Just North of Bliss (36 page)

“I’d like to meet this Miss Monroe,” Tad
Schwartz said, grinning like an elf. Win had never known a more
appealing lawyer. He used to think of all lawyers as spawn of the
devil, but now he only considered most of them thus. “Her pictures
are swell.”

“Thanks,” Win said, contemplating whether to
sock Tad in the jaw for his last comment or shake his hand for
mentioning her name and complementing his photographs. He decided
either gesture would be stupid.

“Is she as lovely in person as she is in the
newspaper?”

Win shrugged. “I can’t really say. I met her
here at the fair and had an inkling she’d be a good subject, but I
didn’t know how photogenic she was.”

“I should say.”

“She’s a nice woman,” Win said, grudging the
words even as they slipped out of his mouth.

“Glad to hear it. Most of the time beauty
really is only skin deep.”

“She’s got a lot of—” What? What did Belle
have a lot of besides southern platitudes and euphemisms for the
Civil War? “—heart,” he said at last. “She likes kids, too.”

Tad eyed Win slantwise for a second. “Say,
Win, are you sure you don’t want me to draw up another sort of
contract?”

Win looked at him blankly. “Huh? I mean,
what do you mean, another sort of contract?”

Tad chuckled and forked a bite of polish
sausage and sauerkraut into his mouth. After he’d swallowed it, he
said, “You sound as if you’re smitten with the lady. How about a
marriage contract?”

Win jerked as if Tad had belted him in the
stomach. “What? I mean—Jesus, Tad, it’s not that sort of
thing.”

Who was he trying to kid? Tad or himself?
Hell, Win had never been more confused in his life. But . . .
Marriage? Sure, he’d thought about it. A lot. Especially after last
night, but . . . Marriage sounded so permanent. So unbreakable. So
. . . frightening.

“Damn it, Tad, Belle and I have a business
relationship. She and I are worlds apart, and I can’t imagine us
ever getting together in the way you mean. Shoot, she’s a die-hard
southerner. Her greatest joy in life is refighting the Civil War,
only she never calls it that.” His laugh came out sounding
strained. “I can’t even count the different names she’s got for it,
in fact. No.” He shook his head. “We’re definitely not heading for
the altar. Believe me. The very thought is ridiculous.” And if that
were so, why did Win’s heart cry out in pain when he said so out
loud?

“If you say so.”

Win didn’t like the way Tad continued to
watch him. “What?” he demanded. “Why are you staring at me like
that?”

“Methinks thou dost protest too much,” Tad
said, massacring Shakespeare even as his elfin grin appeared once
more.

“Nuts.” Win sawed off a piece of his pork
chop and chewed viciously. “You’re crazy.”

“If you say so.”

But Tad dropped the subject, and Win could
only be thankful. He definitely didn’t want anybody else shoving
his nose into his private life. Win was confused enough already. He
didn’t want witnesses to his state of utter distraction.

# # #

When Belle approached Win’s booth that
evening, she had prepared herself with every piece of emotional and
physical armor she could command. She told herself she would
not
succumb to any sweet talking, and she
would most assuredly not succumb to another attempt at physical
seduction. Not now that she understood how Win had manipulated her.
The foul fiend. The vile seducer. The Yankee devil.

It was a little after seven o’clock when she
approached his booth. The sky was getting darker, although the
weather remained warm. She’d changed from her day dress into a
sober walking dress of faun-colored jersey wool. She knew she
looked quite well, although she hadn’t gone out of her way to
primp. The only reason she’d pinned the amber brooch to her bosom
was that it looked quite fetching on her gown. The donning of the
brooch had nothing to do with Belle wanting to look good for Win.
Heavenly days, no! She wouldn’t stoop to such artifice.

The only reason she peered into windows,
seeking her reflection, as she walked along the Midway was to
assure herself that her hem was straight. She didn’t want to catch
the heel of her boot in it and rip the garment. She didn’t give a
hang if Win thought she looked attractive tonight. That was the
last thought in her mind.

