Matters of the Heart Read Free

don’t think that’s an option. He wants to meet in London. It shouldn’t take you more than a day. You can be back in time to get really depressed at the Cape. Maybe for New Year’s.” She laughed at what he said, and thought about it. The idea had some appeal. Finn O’Neill was an important writer, and would surely make an interesting subject. She was annoyed that she had no recollection of his face. “How do you feel about it?”
    At least she hadn’t turned him down flat, and Mark thought it would be good for her, particularly if the other option was going to Cape Cod by herself. She had a house there, and had spent summers there for years. She loved it.
    “What do you think?” She always asked his advice—although she sometimes didn’t take it. But at least she asked. Some of his clients never did.
    “I think you should do it. He’s interesting and important, it’s respectable, and you haven’t done a portrait for a while. You can’t spend all your time taking shots of monks and beggars,” Mark said in a light tone.
    “Yeah, maybe you’re right.” She sounded pensive. She still loved the portrait work if the subject was intriguing, and Finn O’Neill certainly was. “Can you get me an assistant over there? I don’t need to take one with me.” Hope was not a demanding person.
    “I’ll line someone up, don’t worry about it.” He held his breath, waiting to hear if she’d do it. He thought she should, and in a funny way, so did she. She was dreading the holidays, as she always did, and a trip to London might be a perfect distraction for her, particularly right now.
    “Okay. I’ll do it. When do you think I should go?”
    “I’d say pretty quickly, so you can be in and out by Christmas.” And then he realized again that it didn’t matter to her.
    “I could go tomorrow night. I have a few loose ends to take care of here, and I promised to call the curator at MOMA. I could take a night flight tomorrow and sleep on the plane.”
    “Perfect. I’ll tell them. They said they’d take care of all the arrangements, and I’ll find you an assistant.” It was never a problem finding people to assist her. Young photographers were always dying to work for Hope Dunne, and she had a reputation for being easy to get along with, which was well deserved. Hope was pleasant, professional, and undemanding, and what students or assistants learned from her was invaluable to them. Having freelanced for her as an assistant, even for a day, looked good on their résumés. “How long do you want to stay?”
    “I don’t know,” she said, thinking about it. “A few days. I don’t want to rush. I don’t know what kind of subject he is. It could take him a day or two to loosen up. Maybe book me for four days. We’ll see how it goes. That gives us time if we need it. I’ll leave as soon as we finish.”
    “Done. I’m glad you’re doing it,” he told her warmly. “And London is fun this time of year. Everything is all decorated and lit up, they’re not as PC as here. The Brits still believe in Christmas.” In the States, it was becoming a taboo word.
    “I like Claridge’s,” she said happily, and then she sounded more serious. “I might try to see Paul, if he’s there. I’m not sure where he is. I haven’t talked to him in a while.” It was odd to think that they had been married for twenty-one years, and now she didn’t know where he was. Her life these days always reminded her of the Chinese saying, “That was then, this is now.” It certainly was. And what a difference.
    “How’s he doing?” Mark asked gently. He knew it was a sensitive subject for her, but given everything that had happened, she had adjusted remarkably well. As far as Mark was concerned, she defined the terms “good sport” and “incredible human being.” Few people survived what she did as well as she had.
    “Paul’s about the same, I think.” She answered Mark’s question about her ex-husband. “He’s on