Man of Fantasy. Rochelle Alers
shiver of annoyance snaked its way up Nayo’s body, causing a slight shudder. “Mr. Campbell.”
“It’s Ivan. Please call me Ivan.”
She blew out a breath. “Okay, Ivan. As I told you before, the photos are one of a kind. Perhaps you can negotiate with the person who purchased the triptych. But I cannot and will not print duplicates for you no matter how much you offer.” She hesitated and exhaled a breath. “But I may be able to help you out.”
“How is that?”
“I have other photos featuring bridges you may want to look at.” Walking over to a side table, she picked up a small, printed card, handing it to Ivan. “This is my card. Call me and I’ll set up an appointment to give you a viewing at my studio.”
Reaching into the breast pocket of his jacket, Ivan removed a small silver case with his business cards. He took out a pen and wrote down his home number on the reverse side. He gave Nayo the card. “Call me and I’ll make myself available.”
Nayo turned the card over and read the print: Ivan G. Campbell, PhD. And, it appeared, the persistent well-dressed man was a psychotherapist. If she had to categorize his psyche, it was id-driven.
“I’ll call you,” she promised.
Ivan inclined his head as if she was royalty. He smiled for the first time. “I look forward to hearing from you.”
Nayo held her breath. Dr. Ivan Campbell claimed the most sensual smile she’d ever seen on a man. His was a face she wanted to photograph. “You will hear from me,” she said when she’d recovered her breath. Turning on her heel, she walked away from him, knowing he was staring at her.
She approached a woman who was a regular at the gallery, flashing a brittle smile and exchanging air kisses with her. “Mrs. Meyers. I hope you’re enjoying the exhibit?”
Why, she thought, did she sound so specious? Had she become as plastic as some of the people who fancied themselves art collectors because it afforded them more social status?
The elderly woman waved a hand bedecked with an enormous Tahitian pearl surrounded by large, flawless diamonds. “Of course I am, darling. I bought four featuring the Natural Bridges National Monument. I can’t believe you were able to photograph the night sky showing the Milky Way.”
Nayo wanted to tell Mrs. Meyers that although nearly one hundred thousand people stopped at the Natural Bridges National Monument in Utah each year, only a few took in the most breathtaking vistas, because they could only be seen at night. Whenever she visited a national park, Nayo made certain to seek out the park’s chief ranger and tell him about her project. Most were more than willing to accommodate her. A few had referred to her as the female Ansel Adams. Being compared to the celebrated landscape photographer and environmentalist gave her the confidence she needed to realize her dream.
“The nighttime images were spectacular,” she said, smiling.
“That’s so obvious, Nayo.” Mrs. Meyers waved to someone she recognized, then rushed over to talk to her, leaving Nayo to her thoughts. She’d invited her mother and father, but they hadn’t been able to get away from the restaurant they’d run for more than twenty years.
Her parents had been high school sweethearts who’d married a week after graduating from college. Her father joined the local fire department while her mother had gone into teaching. Marjorie Goddard went back to work six months after giving birth to her son, but opted to become a stay-at-home mom once Nayo was born. Meanwhile her husband, Steven, had risen quickly through the ranks of the small upstate-New York fire department. Everything changed for the Goddards when Steven was injured fighting a warehouse fire. Nicknamed “Chef” by his fellow firefighters, Steven took over the cooking duties at home after having been the cook at the firehouse for so many years. He gave up fighting fires, retired and bought a run-down restaurant from an elderly couple.
What had shocked Nayo was that her parents knew nothing about the restaurant business. But after several false starts, they attracted a loyal following at the restaurant with family recipes going back several generations. What had initially been a hobby for Steven and Marjorie Goddard was now their livelihood. Just as photography had become their daughter’s livelihood.
Nayo stared at Ivan Campbell. She noticed that he wasn’t eating or drinking but studying her photographs. She was still staring at him when he turned and caught her. He smiled and she returned his smile with one of her own. She dropped her gaze with the approach of one of the gallery’s employees.
It was hours later, when Geoff closed and locked the gallery doors, that Nayo tried recalling everything about Ivan Campbell. She didn’t see him as a man who would interest her romantically, but as a subject for her next collection.
Her focus wouldn’t be bridges or landscapes but people. Annie Leibovitz and Francesco Scavullo had become her idols, not only for their photographs of people but for the spirit they captured. Yes, she mused, she couldn’t wait to see Ivan again if only to ask whether he would let her photograph him.
Chapter 2
Nayo climbed the stairs in the three-story East Harlem walk-up. When she’d returned from her four-year, forty-eight-state project to photograph bridges, her first choice had been to return to Greenwich Village where she’d lived while a student at New York’s School of Visual Arts. However, most of the apartments she saw were either too small or too expensive. Turning her sights uptown, she’d found a large studio apartment in a renovated, three-story walk-up at Madison Avenue and 127th Street.
Geoff had offered her an apartment his family owned, but Nayo declined. It was enough that she’d lived temporarily at the beautiful St. Luke’s Place row house after she’d returned to New York. It took several months for her to secure a position as a cataloger for a small Upper East Side auction house. A month later she moved to East Harlem, a neighborhood like West Harlem that was undergoing rapid gentrification.
The door to the neighboring apartment opened as Nayo put the key into her lock. A ball of smoky-colored fluff darted from between her neighbor’s legs to wrap itself around Nayo’s. Bending slightly, she stroked the British shorthair kitten.
“How are you, Colin?” she said softly, smiling at the friendly cat with striking copper-colored eyes. The kitten meowed softly.
When she’d asked her neighbor, Mrs. Anderson, whether she’d named her feline companion for former secretary of state Colin Powell, the retired librarian sheepishly admitted she’d formed a lasting crush on Colin Firth after watching Jane Austen’s Pride and Prejudice over and over until she’d memorized the dialogue.
Lucille Anderson stared at the young woman who came and went inconspicuously. “I have a package for you, delivered earlier this morning.”
Nayo’s smile widened. “Thank you, Mrs. Anderson. As soon as I put my things down and change, I’ll be over to get it.”
Lucille nodded at the young woman she’d begun to think of as the daughter she’d never had. She’d married young, but lost her husband when he suffered a massive heart attack at thirty. She’d never remarried or had children, but managed to maintain a rather active social life. She was a lifelong member of a sorority, and along with her sorors she socialized with other librarians and schoolteachers.
“Do you have time for a cup of coffee and some pound cake?”
“I’ll make time,” Nayo said.
Nayo had become rather attached to the woman who reminded her of her paternal grandmother. Grandma Darlene had given her the money she needed to fulfill her dream to travel coast to coast photographing bridges and whatever else caught her attention. Unfortunately her grandmother hadn’t lived long enough to see her granddaughter’s success. A week after she returned to New York, Nayo was sitting in her parents’ living room when a call from a local hospital reported that Darlene Goddard had collapsed in a supermarket. By the time she and her parents arrived at the hospital, she was gone.
She