The Baby Album

Casey took in the information, still gripping the envelope with the check. She walked quickly to her car without saying goodbye. She worried that if she didn’t get away, she might be sick on his shiny black boots and ruin everything they’d just agreed to.

WYATT STARED AFTER CASEY’S departing figure, and tried not to be concerned about what he was getting into as he loaded his gear into the back of his Subaru Forester. The woman seemed to be a bit odd. But certainly cute, as Mike had pointed out. Which had nothing to do with why he was hiring her. Wyatt couldn’t find one thing wrong with how she’d interacted with the kids, or with the glimpse he’d gotten of her pictures. And yet doubts about working with her swirled through his head.

CASEY HAD BARELY CLEARED the parking lot and turned the corner when her nausea made her pull over. She was thankful the clinic nurse had suggested carrying bags with her for the next few weeks in case morning sickness extended into all-day sickness.

Lord, she hoped it wouldn’t. If she could manage to survive on a partial wage until Wyatt’s business escalated, she might be able to get through the morning sickness without having to face too many clients, she thought as she waited for her nausea to fade, and for the shakes to recede.

Casey knew it wasn’t wise to remain parked so close to the school. Her new boss might pass and stop to see what she was doing. She needed a service station with a bathroom. No way could she drive all the way back to Round Rock with this taste in her mouth.

Determined not to worry about what she’d do if this morning sickness kept up, she pulled away from the curb and stopped at the first gas station to appear.

After sponging her face and rinsing her mouth, she actually began to feel human again. Casey found three broken crackers in a plastic bag at the bottom of her purse. She ate the pieces slowly, then couldn’t resist, and ripped open the envelope with the check. A hundred dollars. She squeezed her eyes shut with relief. Something to add to Wyatt Keene’s plus column—he was generous.

Driving home, Casey allowed her mind to drift back over the day. As well as generosity, Wyatt had everything going for him in the looks department. If he’d been off work because of illness, she couldn’t tell. He was robust, tan and all around fit. She’d admired the ripple of muscles when he bent to change filters. From any angle he was attractive.

Not that how he looked mattered. What mattered was if he liked the photos she’d taken today.

Since she was no longer nervous about being interviewed, Casey had time to ponder some of the unanswered questions she had about her new boss. Why had he closed a studio that was producing at its peak? She’d never pry, but she was curious. Or maybe it shouldn’t concern her.

But he seemed to jump right on her request to keep their private lives separate. What did he have to hide? Had he been in jail? The thought burst into her head.

Maybe he’d been in rehab for an addiction of some kind.

Stop jumping to conclusions, she warned herself sternly. In this case, guessing served no purpose. She just needed to dig in and do a good job. She and Wyatt could swap life stories later if they lasted as a team. Her energy would be better spent thinking about what he might say once she had to tell him she was pregnant and would need time off when she had her baby. A boss would have every right to be annoyed with an employee for not mentioning that during an interview.

Casey pressed a hand to her still-flat stomach. She needed time. Time to save money to buy a few baby supplies. And pay for the delivery. At the clinic, her exams were free, but there would be a fee at the hospital. All she could do now was hope for a lot of work and several months to squirrel away some savings.

The only thing for her to do was work hard on each job, and stay out of Wyatt’s way as much as possible.

IT WAS AFTER TEN Monday morning before Casey managed to stop throwing up long enough to shower, dress and haul herself out to her car. She felt worse than a cat dragged backward through a knothole. Probably looked like it, too.

Her stomach still felt awful as she drove up the on-ramp to the highway. Her cell phone rang unexpectedly. She pulled over to the shoulder and fumbled the phone out of her purse. She couldn’t imagine who’d be calling. “Hello,” she snapped, louder than necessary.

“Casey? It’s Wyatt Keene. Where are you? I thought you were going to be here at ten.”

“I’m on my way. Traffic,” she added hastily. “In the future I’ll have to allow more time for it.” She glanced in the rearview mirror and made a face because she realized her tone had been too harsh. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to bite your head off,” she said, trying to sound pleasant. “I pulled off the road to take your call. I thought maybe it was an emergency.”

“No, nothing like that. I don’t mean to rush you, but I just got a call from a horse breeder I worked for a couple of years ago. Bill Morrisette. He wants me to come out to his ranch and photograph a horse he plans to advertise at stud. It’s quite a drive to his spread—I figure it’ll take three hours. I told Bill I’d check with you, then let him know when I’ll be there. He needs to groom the stallion—you know, gussy him up for pictures. Take your time. Drive safely. There’s no huge rush or anything.”

Casey thought about the directions he’d given her to the studio. “I should arrive in twenty minutes. Twenty-five at the most.”

“Okay. I have a set of keys to the studio for you. I was wondering…I know we said you’d work on the notices at home…but since Bill phoned here, maybe other clients will, too, given that the number’s still in the phone book. If you don’t mind holding down the fort, we may pick up a few more jobs even before our notices go out. You’ll be paid for the hours, of course.”

“Sure, no problem. Will you have a minute to show me how your calendar’s set up? I know how we booked appointments at my foster parents’ studio, but yours may be different.”

“Is that who I spoke with in Dallas? The man who gave you glowing references was your foster parent?”

