Matters of the Heart Page 4

  “He had no choice. He got sick,” she said quietly.

  “Worse yet. That must have been tough for him. Cancer?” He wanted to know about her, and as they talked, she watched the movement of his face, and the bright blue of his eyes. She was glad they were shooting in color—it would have been a shame not to get the actual color of those eyes. They were the bluest she’d ever seen.

  “No, Parkinson’s. He stopped operating as soon as he found out. He taught for several years after that, but eventually, he had to give that up too. It was very hard on him.”

  “And probably on you too. That’s a brutal disappointment for a man in the midst of a career like that. Hence the divorce?”

  “That and other things,” she said vaguely, glancing around the room again. There was a photograph of Finn with a handsome young blond boy, who she guessed was his son, and he nodded when he saw her looking at it.

  “That’s my boy, Michael. I miss him now that he’s at school. It’s hard getting used to his not being around.”

  “Did he grow up in Ireland?” She smiled at the image. Like his father, he was good-looking.

  “We lived in New York and London when he was small. I moved to Ireland two years after he left for college. He’s an all-around American kid. I never really was. I always felt different, maybe because my parents weren’t born in the States. All they ever talked about was moving back. So eventually, I did.”

  “And Ireland feels like home?” she asked as their eyes met.

  “Now it does. I reclaimed my family’s ancestral house. Restoring it will take me the next hundred years. The place was falling apart when I got it, and parts of it still are. It’s an enormous old Palladian home built by Sir Edward Lovett Pearce in the early 1700s. Unfortunately, my parents died long before I got it back, and Michael thought I was nuts to take it on.” There was a photograph of it on the mantelpiece, and he handed it to Hope. It was a gigantic classic house, with a large stone staircase in front, and rounded side wings with columns. In the photograph Finn was in front of the house, astride an elegant black horse. He looked very much the lord of the manor.

  “It’s an amazing house,” Hope said with admiration. “It must be quite a project to restore.”

  “It has been, but it’s a labor of love. It will be my legacy to Michael one day. I should have it in decent shape by then, providing I live for at least another hundred years to do it.” He laughed as he said it, and Hope handed back the photograph. Now she was sorry she hadn’t shot him there. In comparison to the remarkable Palladian palace, his London mews house suddenly seemed ridiculously small, but all his publisher wanted was a head shot, and for that the cozy room they were sitting in was good enough.

  “I’d better get my assistant started,” Hope said, standing up. “It’ll take us a while to set up. Do you have any preference about location?” she asked, glancing around again. She had liked the way he looked when he was sitting on the couch, relaxing and talking about his Dublin house. And she wanted to shoot him at his desk as well, and maybe a couple of shots standing next to the bookcase. It was always hard to predict where the magic would happen, until they connected as she worked. He seemed like an easy subject; everything about him was open and relaxed. And as she looked into his eyes, she could sense that he was the kind of man you could trust, and rely on. There was a feeling of warmth and humor about him, as though he had a good understanding of people’s quirks and the vagaries of life. And there was a hint of laughter in his eyes. He was sexy too, but in a distinguished, aristocratic way. There was nothing sleazy about him, even though her agent had warned her that he was something of a womanizer. Seeing him, that was easy to understand. He was enormously appealing, seemed very caring, and was a gorgeous hunk of man. And she suspected that if he turned the charm on at full volume, he’d be hard to resist. She was glad she wasn’t in that position, and was only working with him. He had been very complimentary about her work. She could tell from questions he had asked her, and things he referred to, that he had Googled her. He seemed to know the entire list of museums she’d been shown in, some of which even she didn’t remember most of the time. He was very well informed.

  Hope went back downstairs and helped Fiona sort out the equipment. She told her what she wanted, and then went upstairs to show her where to set up the lights she’d be using. She wanted to photograph him first on the couch, and then at his desk. As she watched Fiona set up, Finn disappeared upstairs to his bedroom, and he reappeared an hour later when Hope let him know that they were ready. She sent the maid up to tell him, and he came back downstairs in a soft blue cashmere sweater the same color as his eyes. It was a good look on him, and his trim form looked sexy and masculine in the sweater. She could see that he had just shaved, and his hair was loose but freshly brushed.

