Gibson's Girl

She looked astonished. “Why?”

The innocence of her query stopped him dead. “Because... because...” Because he didn’t want an assistant like her—an innocent from Iowa, for heaven’s sake! New York was a rough place, a hard place. A person needed to be sophisticated to survive. Chloe would get eaten in a matter of minutes.

“It wouldn’t work,” was all he said.

“You don’t think I can do it! You think I’m incompetent.” Her eyes accused him.

Gib scowled. “I do not! I’m sure you’re very competent—”

“I am.”

“—and I’m sure you’d make a fine assistant—”

“I would.”

“—but I don’t want an assistant!”

“You need one,” Edith said.

Both Gibson and Chloe snapped around to stare at the older woman sitting behind the reception desk. She gave Chloe a little nod and Gibson a benign smile.

“You need one,” she repeated.

“I have...what’s her name...?” He could never remember their names. They didn’t last long enough for him to bother to learn them. “Frosty?”

“Misty,” Edith said patiently. “And she’s about as reliable as her name.”

“Right. Misty.” He tried to make her sound tough and competent. She was neither. Misty was the latest in a long line of what Gibson called his “girls.” The young women who schlepped and carried, set up lights and reflectors, ran errands, loaded film and lugged power packs.

“Girls.” Edith sniffed every time he used the term. “That is totally politically incorrect.”

“So sue me,” Gibson muttered.

They were lucky he even recognized them as members of the species. Misty and her forerunners—he was sure there had once been one called Frosty—came in all shapes and colors and sizes. They also invariably came with nose rings, spiked hair, black leggings and very little brain. They had the half-life of a loaf of bread. And were as memorable.

Gibson figured he’d remember Chloe for a good long while.

“We’re going to need someone reliable,” Edith reminded him, “because I’m going to Georgia’s next week.”

Gibson scowled. He didn’t want to think about that. He relied on Edith for everything unconnected with the actual shooting of photos. She ran the studio, kept the ad reps at bay, dealt with the agencies, the caterer, the legion of bike messengers who rang the buzzer in the middle of his work. She was the person who kept him sane. He’d been appalled when she’d asked for a month off.

“A month?” She hadn’t taken more than a week at a time in the last ten years.

“A month,” she’d said firmly. “At least. I’ll need it to help Georgia with the babies.”

After fifteen years of a childless marriage, Edith’s daughter, Georgia, had picked this summer to be inconsiderate enough to have triplets!

“Three?” Gibson had been aghast when Edith had told him. “What’s the matter with just one?”

But apparently the quantity hadn’t been up for discussion.

“We’ll take all we can get,” Edith had said cheerfully. She was over the moon about going to North Carolina and helping out with her first grandchildren. In fact she could hardly wait.

Gibson hadn’t been able to say no. He knew she would have simply quit if he had. So he’d said, all right. But once he’d agreed, he’d shoved the thought right out of his mind.

“Get someone to take your place,” he’d finally told her yesterday when she’d asked if he had someone in mind.

“I think Chloe will do fine,” Edith said now.

“What?” Gibson practically shouted.

But Edith just smiled her I’m-going-to-be-a-grandmother-and-all-is-right-with-the-world smile. “She looks sane and sensible and responsible. And if your sister trusts her...”

“My sister—”

“Is a good judge of character,” Edith said firmly. “If he doesn’t want you as his assistant, you can take over for me all right?” she said to Chloe. Then she looked at Gibson “Do you want her?”

A damned unfortunate choice of words.

Gibson felt his tongue tangling with his teeth. No, dam it, he didn’t want her! Not in his studio every day. Not ever in his reception room. And not just because his body had had an inconvenient reaction to her, either.

But he knew he was stuck. Gina proposed, Edith dis posed. And he, heaven help him, was caught in the under tow.

But he wanted one thing understood. He turned on Chloe “I won’t be responsible for you!”

She looked at him, startled. “Of course not!”

He poked a finger under her nose and waggled it. “ won’t fight your battles for you or protect your innocence or mollycoddle you in any way!”

“I never asked—”

His finger stabbed the air, making his point. “I just wan it clear. If you stay, you’re on your own!”

She stood her ground, drat her. She even looked muti nous. He thought she might bite his finger.

“Yes, certainly!” she agreed. As he turned away, she asked almost belligerently, “Is there anything else?”

He whirled back. “Yes! You’ll damned well keep you clothes on!”

CHAPTER TWO

OF COURSE Gib had to find her a place to stay. Gina reminded him that he’d told her he would.

“I did what?” he yelped.

She had called late that evening just to “check on things”—to see how “darling Chloe” was, and to find out where he’d arranged for her to stay.

“You said you’d find her a sublet,” Gina told him.