When in Rome (Sweet Somethings Book 2) Read online

  Chapter 2

  Chance of a Lifetime

  A trio of overly cheerful birds in the magnolia tree outside my window wake me at dawn the next morning. Not that I got a whole lot of sleep. I spent most of the night mulling over Beth’s email and the conversation with my mom. Now, my usual dose of reality plus self-doubt drowns most of the excitement I felt during the half-hour drive home to my apartment in Marietta.

  The road to professional success has been a bumpy one, and I’m still miles from what I’d consider making it in photography. Some of my work has made it into minor art shows around the Atlanta area, but it never receives the sort of recognition that will bring national, or international, attention to my skill set. My studio and the services I offer—engagement, wedding, and maternity photography—make life comfortable for me, and I’ve gotten great reviews. Last year, I even sprang for business cards and a half-page add in the Atlanta Journal-Constitution to advertise my business, Picture Perfect. I booked three weddings and two bar mitzvahs within a week of the ad showing up in the newspaper.

  But did baby sister Sadie ever ask me to photograph any of her major life events?

  Nope.

  Not even when she still lived in Atlanta and got engaged to her college boyfriend, and that was before we went all nuclear war on each other at the family reunion.

  Thinking about those missed moments, the special memories I could’ve helped Sadie immortalize, makes me sadder than I’ve been in a long time. I roll over in bed and fumble on the nightstand for my smartphone. I’m punishing myself by checking Sadie’s Facebook, but I can’t resist.

  Her profile picture is a selfie with her son. Sadie’s blond hair, the same shade as mine, is clipped back from her forehead. So far, the baby has no hair to speak of, but he shares the powder blue eyes common in the Miller family. He favors Sadie in his coloring. I recognize a certain maternal glow in Sadie’s face, one I see a lot in the expectant moms I photograph.

  Scrolling down, I find a photo of the entire Mattingly family—Nelson, Sadie, their newborn son, and Nelson’s two daughters from his first marriage. They stand on the beach, and the picture has been touched up with one of those free filtering apps that are so popular these days. The caption makes me frown. “A glimpse into our perfect life.”

  Gag me.

  I toss my phone toward the foot of the bed. It hits the rumpled comforter and slides to the floor with a thud. Is 5:30 a.m. too early for ice cream?

  It’s definitely too early to call Beth, though I start to doubt I have what it’ll take to be part of an international fashion shoot.

  Those damn birds have backup singers now.

  With a groan, I wriggle to the center of my mattress and pull the covers up over my head. Even if I can’t get back to sleep, at least I can shut out the symphonic sparrows until a decent hour.

  The alarm clock reads 10:35 when I wake again. Groggy from the odd hours of sleep, I drag myself from under the covers and retrieve my phone.

  Six missed calls, all from my mother. She’s determined, I’ll give her that.

  I need to put all thoughts of Mom’s matchmaking and Sadie’s marital success out of mind and focus on the call I’m about to make. Raking my tangled hair back from my face, I bring Beth’s personal cell number up and hit send.

  “Beth Wright,” she says when the call connects.

  “It’s Kate Miller,” I answer, shuffling to the kitchen to start a pot of coffee.

  Papers rustle on her end, then I hear the creak of a chair. “Got my emails, I take it.”

  “Late last night.” The coffee filters are MIA. “So tell me about this shoot.”

  “It’s a phenomenal gig, Kate. All expenses paid, of course, and you get to rub elbows with some of the fashion industry’s most prestigious names.”

  I give up searching for the filters and lean against the counter. “And it’s in Italy.”

  “Yep. One of the assistant photographers on the team had to take a medical leave of absence, but since everything’s scheduled and prepped in Rome, it’s too late to cancel or change the dates. The director of the shoot’s a friend of a friend, and he contacted my agency to see if I could drum up a replacement.”

  “And you thought of me.”

  Beth falls silent for a few seconds. “Why wouldn’t I? You’re the best photographer I know.”

  “That doesn’t speak well for the other photographers you know,” I quip with a half-grin.

  “Kate. Really? You’re gonna do the I actually suck at what I do for a living thing?”

  Beth’s confidence in my abilities goes all the way back to college, but she swears I proved my talent when I shot her wedding photos. At the time, I was still wet behind the ears and could barely navigate the latest editing software. But she gushed over the final images and the custom album I made for her, both online and in-person, to anyone who asked for recommendations for photographers. A lot of my earliest clients came knocking because of Beth.

  “All right, give me the details,” I say. “The where is Rome. What about the when?”

  “The team flies out of New York at the end of April, and the shoot will run through June. There’s a little bit of wrap-up work to be done in July after everyone gets back. But you wouldn’t have to be involved in that.” A series of rapid clicks comes over the line, like Beth is typing. “I know it’s short notice, but I need to get an answer back to the director of the shoot by this afternoon.”

  That’s a little quicker than I’d anticipated. “I haven’t had a chance to look at my schedule.”

  “Can you think of anything off-hand that can’t be moved around?” Beth’s never been the sort to beat around the bush.

