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Her dark brown eyes met and fused with a large, soft, dove-gray pair. Geoffrey Magnus had encouraged her to follow her dream of becoming a photographer, even though her parents believed she’d wasted her time and education indulging in a frivolous hobby. Tall and slender with a mop of curly blond hair, Geoff was a trust-fund baby and the grandson of one of the most prominent art dealers and collectors in the Northeast.
His grandparents, who’d honeymooned in Mexico, met Frida Kahlo and her muralist husband, Diego Rivera, and purchased Frida’s Self-Portrait with Monkey. Their love affair with Mexican art fueled a passion that continued throughout their lifetime. Besides Mexican art, Geoff’s parents preferred folk art and spent most of their time traveling throughout the U.S. and the Caribbean looking for new talent. The result was one of the most extensive collections of nineteenth- and twentieth-century North and South American art ever assembled. Geoff followed in the family tradition when he enrolled at Pratt Institute and earned a degree in the history of art and design.
Nayo’s grandmother had surprised her with a graduation gift of an all-expense-paid trip to Europe for the summer. It was there she’d met Geoff when he was a student at Pratt in Venice, a six-week summer program in which students studied painting, art history, drawing, printmaking and Venetian art. She and Geoff hung out together for two weeks before Nayo traveled south to Rome. They’d exchanged telephone numbers, and it was another six months before they were reunited. Nine years later, Geoff and Nayo, thirty and thirty-one respectively, were still friends. She knew he wanted more than friendship, but she knew that becoming intimate would ruin their relationship. Her mantra “If it isn’t broke, don’t try to fix it” had served her well.
Geoff handed Nayo a flute of champagne, touching her glass with his. “Congratulations.”
Taking a sip, she smiled at him over the rim. “Thank you.”
Ivan moved slowly from one photograph to another, not wanting to believe he’d find himself so entranced with bridges. All the photos were numbered and a catalog identified the city and state in which the bridges were located. There were covered bridges in New England hamlets, beam-and-truss bridges in the Midwest and Pacific Northwest, natural-arch bridges in the Southwest and cable-stayed bridges along the East and West coasts.
The photographer, who went by the single name of Nayo, had captured the natural beauty of the landscapes regardless of the season. He’d found himself staring intently at a triptych of a snow-covered bridge in New Hampshire. The first shot was taken at sunrise, the second when the sun was at its zenith and the third at dusk. It was the same bridge, yet the background in each photo looked different because of the waning light and lengthening shadows.
Ivan uttered an expletive. He was too late. Someone had already purchased the trio of photographs. He tapped the arm of a passing waiter. “Excuse me. Can you please direct me to the photographer?”
The waiter pointed to a petite woman wearing a white, man-tailored blouse and black pencil skirt. “That’s Miss Nayo.”
Ivan smiled. “Thank you.”
He stared at the young woman with skin the color of milk chocolate. Her short, curly hair was the perfect complement to her round face. Throwing her head back, she was laughing as she stood next to a tall, blond man. Ivan found himself as enthralled with the photographer as he was with her work. The diamond studs in her pierced ears caught the light. The wide belt around her narrow waist matched her black, patent-leather, peep-toe pumps.
Weaving his way through the throng that was eating, drinking and talking quietly, Ivan approached the photographer. “Miss Nayo?”
Nayo turned to stare at the man standing only a few feet from where she stood with Geoff. Her practiced eye took in everything about him in one sweeping glance. He was tall and exquisitely proportioned. The jacket of his charcoal-gray suit, with its faint pinstripe, draped his shoulders as if it had been tailored expressly for him. A pale gray shirt with French cuffs and a silk tie in a flattering aubergine pulled his look together.
He was more conservatively dressed than the others who favored the ubiquitous New York City black. Her gaze moved slowly from his cropped hair and distinctive widow’s peak to his lean mocha-brown face and masculine features.
Her lips parted in a warm smile. She extended her hand. “It’s just Nayo.”
“Ivan Campbell.” He took her hand, and it disappeared into his much larger one. She’d pronounced her name Naw-yo.
Nayo felt a slight jolt at the contact, and she quickly extricated her fingers to cut off the electricity. “Mr. Campbell, how may I help you?” she asked as Geoff walked away. Whenever she interacted with a potential client, Geoff made it a practice not to ingratiate himself.
Ivan found himself transfixed by Nayo’s face. Upon closer inspection, she looked as if she was barely out of high school. Her makeup was natural and flawless. The soft highlights on her eyelids complemented her lip gloss and the subtle blush on her high cheekbones. Her round eyes afforded her a slightly startled look. And it was through those eyes she was able to capture incredible images. When he’d stared at the photos of bridges, he felt as if he were viewing them through the camera lens.
“Carla Harris suggested I come to your showing to purchase some of your work. I need artwork for my walls for a magazine layout. I have no interest in paintings or sculpture, but I’m not opposed to photography.”
Nayo smiled and an elusive dimple deepened in her left cheek. “Carla is an extremely talented designer.”
“I agree,” Ivan replied. “She’s turned my home into quite the showplace.”
“That’s Carla. Have you seen anything you like?”
Yes, I have, Ivan thought. He wanted to tell Nayo she was as stunningly beautiful as her photographs. “Yes, I have but…” His words trailed off when her smile grew wider.
Nayo’s eyebrows lifted. “What is it, Mr. Campbell?”