She ducked into the Comfort Station and
adjusted her hat only because—because—the pins felt loose. Yes.
That was it. She was pleased to note that the mirror reflected a
woman who was not merely attractive, even pretty, but one who
appeared serene and secure in her own worth.

Too bad she didn’t feel the way she
looked.

She was, however, extremely glad she was
wearing her new brown kid boots and was carrying her new brown kid
handbag. And her new kid gloves, which she’d bought with money
she’d earned, confound her parents anyway, felt soft and delicious
on her hands. She looked quite elegant, in fact. The faun of her
walking dress made her complexion appear creamy, with a slight
peach blush to her cheeks. She wore nothing gaudy, and there wasn’t
a single thing about her that wasn’t proper.

She wore a corset, too, and Win would have
to kill her to get it off her.

Belle gulped at this last thought, and
reminded herself that she needed to keep a clear head. Business.
She had to think about business. That’s the only thing Win cared
about or understood: business.

She saw him working at his light standards,
moving them here and there, as she approached his booth. In spite
of her firm resolve, her heart hitched. He’d removed his jacket and
rolled up his sleeves. He’d loosened his tie for comfort, and the
fabric of his shirt pulled tight across his broad back and the
steely muscles of his arms. Belle’s mouth went dry, her pace
slowed, and she stopped walking at last, in order to catch her
breath.

This was terrible. Even looking at him made
her heart race and her skin heat up. And then there was the problem
of her dry mouth. Perhaps she ought to grab a sip of water before
she talked to him.

But no. That was only putting off the
inevitable, and Belle wanted to get it over with. With that thought
in mind, she squared her shoulders, patted her hat to make sure it
was secure, gripped her soft leather handbag more tightly, and
reached for the door.

Win spun around when the door opened.
“Belle!” The smile that swept over his face nearly caused Belle to
have a palpitation. His smile really ought to be outlawed as a
menace to polite society. He sounded happy to see her, too.

Belle knew she was going to have a job of it
to keep from falling under his spell again. “Good evening,
Win.”

He rushed up to her with his hands held out.
“God, I’m glad to see you!”

She drew back slightly. Win slowed down and
frowned at her. His hands dropped to his sides. “Say, Belle, are
you mad at me? Honest to God, I mean you no harm.”

“I’m sure that’s so,” she said in a voice
that was at least a hundred times more positive than she felt. “I
never thought you meant to do me harm.”
Liar
, she scolded
herself. But she didn’t want to get into an argument. Not tonight.
She wasn’t strong enough for a fight.

“Belle . . .” His face took on a pained
expression.

Belle didn’t understand his expression. In
truth, she didn’t understand anything—except that Win had business
papers he wanted her to sign. Business. She was such an idiot to
think a Yankee would understand anything unrelated to business.
Love, for example. She cleared her throat, which ached, much to her
internal fury. She wanted to be poised and dignified, not hurt and
humiliated.

Commanding herself to pretend everything was
ginger-peachy, she forced herself to smile. “You had some business
papers drawn up, I believe?” In order to do something with her
hands, she began drawing off her gloves. Even though her heart was
breaking, she felt rather sophisticated and was glad she’d chosen
to dress up this evening.

“Business papers.” Win stared at her as if
he didn’t know who she was all of a sudden. “Belle . . .”

“Yes.” She turned suddenly and her smile
vanished. “You’re the one who asked me to come here to sign
business papers, if you’ll recall. I’d like to do that right away,
if you please, because I need to get back to the hotel.”

“But . . . Dash it, Belle, we need to
talk.”

Drat. He would have to remember that,
wouldn’t he? Furious with herself and with him, she produced
another smile from some inner resource she hadn’t known about until
then. “Of course. Let’s talk, then, because I truly don’t have much
time. The Richmonds need me to watch the children while they attend
a new play at the theater.”

Win stared at her for approximately a
minute, although it felt like a hundred years, during which it was
all Belle could do to remain upright and tranquil. His shoulders
slumped at last and he heaved a defeated sigh. Turning toward his
desk, he muttered, “All right. Let’s start with the
partnership.”

