“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.
She heard the door slam, and let the tension seep from the room before she released her own tightly held breath. “Phew, whatever I did to trigger that, I hope I don’t do it again,” she muttered. She unconsciously curved one hand over her stomach. It had started to churn as she watched Wyatt obliterate the writing on the calendar.
One thing had been clear from the appointments she’d seen, Keene Studio had been very, very active before it closed down. She wondered once again what had caused Wyatt to take such a long hiatus from a thriving business.
Maybe she ought to ask him outright. Wasn’t it natural to be curious? But he’d probably resent her questions. Better just to forget it. Because if she let her mind run wild, heaven knew what expectations she’d come up with.
Instead, she set about taking care of the chores he’d left for her. It was busywork, and that calendar, along with the comments Wyatt had made, bothered her. The collective we, for one thing. For another, on Friday he’d said he specialized in animals and sports events, so someone else did the weddings and family portraits.
Ninety-five percent of the appointments on the whiteboard had been weddings. If Wyatt wasn’t scheduled to take those pictures, then who was? Especially when he’d specifically said he’d never hired an employee before her.
Something didn’t add up. Casey paused in the middle of stuffing the envelopes, and rubbed her temples. Trying to figure out her new boss was too confusing.
She finished labeling the envelopes and gathered them up. On her way out to the post office, she paused in the waiting room.
With Wyatt gone, she was able to make a more leisurely circuit of the display photographs. The bridal shots were some of the best she’d ever seen. In no picture did the background detail detract from the main subject, a mistake too many amateur photographers were prone to make. Couples could pay thousands of dollars to have their special day preserved, only to be disappointed in the results. No, Casey couldn’t find a flaw in a single Keene portrait.
Which led her to wonder why the photographer no longer worked with or for Wyatt.
But she wasn’t being paid to analyze her employer or his freelancer. The pictures she’d taken Friday of the swim and baseball teams were excellent, too.
Deciding the mystery might have to remain a mystery, Casey locked the door and ran the stack of envelopes to the post office.
On her way back, she noticed that it was barely two o’clock, so she decided to stay until at least four-thirty or five to start designing an announcement for the studio’s reopening.
She hadn’t been away from the office more than ten minutes, was surprised to see the phone’s message light blinking when she let herself back in.
When she checked, the call turned out to be a hangup. “Shoot, I probably missed the one and only appointment.”
What if it’d been Wyatt, checking up on her? After that she could barely concentrate on the announcements. She didn’t want him thinking she was slacking off the minute his back was turned. But he’d told her to mail the photos…
As she searched the clip art files for a welcoming image for Wyatt’s former clients, she was startled by the phone ringing.
Casey almost fell in her haste to pick up the extension on the other desk.
“Hello,” she squeaked. Then, hoping to sound more professional, she added, “Keene Photography Studio.”
“Is this Casey Sinclair?” inquired a woman with a soft, melodious voice.
“Yes. Who is this, please?”
“Brenda Moore.” Casey didn’t recognize the name, so she was grateful when the woman added, “I’m Greg Moore’s wife. Greg is Wyatt’s best friend and accountant. I bet Wyatt hasn’t even mentioned us. Typical.” Her laugh was infectious.
“Actually,” Casey said, “he did mention you. If you’re calling to ask about my tax withholding form, I filled it out and dropped it at the post office today.”
“Oh, no. I stay out of Greg’s business. I have my hands full at home raising our two-year-old triplets.”
Casey’s gasp was audible. “Sorry,” she said hastily. “I’ve photographed twins that age. Wiggly, squirmy, each running in a different direction. Three must be hugely challenging. Rewarding, too,” she said quickly, not wanting to insult her boss’s friend. “I only meant they must keep you busy.”
“They certainly do.”
With that, Casey heard Brenda cover the receiver and order someone to put down the dinosaur and stop hitting his brother. For several seconds Casey’s ears were filled with sounds of stereophonic crying.
“Mrs. Moore. Brenda,” she finally said loudly, “Wyatt’s not here. He’s photographing a horse for a customer and will be gone most of the day. I’ll be glad to leave him a message for you. By the way, did you try earlier? I missed a call when I ran to the post office.”
“That was probably me. But it’s not Wyatt