  “Nothing comes to mind. I just—”

  “Just what, Kate? How many other international photo shoots have you been invited to join? Aren’t you always saying this is the type of thing you’d love to break into?”

  She’s right. I can hem and haw about it all night long. I can compare my pathetic life to Sadie’s fairytale. I can wait for things to fall into place on their own.

  Or I can take control of my profession and do the things I’ve always been afraid to chance.

  Weddings and maternity shoots will still be here when I get back.

  “Okay, I’ll do it.”

  Beth gives a celebratory cheer. “Fantastic. I’ll send you the specifics so you can schedule your transportation. Email me your itinerary when you get things booked, and I’ll plan to pick you up. The photography crew will have all the gear you’ll need, obviously. But if you have your own equipment you want to drag along, you can. I know how you and your photographer’s eye like to wander off.”

  My Atlanta Skies series comes to mind. Maybe something even better will show up on the horizon in Rome. “I guess I’ll see you in a few weeks.”

  We say goodbye, and the line goes silent.

  I stare at my phone. I must be crazy. But I’m sick of sitting on the sidelines of my life, watching everybody else get what they’ve always dreamed of.

  It’s my turn.

  Chapter 3

  Big Apple, Big Ego

  I use the next three weeks to get my affairs in order before it’s time to fly up to New York. Fortunately, I only have two major events booked so far for later in the spring. Everything else can be pushed up to the beginning of April or back to later in the fall. After checking with my clients to make sure they’re cool with the changes, I make a few calls to the freelance photographers I hire on an as-needed basis, and all are willing to cover things for me. A little panic sets in at the idea of handing over so much of my business to people who are normally my assistants. But since they all know how I operate and the types of shots I like to capture, the subs will know exactly how to work the big jobs. I’ll still do the editing and deliver a st
ellar project on time.

  Now I’m free to prepare for what I hope will be my big break into international photography.

  I pack two suitcases for the trip. The soft-sided bag holds my clothes and shoes, while the other, a hard-sided case, protects the personal equipment that’s too heavy to bring onto the plane. My carry-on holds both my digital SLR camera and the film camera, with just enough room leftover for my laptop and a small purse.

  Excitement swells throughout the flight from Atlanta to New York. I nearly burst at the seams when I step through the secure checkpoint at JFK and see Beth waiting for me near the escalator leading to baggage claim.

  She holds out a travel cup of coffee. “How was the flight?”

  “Uneventful, as direct flights should be.” I take a swig from the cup, then point toward the escalator. “I checked some of my equipment. Let’s not let it ride the carousel too long.”

  Beth nods and follows me down to baggage claim. She helps me haul my two suitcases from the carousel and drags one behind her as we head for the exit. With the expertise of someone who’s lived in Manhattan for the better part of a decade, she hails a cab, loads my luggage into the trunk herself, then waves me into the backseat. The whole process takes less than five minutes.

  “Midtown,” she tells the driver, tacking on the address for her office. She crawls into the backseat with me. “It’s too early to check into your hotel. I have to check on a couple things at the office, then we’ll grab a late lunch. We’ll go to the hotel after that, and I’ll introduce you to the photography team you’ll be working with.”

  Conversation lapses as the taxi driver navigates the half-hour trip from JFK to Midtown. Beth checks email on her smartphone while I stare out the window at the passing views of Brooklyn and Long Island City. The cab enters the Queens-Midtown tunnel under the East River, and Beth puts down her phone with a comment about poor signal. After a few minutes of staring at yellow-lit concrete blocks, we reemerge on the east side of Manhattan. Craning around, I catch a glimpse of the United Nations building before we plunge into the urban crush.

  The route to Beth’s office takes us past the Empire State Building. “I should’ve planned a couple extra days to sight-see while I’m here,” I comment.

  “You should have some extra time when you get back from Rome.” Beth flicks a glance from the phone, back in her hand. She leans forward and taps the Plexiglas to get the driver’s attention. “There’s construction on 6th Ave between 34th and 36th Streets. You’ll need to go down to 8th to bypass it.”

  With a few final taps to her smartphone’s screen, she tucks it away in her purse. Several minutes pass in relative silence, then the cab pulls up in front of a forty-story office building. Beth hops out and waits for the driver to drag my luggage from the trunk before paying him. I slide from the backseat and stand beside her, letting my photographer’s eye scan the street in either direction.

  “Man, I’d love to take some shots around the city,” I mutter, half to myself.

  Beth smirks. “I forgot how long it’s been since your last visit. Didn’t have time for any artistic pursuits then either, did you?”

  I shake my head and follow her inside. She hands my suitcases over to the security guard at the main desk for safekeeping until it’s time to head to my hotel. Then we take the elevator to the thirty-seventh story, where her agency’s office occupies half the floor. With a brief stop at the receptionist’s station to pick up her messages, Beth leads me to her personal office and shuts the door behind us.

  “Make yourself comfortable,” she says, pointing to a leather sofa by the window and dropping into the chair behind her expansive desk. “I’ll just be a few minutes.”