“Very well.” Belle followed him to the desk,
where he drew up another chair and held it for her. It was the
first polite act he’d performed spontaneously. Perhaps that wasn’t
fair of her. It was the first polite act Belle could recall. “Thank
you.”

He sat on his desk chair and pulled a thick
envelope toward himself. He reached in and took out a document.
Shoving it at Belle, he said, “This is pretty simple, but you’d
better read it through. I don’t want you saying I tried to cheat
you.” He sounded bitter.

Belle looked from the document to Win. “Of
course, I shall read it. And if I decide to sign it, then I won’t
have any reason to say you tried to cheat me, will I?”

He only glared at her. Although she knew it
was going to be impossible to ignore that glare, Belle did her
best. Lifting the papers, she made a stab at reading through them.
After a couple of paragraphs, she decided the language of the legal
profession bore scant resemblance to the English language she’d
been speaking for so many years. She frowned. “I don’t understand
half of this, Win. Why do attorneys have to write things in
incomprehensible language?”

“I don’t know, but they seem to, don’t
they?”

When Belle glanced at him, he was smiling,
and she wished she’d kept her mouth shut. She could almost, with a
slight struggle, withstand his sulks, but his smiles dazzled her.
Forging on, she said, “What I think this means is that I will
receive fifty percent of the profits from any photographs you take
of me that you sell, through any agent or agency. Is that what you
think it says?”

“That’s what I told Tad to write, and that’s
the way I read it, too, so I guess that’s it.”

Well, that had been fairly easy. Belle
pointed to a paragraph. “It says here that you might market
photographs all over the world.” She searched his face. “Do you
really sell your work world-wide? I mean, like, in England and
France and Germany and places like that?”

“Photographs of my taking have appeared in
more places than that.” Belle heard the pride in his voice. “My
stuff has graced publications in India and Egypt, and it’s even
been published in a couple of booklets missionaries are handing out
in China.”

Mercy. This news fairly boggled Belle’s
mind. She wasn’t altogether sure she wanted to be recognized the
world over, even if she never traveled any farther than New York or
Chicago. On the other hand, she lived in Yankee-dom now, and money
was king. Money was handy, too; she couldn’t deny it. Money had
bought the lovely ensemble she was wearing right this minute. If
plastering her image all over the world would make her tons of
money, she might as well take advantage of the opportunity. It
wouldn’t last any longer than her looks did. “I see.”

“Also, if you’ll read farther, it will
mention royalties. I don’t generally sell my work outright, at
least to publications. To regular people who want portraits done,
of course, I sell it that way and expect to make no further profit.
But with images I sell to news and advertising agencies, I often
receive royalties. Any work featuring you that gets royalties—well,
you’ll get fifty percent of the royalties, as well.”

“I see.” She saw a huge, gaping blank, is
what she saw. She didn’t understand any of this. She wouldn’t say
so for worlds.

“The contract doesn’t mention a lot of the
ways in which it’s possible to make money with photographs,
either,” Win went on after a moment of silence as Belle stared at
the contract and wished she could makes heads or tails out of it.
“I sell photographs to lots of magazines, sure, but I also market
my work to different manufacturers of goods who advertise their
wares in a variety of ways. Some cosmetics companies like to
publish pictures of pretty women in an effort to sell their wares.
Pears Soap is a big buyer of my work, and a coalition of California
orange growers has written to ask me to produce a photograph
representing a healthy American woman. Sort of goes along with
oranges, I guess. You know: ‘Eat our fruit, and you too can be
healthy and beautiful.’”

Belle felt slightly faint as she
contemplated being part of what she could only consider a
fraudulent use of her image. Although, she supposed the orange
could be considered a health product. “Good heavens.” Her voice
reflected her faintness of heart.

Win’s grin tipped a little. “I know, it’s
kind of silly, but that’s what American enterprise is all about, I
guess. Image matters more than the truth.”

“That sounds horrid, Win.”

He shrugged. “I suppose so, but it’s the
reality of the world today. I do a lot of marketing on my own. I’ve
approached a man who wants to manufacture engine-driven horseless
carriages. I suggested that I photograph you, wearing goggles and a
long scarf, riding in the seat of an automobile machine.”