  “All set?” She smiled at him, picking up her Mamiya. She told him where to sit on the couch, Fiona gave them a light reading as the lights flashed beneath the umbrella, and Hope set down the Mamiya and took a quick Polaroid to show him the pose and the setting. He said it looked great to him. A minute later, Hope started shooting, alternating between the Mamiya, the Leica, and the Hasselblad for classic portrait shots. She took mostly color, and a few rolls of black and white. That was always her preference for a more interesting look, but his publisher had been specific about wanting color and Finn said he preferred it too. He said that it felt more real to his readers and made it easier for them to connect with him, than in an arty black and white shot on the back of the book.

  “You’re the boss,” Hope said, smiling, as she looked into the camera again and he laughed.

  “No, you’re the artist.” He seemed completely at ease in front of the camera, moving his head and changing his expression by fractions, as though he had done this a thousand times before, which Hope knew he had. The photograph they were taking was for his eleventh book, and so far, all of them for the past twenty years had been best sellers. At forty-six, he was an institution in American literature, just as she was in her field. It would have been hard to decide which of them was more famous or more respected. They were an even match in their reputations and skills in separate fields.

  They shot for an hour, as she praised him for good moves and the right turn of his head, and she was almost sure she had gotten the winning shot in the first half hour, but she knew better than to stop there. She had Fiona move the light setup to his desk, and suggested he take a half-hour break, and maybe put a white shirt on, but leave it open at the neck. He asked if she’d like to stop for lunch then, but Hope said that if he didn’t mind, she’d prefer to continue working. She didn’t want to break the mood, or to get slow and lazy after lunch. She found that it was usually better to stay on it once she and her subject were working well together. A long lunch or a glass of wine could break the spell for either or both of them, and she didn’t want that to happen. She was delighted with what they were getting. As a portrait subject, Finn O’Neill was a dream and he was fun to talk to. The time was speeding by.

  Half an hour later, he was back in his living room, in the white shirt Hope had asked for, and sat down at his handsome partner’s desk. Hope moved the computer away because it looked so incongruous in that setting. He was a delightful subject, fooling around, telling jokes and stories about well-known artists, writers, his house in Ireland, and the outrageous stunts he had pulled on book tours in his youth. At one point he had tears in his eyes when he talked about his son and bringing him up on his own, without a mother after her death. There were so many magical moments while she talked to him that Hope knew she would have a multitude of great shots to choose from, each one better than the last.

  And then finally, after a few shots of him leaning against an antique ladder in front of the bookcase, they were through. And just as she said it, he exploded in laughter with a look of joy and release, and she stole one more shot of him, which could just turn out to be the best one. Sometimes that happened. And he gave her a warm hug as she handed her
Leica to Fiona, who took it reverently from her hands and set it on a table with the others. She unplugged the lights and began to break down the equipment and put it away, as Finn led Hope downstairs to the kitchen.

  “You work too hard! I’m starving!” he complained as he opened the refrigerator and turned to her. “Can I make you some pasta or a salad? I’m about to keel over from starvation. No wonder you’re so small, you must never eat.”

  “Usually not when I’m working,” she admitted. “I get too involved in what I’m doing to think about it, and it’s so much fun doing the shoot.” She smiled shyly and he laughed.

  “Most of the time I feel that way about working on a book, although at times I hate it too. Particularly rewrites. I have a nasty editor, and we have a love-hate relationship, but he’s good for the books. It’s a necessary evil. You don’t have that with what you do,” he said enviously.

  “I have to edit myself, but I have clients to deal with who commission the work, like your publisher, and museum curators, who can be pretty tough, though it’s different than doing rewrites must be for you. I’ve always wanted to write,” she confessed. “I can barely write a postcard—for me it’s all visual. I see the world through a lens, I see into people’s souls that way.”

