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I have to resist the urge to run my knuckles across her cheek. This is bad. Not what I was supposed to be doing back in town.
I shove my hands in my pockets. “It makes perfect sense.”
“I decided I would get a job that was unrelated to what I love. I know my job isn’t important like yours is. But my job doesn’t define me, either.”
“Do you like it?”
“Except for how the hotel is going downhill, I enjoy it. It’s hard work but I love making the rooms beautiful for guests.”
“So are you the one who left the rosemary on the pillow?”
She grins, meeting my eyes again. She needs to quit doing that.
“You noticed?”
“I noticed.”
“Yeah. That’s the kind of thing that’s fun about the job. Plus the hours give me time for my hobbies. Like making wedding favors for friends, without trying to sell them. Or hanging out with Shirley and Doreen.”
“Who?”
She tells me a bit about her best friends—because of course Cora Caplin has octogenarian best friends.
“Going to Rivergreen is the best part of my week. We play games and I read to them, watch my favorite movies with them. I’d never want to ruin my time there by turning it into something Ihaveto do.
“It’s brilliant, Cora.”
“Do you ever feel that way about photography?”
I consider. “Sometimes. When I’m doing shoots just for money. I did a fashion show last year and that was painful.”
She shoots me a look. “Even with all the models everywhere?”
“Especially with the models everywhere.” I elbow her. “For real, though. They were all teenagers, and some of them had tragic stories. I wanted to do a profile on some of them, not the clothes.”
“You always did notice the things other people didn’t,” she says.
My stomach roils slightly.
We’re approaching the back door now, and Cora pulls a keyring from the little purse she’s got hanging on her shoulder.
“So no one’s missing those?” I ask.
“It’s a spare set. Louise has five of them. She says George keeps losing his and she needs to be prepared.”
I laugh. Then cut it off. George seems just the type to lose his keys each day of the week.
She singles out a key, and just as she points it at the lock, I reach out and grasp her wrist. It’s a gentle touch, but she still freezes.
Her skin is so soft and warm under my palm that for a moment I lose my words. Then I see those big eyes on mine and I remember. “We don’t have to do this, Cora.”
“Would you still try to break in and take the pictures yourself?”
“Probably. I pitched this story to a national magazine that feeds me a lot of work. I’ve never failed to deliver them the images I promised.”
“You’ve always been good on your word, haven’t you?”
The words are like a knife in my heart. I remember the way my best friend looked at me when I told him what happened. How this broken promise had been the last straw between our already tenuous friendship back then.