  Instead of sitting down, I drop my carry-on next to the sofa and stroll the perimeter of the office. The bank of floor-to-ceiling windows with a stellar view of Midtown draws my attention, but so does the collection of framed photographs on the wall. Some are large prints of Manhattan landmarks, but the smaller frames hold candid and portrait pictures of Beth’s family.

  I point to one of her fourteen-year-old son in a basketball uniform. “I thought he was only a freshman. Did he make varsity?”

  She smiles, but doesn’t turn from her computer screen. “Yeah, but they had him warming the bench all season. Might get to play a few minutes next year if they move him up to second string.”

  I move to another photograph, showing Beth sitting with a woman a few years younger than us. “Your sister looks good.”

  “Marissa’s holding her own.” Now Beth shifts to face me, brushing her fingertips through her shoulder-length red hair. The gesture has always indicated that she’s got something on her mind.

  “What?” I ask.

  She pushes away from the desk and stands. “I should probably give you a heads up about the director of the photo shoot you’re joining.”

  “That sounds ominous.”

  “His name’s Domenic Varezzi. Ever heard of him?”

  “Doesn’t sound familiar. But I don’t normally operate in fashion.” I fold my arms and frown. “What’s the matter with him? Does he have two heads or something?”

  Beth tucks her hands into her pockets and narrows her eyes at me. “Your flair for sarcasm hasn’t mellowed much with age. You just . . . might want to keep the sharp side of your tongue under wraps while you’re in Rome.”

  “Worried I might make this guy cry or something?”

  “Kate, I’m serious.” She steps toward me. “He’s crazy good at what he does—just like you’re crazy good at what you do. But he’s not gonna take any shit from you. You’re not part of his usual team, you’re filling in for somebody he knows and trusts. I can vouch for you and your ability, but until you prove to him you’ve got what it takes to operate on an international shoot, he’s going to be watching for any misstep that would give him a reason to send you home in disgrace.” Her gaze turns hard. “And as much as I love you, even when you get bitchy, him kicking you off the shoot would reflect on me as the referring agent.”

  Taken aback, I drop my arms. “This is a huge chance for me, Beth. I’m not gonna screw it up by running my mouth when I shouldn’t.”

  “Can you guarantee that?”

  My lips tighten. I can’t guarantee anything, not when my success is on the line and my pride is already raw from so many personal hurts in recent years. Agreeing to this job is as much about proving myself to my family as it is gaining a foothold on a wider stage. But the last thing I want to do is make Beth look bad.

  “I can’t promise a snide comment or two won’t slip out,” I say. “But I promise to do my best to keep my temper in check. You know provocation is what makes me go all Chernobyl on people.”

  “I wouldn’t go so far as to describe a verbal smack down from you that way.” Her smirk returns. “I’m starving. Let’s grab some lunch, then we’ll get you checked into your hotel and introduced to Domenic and his team. I guess everything else from there will be up to you and your camera.”

  After grabbing a couple slices of greasy, wonderful New York style pizza, Beth and I head to the hotel where the photography team is crashing until we’re all scheduled to fly out tomorrow morning. She helps me lug my suitcases up to my room, then leads me to the conference room.

  “Domenic likes to reserve these sorts of spaces for his prep work,” she explains. “The hotel managers will often give him exclusive access so the team can come and go as needed. When you all get back from Rome, he’ll set up camp here again for a month or two, depending on how much needs to be done before sending the final photos to advertisers, clients, whoever else is involved in the job.”

  I absorb this information as we push through the heavy double doors. Beth strides confidently across the space, but I pause just inside to take everything in.

  The long conference table is scat
tered with laptops, cameras, cords, and a desktop computer hooked to a large color laser printer. A sideboard near the window groans under the weight of three huge platters of fruit, sandwiches, and drink carafes. Heavy curtains cover the windows, but the ceiling lights have been turned off in favor of several floor lamps, placed in the corners and glowing with soft white light rather than fluorescent bulbs. Given the amount of equipment and food, I expect the team numbers at least seven people, if not more.

  But at the moment, the only other person in the room is a tall, somewhat lanky guy leaning against the far wall, speaking on his cell phone in muted tones. Long legs cross at the ankles, accentuating the way his jeans hang on his hips. The placket of his yellow button-down shirt is open to mid-torso, revealing the white t-shirt underneath, and the cuffs of his sleeves are rolled up to his elbows. He holds one arm across his chest, the hand tucked in the crook of his other elbow, and the fingers holding the cell to his ear are long with artistic elegance. The pose lends an air of detached nonchalance to his angular frame.

  He glances up, assessing me from across the room. The contours of his face match those of his body, all angles and lines. His nose cants slightly to the left from the bridge, as if he broke it at some point in his life. A couple days’ worth of stubble blurs the sharp line of his jaw and chin. His thick, shoulder-length brown hair is pulled back into a ponytail at the nape of his neck, though a few shorter, wavy pieces have escaped to frame his face.

  An itch rises in my fingertips, like an urge to tuck those errant locks into place. Instead, I run my palm over my own pin-straight blond hair, making sure the loose length of it is free of static flyaways. I should have taken a couple minutes to secure it into a ponytail or topknot, like I normally do during a job.