“No trouble at all.” I pull out a notepad from under the counter and pull off the top sheet. Picking up my favorite felt tip pen—Papermate Fine-tip Flair—I ask, “Do you have any special instructions?”
Her green cat eyes narrow like my question is too ridiculous to be believed. I normally enjoy interacting with the public, but that isn’t currently the case. “I’ll just take the standard package.”Margaret and Bob never do the standard package.
“That’s only two wardrobe and background changes,” I tell her.
“That will be more than enough.” Talk about a lack of imagination. She pulls a Coach wallet out of her Coach handbag—an uptight brand if there ever was one.
Glancing at the payment screen, she says, “Four hundred dollars? You’d better be good.”
“I am,” I assure her before adding, “The cost includes hair and makeup, set changes, one nine by twelve print of each pose,and of course all of the digital files.” Her eyebrow arches again. “We could be at it for hours,” I add.
As she taps her credit card on the screen, I open the calendar on my laptop. She agrees to have the man I’m assuming is her boyfriend here one week from today at ten a.m. Then she walks away without so much as a goodbye. After two steps, she turns around. “If the shots are any good, I might be interested in hiring you to put together a calendar for us.”
Tingles of excitement shoot across my scalp. “Like one of those firefighter calendars?” I wonder why I never thought of offering those before. I could probably make enough on them alone to pay for an expansion.
Snippy Von Sharpstein looks confused. “I don’t know anything about firefighter calendars, but if they do them, then yes. I suppose like that.”
I don’t believe for one second she’s never seen those smoking hot pictures of shirtless public servants, flexed muscles glistening in baby oil—an occasional puppy thrown in for good measure. Clearly, she wants me to think she’s above such common enjoyment, which makes no sense at all. Especially as she just booked a sexy session for her man friend.
As my new customer walks out the door, I look down at a copy of her receipt. Constance Brucker. The name suits her. Uptight and rigid. I hope Thomas Culpepper gives me more to work with. If not, there’s no way four hundred dollars will be enough.
CHAPTER TWO
THOMAS
“Yes, Mom,” I mumble into the phone while shoving my toiletries into a bag. My mother has once again called to itemize all the reasons I should not have accepted a job in Wisconsin. She repeats her favorite lament for what must be the hundredth time. “There’s so much cheese there.”
“There’s nothing wrong with cheese,” I tell her.
“There is if you have high cholesterol or you’re fat.”
“Good thing my cholesterol and weight are perfectly normal.”
“It’s probably not even good cheese. Just pedestrian cheddar,” she spits like there’s something wrong with my favorite fromage.
“I promise to take you to a cheese factory when you come visit me. That way you can complain to them directly. Perhaps suggest they change their evil ways and focus on a nice triple cream Explorateur.”
Ignoring my offer to let her vent her complaints directly to the source, she demands, “Visit you? Why in the world would I visit youthere?”
“Because I’m moving there?”
“Thomas,” my mom drawls exasperatedly like she is about to state something so obvious a clairvoyant could see it across continents. “I predict you’re going to miss New York City so much you’ll be flying home every weekend. You’ll be back for good in six months.”
“I’m going to love Wisconsin.” My tone is confident, which is not really the case. I grew up in Manhattan. I’ve lived here my whole life. If not for a recent upsetting event, I probably would have happily died here without ever entertaining the thought of another address.
“If you’re that sure you’re going to love it, why aren’t you selling your apartment? Answer me that.”
My apartment consists of the top two floors of a prewar brownstone on the Upper West Side—Central Park adjacent. At the very least its value will double in the next ten years. In the meantime, its rental will pay for the taxes and upkeep. Which I explain to my mother, yet again.
“You’re keeping it because you’re planning on coming home,” she insists.
“Think what you want, Mom, I need to get going. Today is my last day at the hospital and I don’t want to be late.”
“You’re still meeting us at Croquette at seven, right? Your father is coming straight from the airport.” My dad is flying in from Rome where he’s been speaking at an international cardiology conference. Instead of embracing retirement, he prefers to fly around the world and talk about his favorite topic, the human heart.
“I’ll be there,” I say before hanging up.
I love my mother. I really do. It’s just that she can be a lot. She and my dad met at Duke University where they got their undergrad degrees. They’re both from small southern towns, but the minute my mom stepped foot in Manhattan forty years ago—where my dad did his residency before accepting a job here—she shed any small-town vibe she might have once possessed. She set out to prove she was someone to be reckoned with, and she succeeded. I don’t know of one person who has ever been able to put my mother in her place, and believe me, Manhattan society has tried.