  “I know, that’s what I love about your work, and why I asked the publisher to get you to do the photo for the book jacket.” He laughed then as he expertly made an omelette for them both, moving like a tornado in the tiny kitchen. He had already made the salad while they talked. “I hope my soul doesn’t wind up looking too black in the shots you took,” he said, pretending to look worried, as she looked at him intently.

  “Why would it? I didn’t see any signs of a black soul, or a dark spirit. Is there something I missed?”

  “Maybe a little friendly hereditary craziness, but it’s harmless. From what I’ve read about my Irish relatives, some of them were fairly nuts. But not dangerously so, mostly eccentric.” He smiled at her as he said it.

  “There’s no harm in that,” Hope said benignly, as he put their omelettes on separate plates. “Everyone has a little craziness in them somewhere. I spent some time in India after my husband and I split up, trying to figure things out. I guess you could say that was crazy too,” she said, as they sat down at the beautiful mahogany table in his cozy dark green dining room. There were paintings of hunting scenes on the walls, and one of birds by a famous German artist.

  “How was it?” Finn asked with interest. “I’ve never been to India myself. I’ve always wanted to go.”

  “It was fantastic,” Hope said as her eyes lit up. “It was the most exciting, fulfilling time I’ve ever spent. It changed my life forever, and how I look at everything, including myself. And there are some of the most beautiful spots on earth. I just opened an exhibit of some of the photographs I took there.”

  “I think I saw a couple in a magazine,” Finn said as he finished his omelette and started on his salad. “They were photographs of beggars and children, and an incredible one of sunset at the Taj Mahal.”

  “I went to some incredibly beautiful lakes too. They’re the most romantic places you could ever dream of, and some other places were the saddest. I stayed at Mother Teresa’s hospital for a month, and I lived at a monastery in Tibet, and an ashram in India, where I found myself again. I think I could have stayed there forever.” When he looked into her eyes, he saw something very deep and very peaceful, and beyond it, deeper than that, he saw two bottomless pools of pain. He could see that Hope was a woman who had suffered. He wondered if it was only about the divorce and her husband’s illness. Whatever it was, he could tell that she had been to hell and back, and yet she was incredibly balanced and peaceful, as she looked across the table at him with a gentle smile.

  “I’ve always wanted to do something like that,” he admitted to her, “but I never had the courage. I think I was afraid I might have to face myself. I’d rather face a thousand demons.” It was honest of him to admit it and she nodded.

  “It was wonderfully peaceful. We weren’t allowed to speak in the monastery. It was amazingly restful and healing. I’d like to go back sometime.”

  “Maybe you need to have some fun instead.” Finn looked suddenly mischievous as he said it. “How long are you here for?” He sat back in his chair and smiled at her. She was mysterious and intriguing.

  “I’m going back to New York tomorrow,” she said, smiling at him.

  “That’s not enough time to spend in London. What are you doing for dinner tonight?”

  “Probably sleeping, after a bowl of soup from room service,” she said with a grin.

  “That’s ridiculous,” he said with a look of stern disapproval. “Will you have dinner with me?”

  She hesitated and then nodded. She had nothing else to do, and he was interesting to talk to. “I didn’t bring any decent clothes with me,” she said, looking apologetic.

  “You don’t need them. You can wear a pair of pants and a sweater. You’re Hope Dunne, you can do whatever you want. Will you have dinner with me tonight at Harry’s Bar? As far as I’m concerned, it’s the best Italian food in the world.” She knew it well, but didn’t go there often. It was one of the most elegant dinner clubs in London, and anyone and everyone who was important would be there. Women would be dressed in elegant, stylish cocktail dresses, and the men wore dark suits. And he was right, the food was superb.

