long. Her eyes were damp when she drew back. "It's been a long time."
"Yeah. About four years, give or take." He could have given her years,
months, and days. "You look great."
"So do you. I've never seen you dressed up before."
"Well-"
"Are you in New York on business?"
"Yeah." It was a bald lie, but he was less concerned with veracity than
with looking like a fool. "I read about your show." That was the truth.
Only he'd read about it at his breakfast table in California. Then he'd
taken three days' personal leave.
"So what do you think?"
"About what?"
"The show." She took his hand and began to walk.
"It's great. Really. I don't know anything about photography, but I
like your stuff. In fact-"
"In fact?" she prompted.
"I didn't know you could do something like this. Like this one." He
stopped in front of a print. It was of two men, woolen caps over their
ears, ragged coats pulled tight. One of them was lying on a sheet of
cardboard, apparently asleep. The other looked directly into the
camera, his eyes surly and tired. "It's very powerful and very
disturbing."
"Not all of New York is Madison Avenue."
"It takes a lot of talent, and sensitivity, to be able to show all the
sides equally."
She looked at him with some surprise. That was exactly what she had
tried to do, with her studies of the city, of Devastation, of people.
"You certainly say the right things for someone who doesn't know much
about photography. When are you going back?"
"In the morning, first thing."
"Oh." She walked with him again, surprised at the depth of her
disappointment. "I was hoping you'd be able to stay for a few days."
"I wasn't even sure you'd talk to me."
"That was a long time ago, Michael. And I wasn't reacting so much to
what was going on with you as to something that had just happened to me.
It's not important now." She smiled and kissed his cheek. "Forgive me?"
"That was my question."
Still smiling, she touched a hand to his face.
"Emma."
She jolted when Drew spoke from behind her. Guilt. It spread through
her sharply, as if he had found her and Michael in bed rather than in a
room crowded with people. "Oh, Drew, you gave me a start.
This is Michael Kesselring, an old friend of mine. Michael, Drew, my
husband."
Drew hooked one arm firmly around Emma's waist. He didn't offer Michael
a hand, but a brisk nod. "There are people who want to meet you, Emma.
You've been ignoring your duties."
"My fault," Michael said quickly, concerned with how quickly the glow
fled from Emma's eyes. "We haven't seen each other in a while.
Congratulations, Emma."