” she asked, holding her breath.

“Good. Great, in fact. Overall, they’re better than those I shot of the soccer squads,” he said, sounding a little chagrined.

Oops. Casey wasn’t sure it was smart to show up her boss right off the boat.

“It’s okay,” Wyatt added hastily. “Friday was the first time I’ve touched a camera in ages. It’s understandable I’d be rusty.”

“I imagine so. Listen, traffic is picking up. If you want to be home from that ranch before dark, I’d better get going.”

With a murmured “So long,” Wyatt clicked off.

Casey put away her phone, musing again that this man certainly ran hot and cold when it came to conversations. He’d been a whole lot friendlier over the phone than he’d seemed in person.

THE STUDIO, A LOW-ROOFED, brick-and-brown-sided building, sat between two gravel parking areas on a pleasant street lined with green, leafy trees. Casey didn’t know what they were, just that they weren’t pecans, like those in her front yard. She found the parking strip assigned to Keene Studio and pulled in.

She was prepared to have to knock to get in, but the door was unlocked, and she stepped into a small, but well-appointed waiting room. All four walls held sample photographs. A good variety, Casey thought after a quick appraisal. The smell of photo paper, the beautifully matted and framed prints, reminded her poignantly of Len and Dolly’s studio. For the first time since she’d left Dallas to follow Dane, Casey suffered a stab of homesickness so acute it gave her pause.

When she glanced up, she found Wyatt standing in the doorway behind a counter. Over his shoulder she glimpsed familiar signs of a work area. It had been too long since she’d been in one.

To hide her nostalgia, Casey turned back to the wall of photos, all bearing the Keene logo in gold foil. There were portraits of families in various settings. There were several weddings, some formal, others less so. The photographed animals ranged from domestic pets like cats and dogs, to a potbellied pig, a huge yellow snake, and of course, bulls, broodmares and stallions. Casey skipped over several action sports pictures in black and white to study an eleven-by-fourteen photo of a craggy-faced man seated on a tractor. His dog, a brown-and-white spaniel, sat proudly on his lap. “What great detail,” Casey murmured in appreciation.

“My father,” Wyatt said crisply.

On closer inspection, Casey could see the resemblance. She glanced around at Wyatt, expecting him to say more, but he motioned abruptly for her to follow him into the back room.

She stepped beyond the curtain into a compact work space with all the necessary equipment for a full-service studio.

“Before I take you on the grand tour, here are keys to both doors.” He handed them to her, then pointed out desks, computers, printers and racks of software. Wyatt reached through another curtained doorway and snapped on a light in the room beyond. “This space is set up for taking indoor pictures. That’s basically it, except for a bathroom down the hall. I told you it was cramped quarters,” he said, walking Casey out to the workroom. Stopping at one of the desks, he picked up two manila folders. “I made labels for the families of the kids we took pictures of Friday. The ones who preordered copies. Mike noted the team next to each name. Would you slip the pictures into these envelopes and slap on labels? If you can operate a postage meter, stamp them and take them to the post office. It’s on the northeast corner of this street.”

“I can do that.”

“You listed design experience on your résumé. I found some glossy card stock in the storeroom I think might work for the announcements we discussed. Must’ve been left over from a holiday open house we held here after we bought this building. Oh, and in this folder are names and addresses of all our old clients.”

He frowned so fiercely, Casey didn’t dare ask who the we might be.

“Is this your appointment calendar?” she asked, moving over to an erasable whiteboard hanging on one wall. The date showing was June of the previous year. Most of the day squares were filled and quite a few seemed double booked. The majority were weddings, but there were other events, too, like bridal showers and birthday parties.

Wyatt stepped between her and the board. He grabbed an eraser hanging from a chain, and with short, angry strokes, cleared the writing. Including the month and year. When everything was gone, he let the eraser fall. “I don’t expect you’ll have any calls for appointments while I’m gone. If you do, there are paper calendars by each phone. Use those, or leave a note on that desk.” He pointed to the smaller of the two desks that sat opposite one another in the middle of the room. “I need to get going. Any questions, jot them down and we’ll go over them later. There’s no need to stay until I get back. Let me know what time you leave, and check both doors on your way out to be sure they’re locked.” Grabbing the black bag that sat beside the exit, he left without another word.

She heard the door slam, and let the tension seep from the room before she released her own tightly held breath. “Phew, whatever I did to trigger that, I hope I don’t do it again,” she muttered. She unconsciously curved one hand over her stomach. It had started to churn as she watched Wyatt obliterate the writing on the calendar.

One thing had been clear from the appointments she’d seen, Keene Studio had been very, very active before it closed down. She wondered once again what had caused Wyatt to take such a long hiatus from a thriving business.

Maybe she ought to ask him outright. Wasn’t it natural to be curious? But he’d probably resent her questions. Better just to forget it. Because if she let her mind run wild, heaven knew what expectations she’d come up with.

Instead, she set about taking care of the chores he’d left for her. It was busywork, and that calendar, along with the comments Wyatt had made, bothered her. The collective we, for one thing. For another, on Friday he’d said he specialized in animals and sports events, so someone else did the weddings and family portraits.