Epilogue

A few days later, Steele came into Laura's office just before noon.

"Lunch today, Laura?"

She put down the file she was reading, and said, "I'm sorry, but I'm meeting my friend Michael. You know, the artist from San Francisco? I called him the other day and it turns out he had some business in L.A., so he drove down."

"Ah, perhaps tomorrow, then. Have a wonderful time with your friend." He headed back to his office, a small smile on his lips.

They spent the afternoon and early evening wrapping up a case, and it was after dark when he left the office. As he got into the limo Fred handed him a large, rigid brown envelope with a smaller envelope taped to the front. The smaller one read "open this first" in Laura's neat printing.

His pulse quickened, but he was determined to wait until he was home in his apartment before he would break the seal on either envelope. She wouldn't, would she? It seemed too much to hope for. She was so modest around him...but the other night, things had changed between them...in a small way, perhaps, but it was still progress in their relationship. Could she possibly trust him enough?

Once in the apartment, he shrugged off his suit coat and tossed it on the couch, then went to the dining room table where he dropped the large envelope before ripping into the smaller one.

Michael brought these with him. It occurred to me that keeping them from you would only build up unreasonable expectations and increase the tension between us, both of which I'd say we have plenty of already.

They are more or less what I remember. The originals were 16" by 20", and were displayed in a row, with the top one on the far left and the others proceeding in order. I'd rather not be with you when you look at them, so I'm sending them with Fred and would appreciate if you'd return them to me at the office tomorrow.

L

His hands shook as he eased the stack of eight-by-ten photographs from the envelope.

He wasn't sure what he'd been expecting--perhaps rather abstract or obscure images--but that's not what these were. He carefully spread out the pictures across the table as Laura had suggested, and leaned over to study them.

They were stunning. They were black and white, full body shots of Laura as she danced. His arousal was instantaneous, but he chose to ignore it. The background in each one was different, although they were all outdoors. After a moment he realized that her movement in each picture led to the next, as if it was time-lapse photograph, and the lighting in each one appeared to be identical. Only the background was different. It occurred to him that it must have taken a great deal of time and care to set up each of these photographs, to get the position and the lighting perfect in such a variety of locales. He did a quick count and realized that there were fifteen in all, and the backgrounds ranged from woods to city walls. Laura and Michael must have spent days...weeks...getting these exactly right. Plus, they would have had to deal with the issue of how to do all this without attracting a crowd or getting arrested. He wondered how they managed it.

But the thing that struck him the most was Laura. She was unbelievably beautiful, and as fully alive as he'd ever seen her. Her expression in each photograph was one of calm confidence, but there was a little sparkle of humor that shone through. How did she manage to convey that consistently through all of these pictures, through what had to have been hours of grueling photo shoots?

He found himself oddly jealous of Michael for having shared this with Laura. He knew that they weren't romantically involved, but still, the thought of him working so closely with her, creating something like this as a team, gave him a pang. He suddenly recognized the expression on Laura's face...it was the way she looked when she'd figured out a case and couldn't wait to share her insight with him. It was a mixture of pride and teasing and pure happiness that came from doing something well, and knowing it.

After looking carefully at each photo in turn, he went back to the beginning and began studying Laura in more detail. Every nuance of her skin, every curve of her hip he stared at until they were burned into his brain. As he committed each image to memory, he moved on to the next one.

He stood up straight at last, and realized that his neck ached from leaning over the photos; he must have been standing there for an hour or more. He went into the kitchen and got a glass of water, then stood in the doorway pondering what to do next.

One night. He had one night with these images. She had given him no guidelines or restrictions other than that she would like them back tomorrow. He wanted to make copies and wallpaper his apartment with them, wanted to use them to ease the throbbing that hadn't let up since he'd seen the first one. Still, there had to be rules. She was trusting him to write them himself, but he knew there had to be rules.

He walked along the length of the table with his hands behind his back, again looking at each photograph in turn. This time he tried to view them with the professional detachment of a connoisseur of the arts. She had been right when she said that they weren't sexual; her nudity in each was incidental; her expression and her movements were the centerpiece of the work. They made a statement about her individuality, her unchanging essence. That was what made the series art rather than just photographs. And they could never be mistaken for pornography.

Still, he couldn't help his visceral response to them. It would have been easier if she'd looked appreciably different then than she did now, but the photographs could have been taken yesterday. Her hair had been a bit longer then, but that was the only difference he could discern. One of the images showed her breast in perfect profile, and he felt a painful tightening as he remembered the feel of it in his hand a few nights previous. Yet the thought of using these pictures...it seemed like a betrayal of her trust.

Suddenly the ridiculousness of the situation struck him. He was alone in his apartment at ten o'clock at night, studying pictures of a woman he couldn't have and debating the moral implications of having a wank before bed. How had things descended to this point? There was a time when he never spent an evening alone by choice, when he could have a woman in his bed with a sultry look and a well-phrased compliment. He was a grown man, and this was pathetic. He poured himself a glass of scotch and flopped down on the couch.

The truth was, he did get angry sometimes about Laura leaving him unsatisfied. This couldn't go on much longer, that was certain. She was going to have to get over her childish hesitation, or he was going to have to move on.

As he studied the dark amber of the scotch, he realized that this was a load of bullocks. Her childishness was more than matched by his own, He couldn't commit to her, couldn't tell her how he felt, like a teenage boy with a crush. He couldn't ask her to grow up until he was ready to himself.

He realized he'd skipped dinner, and the scotch was burning his stomach. He didn't want to eat, though. What he wanted to do was drive across town and tell Laura that he was in love with her and wanted to be with her and only her, and hopefully take her to bed and explore that lovely body in person. Well, actually, no, what he wanted was to have the courage to do that.

He stood up and walked around the table once more, looking at the now-familiar images. He grabbed the phone and dialed Laura's number.

"Hello?"

He suddenly realized that it was getting rather late, and that he didn't actually know what he was going to say.

"Laura, it's me."

"Oh, hi."

"I hope I didn't wake you."

"No, I was just reading."

He hesitated.

"Did you need something?" she asked.

"No, I just...wanted to say goodnight."

"Okay....well, goodnight. I'll see you in the office." She sounded mildly amused.

He took a deep breath. "Wait, Laura. I want to thank you...for sharing this with me. And tell you that I...well...that they are beautiful. That you are beautiful."

"Um, thank you. That's...kind of you. I'll see you tomorrow." He could hear the embarrassment in her voice.

"Wait...I also want to say..." He hesitated, and ran his hand through his hair. "...to thank you...for coming to find me. For bringing me home."

He heard her inhale, then she said softly, "You're welcome."

"Goodnight."

"Goodnight."

He hung up the phone and stared at it for a second. Adolescent behavior, indeed. Still...it was progress.

End