Page 10 of Clear Path

“I hope he finds his way out of his troubles.” He couldn’t help but think of Joey’s question—what would he do with a second chance in a town like this?

“Where are you staying tonight?” Dot asked, pulling him out of his thoughts.

“I haven’t decided yet. Is there a motel nearby?”

She chortled. “The Inn’s your only official option, and they charge more per night than my weekly take. But I’ve got a spare room upstairs. It’s nothing fancy, but it’s clean. I’ll even throw in breakfast.”

He didn’t hesitate to accept the offer. “Thank you.”

He washed up in the restroom before returning to his table to finish his meal. As he scrubbed his hands, he reflected on the stark disparity between the revitalized square and the rest of the town. The town’s charming facade shielded visitors from the harsh reality. But the despair and neglect lurked just under the surface, as real as ever.

6

Union Hill

Rory set up the camera to transfer the photos to the editing software on her laptop. Then she crossed to the kitchen and poured a flute of champagne.

Her regular indulgence in sparkling wine was one of the few vestiges of her former life. She smiled faintly at the memory of her Great-Aunt Beatrice defending her habit to the rest of the family a few years ago.

“Why should she wait for a special occasion? She could get mowed down in the street tomorrow.” She’d turned toward Rory and said, “You drink your bubbly, love. The rest of you could take a lesson.”

Beatrice had gone on to point out that she always used her good china, even when she ate alone, and spritzed herself with Chanel No. 5 perfume daily, even if the only activity she had planned was to mop the kitchen floor. Rory laughed lightly at the recollection. Great-Aunt Beatrice got it.

She settled into her plush criss-cross platform chair and pulled up her message thread to pass the time while she waited for the images to transfer. She immediately wished she hadn’t.

Tripp had texted yet again. When she saw his name, she wrinkled her nose involuntarily, then scanned the message with a knot in her stomach. While gallery shows always involved a lot of coordination and confirmation of details, Tripp was involving himself in the nitty-gritty in a way that gallery owners seldom did. As if he was using the show as an excuse to contact her—repeatedly.

She blew out a breath, ruffling her hair, and opened the text:

Not sure you listened to my messages. Having trouble generating buzz for show. Had a brilliant thought. How about a series of nude self-portraits? A way to show the woman behind the camera. With your background, would be a smash.

Rory’s stomach roiled as a wave of disgust washed over her. She wasn’t stupid. She’d known from the beginning that a large part of the reason Tripp had agreed to hang her show was that she’d been a Next Icon contest winner a dozen years ago. A seventeen-year-old fashion runway model turned supermodel was the stuff of dreams, masturbatory and otherwise.

But she wasn’t that same girl anymore. She’d gone on to earn a degree in photography and had carved out a career for herself as a serious photographer in the hope that her body of work would eventually eclipse her physical body. Sometimes it did.

Apparently not this time. She was fairly certain she was the only fine art photographer in the country fielding unsolicited text request for nudes. Not that she had anything against nude photography or nude self-portraits. Plenty of photographers—fine art, commercial, and photojournalistic—worked with nude models.

But Rory didn’t, and Tripp knew it. He’d only felt comfortable making the request because once upon a time she’d been a glorified clothes hanger. And possibly because of her connection to Lucas. At this thought, her anger flared hotter.

She took a swig of champagne and waited for the fuzzy burn to hit the back of her throat. She continued to sip the drink and watched the sun slip lower in the sky. Once she had her temper in hand, she refilled her glass, picked up the phone, and called Tripp’s number.

He answered on the second ring, rush hour traffic noises behind him—idling buses, honking horns, and sirens.

“Aurora, it’s good to hear from you.” His voice was warm, almost intimate, as he greeted her. Then his timbre shifted, becoming petulant. “I was beginning to think you were ignoring me.”

“I was in the middle of a session when you called.” She kept her tone neutral.

He cut to the chase. “Have you had a chance to consider my proposal? It’s a surefire way to get the attention of the art world.”

She made a noncommittal “hmm” sound before she said, “I want to make sure I understand it. Text has no tone, you know, so I thought a conversation would be in order.”

“Of course,” he said, sounding eager. “We could even meet in person if you want. I’ll come to you.”

The last thing she wanted was Tripp showing up on her doorstep.

She shut the idea down instantly. “A phone conversation is more than sufficient.”

“Okay. Well, it’s pretty straightforward: You include some nude self-portraits in the exhibit. The art world goes wild.”

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