He’d wanted to spend his day off doing absolutely nothing, but the call from Carla had altered his plans. At first he thought of telling her he had papers to grade, which he did. But when he’d heard the excitement in her voice, Ivan remembered his promise to the designer that he would do everything he could to help her business. And that meant opening his home to strangers who wanted to photograph the interior.
Leaning to his right, he picked up the invitation. Getting out and attending the showing was what he needed, not obsessing about the loss of his brother. Yes, he mused, he would get out of the house, go to the opening and hopefully find something he could hang on his walls. He scrolled through his cell-phone contacts and punched in the number for a car service, telling the dispatcher he needed a car within the hour.
He owned a classic 1963 Chevrolet Corvette Stingray, which he stored in a nearby garage, but he’d decided not to drive downtown, where there was little or no parking, and risk having his car towed.
Forty-five minutes later, showered and shaved, he closed the door to his brownstone and walked over to the Town Car parked across the tree-lined street. The driver, leaning against the bumper, straightened and opened the rear door.
“Thank you, Robert,” Ivan said, smiling as he ducked his head to get into the vehicle. The dispatcher knew he liked riding with the elderly chauffeur.
“You’re welcome, Dr. Campbell.”
Ivan gave the driver the address of the gallery in Greenwich Village, then settled back to relax and enjoy the ride downtown.
His smile faded with the slam of the solid door. People in the neighborhood had begun calling him Dr. Campbell, rather than Ivan or Mr. Campbell. Referring to him by his title was not only too formal, but pretentious. There was one thing he knew he wasn’t, and that was pretentious.
He’d decided to become a psychologist, not to help people deal with their psychological or emotional problems, but to find out who Ivan Garner Campbell actually was, how to come to grips with his childhood. It’d taken years, but he’d accepted the advice he gave his patients: “Take control of your fears before they stop you from living your good life.”
He’d set up a private practice, purchased a brownstone in the Harlem historic district and dated women who kept his interest for more than a few hours—all that attributed to him living his good life.
Nayo Goddard felt as if she’d been holding her breath since Geoffrey Magnus opened the doors of the gallery for the caterer and his staff to set up for the opening of her extensive collection of black-and-white photographs. She found herself humming along to the prerecorded music of a string quartet.
The curious and critics from the art world sipped champagne, nibbled on caviar on toast points, sushi and tiny finger sandwiches while peering intently at the matted photos displayed around the expansive space in the beautiful, 1850s Italianate row house. The SOLD stickers affixed to three-quarters of the photographs exhibited was an indication that her first showing was a rousing success.
“You did it, darling.”
Shifting slightly, Nayo smiled up at her patron and best friend. “It looks as if we did it,” she said softly.
Her dark brown eyes met and fused with a large, soft, dove-gray pair. Geoffrey Magnus had encouraged her to follow her dream of becoming a photographer, even though her parents believed she’d wasted her time and education indulging in a frivolous hobby. Tall and slender with a mop of curly blond hair, Geoff was a trust-fund baby and the grandson of one of the most prominent art dealers and collectors in the Northeast.
His grandparents, who’d honeymooned in Mexico, met Frida Kahlo and her muralist husband, Diego Rivera, and purchased Frida’s Self-Portrait with Monkey. Their love affair with Mexican art fueled a passion that continued throughout their lifetime. Besides Mexican art, Geoff’s parents preferred folk art and spent most of their time traveling throughout the U.S. and the Caribbean looking for new talent. The result was one of the most extensive collections of nineteenth- and twentieth-century North and South American art ever assembled. Geoff followed in the family tradition when he enrolled at Pratt Institute and earned a degree in the history of art and design.
Nayo’s grandmother had surprised her with a graduation gift of an all-expense-paid trip to Europe for the summer. It was there she’d met Geoff when he was a student at Pratt in Venice, a six-week summer program in which students studied painting, art history, drawing, printmaking and Venetian art. She and Geoff hung out together for two weeks before Nayo traveled south to Rome. They’d exchanged telephone numbers, and it was another six months before they were reunited. Nine years later, Geoff and Nayo, thirty and thirty-one respectively, were still friends. She knew he wanted more than friendship, but she knew that becoming intimate would ruin their relationship. Her mantra “If it isn’t broke, don’t try to fix it” had served her well.
Geoff handed Nayo a flute of champagne, touching her glass with his. “Congratulations.”
Taking a sip, she smiled at him over the rim. “Thank you.”
Ivan moved slowly from one photograph to another, not wanting to believe he’d find himself so entranced with bridges. All the photos were numbered and a catalog identified the city and state in which the bridges were located. There were covered bridges in New England hamlets, beam-and-truss bridges in the Midwest and Pacific Northwest, natural-arch bridges in the Southwest and cable-stayed bridges along the East and West coasts.
The photographer, who went by the single name of Nayo, had captured the natural beauty of the landscapes regardless of the season. He’d found himself staring intently at a triptych of a snow-covered bridge in New Hampshire. The first shot was taken at sunrise, the second when the sun was at its zenith and the third at dusk. It was the same bridge, yet the background in each photo looked different because of the waning light and lengthening shadows.
Ivan uttered an expletive. He was too late. Someone had already purchased the trio of photographs. He tapped the arm of a passing waiter. “Excuse me. Can you please direct me to the photographer?”
The waiter pointed to a petite woman wearing a white, man-tailored blouse and black pencil skirt. “That’s Miss Nayo.”
Ivan smiled. “Thank you.”
He stared at the young woman with skin the color of milk chocolate. Her short, curly hair was the perfect complement to her round face. Throwing her head back, she was laughing as she stood next to a tall, blond man. Ivan found himself as enthralled with the photographer as he was with her work. The diamond studs in her pierced ears caught the light. The wide belt around her narrow waist matched her black, patent-leather, peep-toe pumps.
Weaving his way through the throng that was eating, drinking and talking quietly, Ivan approached the photographer. “Miss Nayo?”
Nayo turned to stare at the man standing only a few feet from where she stood with Geoff. Her practiced eye took in everything about him in one sweeping glance. He was tall and exquisitely proportioned. The jacket of his charcoal-gray suit, with its faint pinstripe, draped his shoulders as if it had been tailored expressly for him. A pale gray shirt with French cuffs and a silk tie in a flattering aubergine pulled his look together.
He was more conservatively dressed than the others who favored the ubiquitous New York City black. Her gaze moved slowly from his cropped hair and distinctive widow’s peak to his lean mocha-brown face and masculine features.
Her lips parted in a warm smile. She extended