“If you talked to Len Howell, then yes. He and his wife, Dolly, own the studio. She mostly keeps the books and answers phones. I know it seems sketchy having him vouch for me, but I majored in photography at college. Besides, Len and Dolly wouldn’t risk their reputation giving me references I hadn’t earned.”

“I wasn’t criticizing. I—Wow, you’re touchy. He did give you high marks, but I judged your work myself. I didn’t mean to imply anything negative.”

“I am touchy,” Casey said hoarsely. “And it’s important you don’t blame the Howells if I screw up on this job. They’re good, decent people.”

“Okay, I believe you.”

Casey caught a trace of humor in Wyatt’s tone. “Um…I’ll climb down off my soapbox. If that’s all,” she said with less force, “I’ll get back on the road.”

“Right. By the way, I’ve printed the pictures we took Friday. You’ll get a chance to see them before I send them out.”

“How are the ones I took?” she asked, holding her breath.

“Good. Great, in fact. Overall, they’re better than those I shot of the soccer squads,” he said, sounding a little chagrined.

Oops. Casey wasn’t sure it was smart to show up her boss right off the boat.

“It’s okay,” Wyatt added hastily. “Friday was the first time I’ve touched a camera in ages. It’s understandable I’d be rusty.”

“I imagine so. Listen, traffic is picking up. If you want to be home from that ranch before dark, I’d better get going.”

With a murmured “So long,” Wyatt clicked off.

Casey put away her phone, musing again that this man certainly ran hot and cold when it came to conversations. He’d been a whole lot friendlier over the phone than he’d seemed in person.

THE STUDIO, A LOW-ROOFED, brick-and-brown-sided building, sat between two gravel parking areas on a pleasant street lined with green, leafy trees. Casey didn’t know what they were, just that they weren’t pecans, like those in her front yard. She found the parking strip assigned to Keene Studio and pulled in.

She was prepared to have to knock to get in, but the door was unlocked, and she stepped into a small, but well-appointed waiting room. All four walls held sample photographs. A good variety, Casey thought after a quick appraisal. The smell of photo paper, the beautifully matted and framed prints, reminded her poignantly of Len and Dolly’s studio. For the first time since she’d left Dallas to follow Dane, Casey suffered a stab of homesickness so acute it gave her pause.

When she glanced up, she found Wyatt standing in the doorway behind a counter. Over his shoulder she glimpsed familiar signs of a work area. It had been too long since she’d been in one.

To hide her nostalgia, Casey turned back to the wall of photos, all bearing the Keene logo in gold foil. There were portraits of families in various settings. There were several weddings, some formal, others less so. The photographed animals ranged from domestic pets like cats and dogs, to a potbellied pig, a huge yellow snake, and of course, bulls, broodmares and stallions. Casey skipped over several action sports pictures in black and white to study an eleven-by-fourteen photo of a craggy-faced man seated on a tractor. His dog, a brown-and-white spaniel, sat proudly on his lap. “What great detail,” Casey murmured in appreciation.

“My father,” Wyatt said crisply.

On closer inspection, Casey could see the resemblance. She glanced around at Wyatt, expecting him to say more, but he motioned abruptly for her to follow him into the back room.

She stepped beyond the curtain into a compact work space with all the necessary equipment for a full-service studio.

“Before I take you on the grand tour, here are keys to both doors.” He handed them to her, then pointed out desks, computers, printers and racks of software. Wyatt reached through another curtained doorway and snapped on a light in the room beyond. “This space is set up for taking indoor pictures. That’s basically it, except for a bathroom down the hall. I told you it was cramped quarters,” he said, walking Casey out to the workroom. Stopping at one of the desks, he picked up two manila folders. “I made labels for the families of the kids we took pictures of Friday. The ones who preordered copies. Mike noted the team next to each name. Would you slip the pictures into these envelopes and slap on labels? If you can operate a postage meter, stamp them and take them to the post office. It’s on the northeast corner of this street.”

“I can do that.”

“You listed design experience on your résumé. I found some glossy card stock in the storeroom I think might work for the announcements we discussed. Must’ve been left over from a holiday open house we held here after we bought this building. Oh, and in this folder are names and addresses of all our old clients.”

He frowned so fiercely, Casey didn’t dare ask who the we might be.

“Is this your appointment calendar?” she asked, moving over to an erasable whiteboard hanging on one wall. The date showing was June of the previous year. Most of the day squares were filled and quite a few seemed double booked. The majority were weddings, but there were other events, too, like bridal showers and birthday parties.

Wyatt stepped between her and the board. He grabbed an eraser hanging from a chain, and with short, angry strokes, cleared the writing. Including the month and year. When everything was gone, he let the eraser fall. “I don’t expect you’ll have any calls for appointments while I’m gone. If you do, there are paper calendars by each phone. Use those, or leave a note on that desk.” He pointed to the smaller of the two desks that sat opposite one another in the middle of the room. “I need to get going. Any questions, jot them down and we’ll go over them later. There’s no need to stay until I get back. Let me know what time you leave, and check both doors on your way out to be sure they’re locked.” Grabbing the black bag that sat beside the exit, he left without another word.