“I noticed your photographs are numbered, and the ones I’m interested in have already been purchased.”
“They are one of a kind.”
“I understand your decision to exhibit a limited number of photographs in your collection, but I’m willing to pay twice as much if you—”
“I can’t do that,” she said, interrupting him. “The photos are part of a limited collection, and to print duplicates would be unethical. There are 120 photos in the bridges collection and not all of them have been sold. I’d like to think there are a few others you’ll find to your liking.”
Ivan’s impassive expression revealed none of what he was feeling at that moment. “I’ll give you four times the price for the triptych.”
A 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 opened the door to her apartment and Colin scooted in to jump up on a chaise where Nayo usually sat watching television. Whenever Colin came for an impromptu visit she and the kitten would cuddle together on the chaise.
“Don’t get too comfortable, Colin,” Nayo warned the feline that had settled down for a nap. “I’m taking you back home as soon as I change my clothes.”
Slipping out of her heels, she picked them up and placed them in a closet close to the door. She was fussy when it came to everything being in its place, because she had to eat, sleep and relax in a space measuring only 450 square feet.
A four-poster, queen-size canopy bed occupied one corner, along with an armoire, bedside tables, double dresser. A padded bench sat at the foot. A glass-topped table which doubled as a desk held a computer and printer. Nayo had stored mats and photo paper in canvas-covered baskets lined up along the wall. Her prized cameras, lenses and memory cards were in a safe in the back of the walk-in closet.
The kitchen along a brick-wall area served as her food prep and dining room. A butcher block table and four chairs covered with cushions in a sunny yellow created a cheery atmosphere for dining and entertaining.
Her small living room had a tufted sofa upholstered in the same fabric as the dining-area chairs. The coffee table was littered with art books and photography magazines. Another table against the wall held a flat-screen television and an assortment of Nayo’s favorite movies. Floor lamps and strategically placed track lighting afforded the apartment a warm glow.
It took her less than fifteen minutes to remove her makeup, apply a moisturizer and change into a long-sleeved T-shirt, jeans and a pair of running shoes. “Come, Colin,” she called out, whistling and clapping her hands.
Reaching for her keys, Nayo headed for the door, the kitten trotting after her.
Ivan found his mind drifting. He had to read the same paragraph twice. He taught two classes: Clinical Use of Free Association and Dreams, and Multicultural Psychology.
The first course explored psychoanalysis dating back to Freud’s study of his own patients’ dreams. Course work included the introduction to current theories about dreams, empirical research on dreams and clinical work with dreams. Freud’s The Interpretation of Dreams was required reading.
Leaning back from the desk, he stood and stretched his arms over his head. He’d spent the past four hours reading the papers of college students who, if their lives depended upon it, couldn’t type a simple sentence with the correct subject and predicate agreement.
He walked out of his home office at the same time the phone rang. Retracing his steps, he picked up the receiver on the wall phone. “Hello.”
“Ivan Campbell?”
His eyebrows lifted when the soft female voice came through the earpiece. “This is he.”
“This is Nayo.”
A smile tilted the corners of his mouth as Ivan sat on the edge of the mahogany desk. “How are you, Nayo?” He’d met her for the first time Friday evening and he hadn’t expected to hear from her just two days later.
“I’m good. Thank you for asking. I’m calling because I’ve found quite a few prints I believe would interest you.”
“Are they of bridges?”
“I have bridges and landscapes. However, before you see them I’d like to come and take a look at your home.”
“When would you like to come?”
“My days and hours are flexible, so I’ll leave that up to you.”
Ivan glanced at the desk clock. It was minutes before noon and he had to correct two more papers before tomorrow. He taught classes on Monday and Wednesday. “I have some time this afternoon.”
“Where do you live?”
He gave Nayo his address. “Where do you live?”
Nayo’s tingling laugh came through the earpiece. “I’m within walking distance of you.”
“Where do you live, Nayo?” Ivan asked again.
“I’ll tell when I see you.”
“When should I expect you?”
There came a pause. “I’ll be over in half an hour.”
“Have you—” Ivan’s words trailed off when he heard Nayo had hung up. He’d just replaced the receiver when the phone rang again. “Nayo?”
“Sorry, brother, but I’m not Nayo.”
“DG, what’s up?”
“Don’t plan anything for the first week in June.”
A slight furrow appeared between Ivan’s eyes. “What’s going on, Duncan?”
“Tamara and I are getting married, and I’d like for you to be my best man.”
Ivan went completely still. It was the second time in two months that one of his best friends had announced he was getting married. He’d met Duncan Gilmore and Kyle Chatham when they were in the same second-grade class. They also lived in the same building in a public housing complex. The three had become closer than brothers, watching one another’s back. Even when Duncan’s mother died and he went to live with an aunt in Brooklyn, they’d never lost touch.
Kyle and Duncan were there for him when he lost his twin brother, they attended one another’s graduations, offered a shoulder when a somewhat-serious relationship ended and now, at thirty-nine, they’d fulfilled a childhood dream to own a brownstone in their Harlem neighborhood. All had worked hard to stay out of trouble when the streets had been a seductive siren, beckoning them into what would become a life of fast and easy money—and prison or certain death.
Kyle had become a lawyer, working as a corporate attorney before deciding to set up a private practice. Duncan, or DG, had made millions for clients at a Wall Street investment firm, while quietly amassing a modest fortune with his own investments.