  “I’d love to. Are you sure you won’t be embarrassed that I didn’t bring anything dressy with me?” She felt faintly awkward, but liked the idea of having dinner with him. Among other things, he was intelligent, interesting, and quick. She hadn’t been bored with him for a minute all day. He was knowledgeable on a multitude of subjects, well read, well educated, and brilliant. The opportunity to spend a few hours with him and get to know him better was hard to resist. She had come to London just for him. And Paul had left that day.

  “I’d be honored to have dinner with you, Hope,” Finn said honestly, and looked as though he meant it. She was the most interesting woman he had met in years. “You can tell me more about India, and I can tell you all about Ireland,” he teased her. “And what it’s like to restore a three-hundred-year-old house.”

  Finn told her he would pick her up at the hotel at eight-thirty, and a few minutes later she and Fiona left, after the driver carried out all their equipment. Fiona had been quietly reading a book in the small sitting room, after the maid gave her a sandwich for lunch. She didn’t mind waiting for Hope, and had loved working with her that day.

  Fiona got all the equipment organized for Hope back at the hotel, and put away her cameras. It was five o’clock by the time she left, and she said it had been a great day. And after that Hope lay down on her bed for a nap, thinking about her conversation with Finn, and his invitation for that night. It was one of the things she liked best about doing portraits. The work itself wasn’t exciting, but the people she met were. He was such a talented man, as most of her portrait subjects were. She had always loved his work, and it was fascinating discovering the man behind it. He wrote somewhat eerie, even frightening books. She wanted to ask him more about it that night. And he seemed to be just as interested in her work.

  She fell asleep for two hours, and woke in time to shower and dress for dinner. As she had warned him, she wore black pants and a sweater, and the only pair of high heels she had brought with her, and was relieved that she had brought a fur coat. At least, she wouldn’t totally disgrace him at Harry’s Bar that night. She couldn’t compete with the fashionable women there, but she looked sober, and simple, and decently dressed. She wound her hair in a bun, and put on just a little makeup and bright red lipstick before she left her suite to wait for him downstairs.

  Hope was sitting in the lobby when Finn walked in promptly five minutes later, in a dark blue suit, and a beautifully cut black cashmere coat. He was a striking figure and heads turned as he greeted her and they walked out together. Several people recognized him as he escorted
her to the Jaguar he had left at the curb. This wasn’t the evening she had planned on before she met him, but it was fun being out with him, and she smiled broadly as they drove away.

  “This is great. Thank you, Finn,” she said warmly, and he turned to her with a smile. The restaurant was only a few blocks away.

  “I’m looking forward to it too. And you look terrific. I don’t know what you were worried about. You look very chic.” It had been a long time since she had been out to a fancy dinner. She didn’t do much of that anymore. She rarely went out in the evening now, except to museum parties, or her own gallery shows. Dinners like the one at Harry’s Bar were more part of Paul’s old world, and no longer hers. She was part of a more artistic crowd in New York, that was more in keeping with her work. They went to little bistros in Chelsea and SoHo, never fashionable restaurants.

  The headwaiter greeted Finn warmly, and obviously knew him well. He led them to a quiet corner table amid well-dressed diners from a variety of countries. She could hear people speaking Italian, Arabic, Spanish, Russian, German, and French as well as English. And Finn ordered a martini as soon as they sat down. Hope ordered a glass of champagne, as she looked around. The same cartoons were on the walls. Nothing had changed since the last time she’d been there with Paul. It had been years.

  “Tell me how you got started taking pictures,” Finn asked as their drinks were served, and Hope took a sip of her champagne.

  She laughed at the question. “I fell in love with cameras when I was nine. My father was a professor at Dartmouth, and my mother was an artist. My grandmother gave me a camera for my birthday, and it was love at first sight. I was an only child, so I was good at entertaining myself. And life was pretty quiet in New Hampshire when I was growing up. As long as I had a camera in my hands, I was never bored. What about you?” she asked him. “When did you start writing?”

  “Just like you. When I was a boy. I was an only child too, so I read all the time. It was my escape.”