Epilogue
One month later
Imogen paused outside the Stonebridge Hotel ballroom and drew a steadying breath.
The day had finally arrived; the exhibition had begun.
Excited chatter and the dulcet tones of a string quartet spilled through the open doorway.
A handsome couple brushed past her, gushing over their favorite pieces.
Inside the ballroom, she glimpsed maze-like panels covered in photographs.
They beckoned her forward with the promise of profound discovery.
Her lips curved, and her nerves settled.
She’d forgotten, for a little while, the peace to be found in the presence of art.
The joy of being on the receiving end of an artist’s most generous gift: a bit of themselves.
She touched the recent letter from Tommy in her pocket and his words rang in her ears.
It didn’t matter whether everyone enjoyed her photographs or not.
It was impossible to please everyone. The most she could do was be true to herself.
If these photographs didn’t resonate the way she hoped, it wouldn’t break her.
Rejection, as she’d come to realize, was simply an opportunity for redirection.
She was resilient and creative, and only she could determine her worth.
So why not enjoy the exhibition, come what may?
She entered the crowded ballroom with her head held high.
“That’s it, my sunshine,” said a short, cheerful woman beside her. “Time to see what’s what.”
Imogen smiled down at her chaperone, her indomitable Aunt Judith, who was already waving at acquaintances across the ballroom. “Indeed it is.”
“Would you like some company?”
She shook her head. “This is something I have to do by myself.”
“I understand. I’ll be nearby if you need me.” Judith squeezed her arm, then shooed her away.
Imogen’s pulse fluttered wildly as she ambled through the crowd in search of the section dedicated to the Pacific Northwest. Hundreds of elegantly dressed photography enthusiasts rubbed elbows and fawned over the displayed images.
She turned a corner and her lips parted in awe.
Before her hung images capturing the spirit of the west: shipyard workers on break, a family at play on Lake Washington, the barren landscape of a defunct logging camp, even one of Edward Curtis’ most recent depictions of a woman of the Duwamish tribe.
There, in the back corner, hung three of her photographs.
A cluster of attendees occupied the space on either side.
Imogen glanced quickly at what held their attention and her step faltered.
Her images were sandwiched between those of two of the most prominent photographers in Washington.
No wonder the space before hers was unoccupied.
She couldn’t prevent the swell of sadness, but she could decide what to do next.
Either she could let her feelings overwhelm her, or she could raise her chin and stand next to her work with pride.
She filled the empty space.
A blonde woman to her left glanced over her shoulder and let out a dramatic gasp. “Are you the photographer?”
“Yes.” Her voice was thin, so she tried again. “Yes, I am.”
The woman clutched her partner’s arm and pulled him with her. “How marvelous. We were just lamenting our poor luck that we had missed you.”
“Your work is splendid,” the man gushed.
“It’s the perfect balance of vulnerability and strength.
The man in the images reminds me of Robin Hood.
” He turned breathlessly to the woman. “Isn’t that what I was saying earlier?
He’s given everything to the people, even the coat off his back, and now he must brave the elements. ”
“Thank you very much,” Imogen managed to say over the lump in her throat.
An older gentleman with white hair and wire spectacles stepped up beside them. “The Weary Scoundrel is a triumph. Miss Radford, it is a pleasure to meet you. I am Mr. William Parker, the owner of a gall—”
“The Parker-Smythe Gallery,” Imogen breathed. “Oh, Mr. Parker, do forgive my interruption. If you only knew how many exhibits I’ve attended at your gallery over the years. It’s a true honor.”
“You’re too kind.” He bowed his head. “I’ll get right to it, as your attention is already in high demand.”
When she gave him a perplexed smile, he gestured behind him. Imogen peeked around his shoulder. A dozen people had lined up behind Mr. Parker, craning their necks and whispering excitedly to one another.
“They’re here for me?”
She didn’t realize she’d spoken aloud until Mr. Parker replied in a gentle voice, “They are indeed. In fact, I have heard many well-deserved compliments regarding your work this evening. Which brings me to my question. Do you have more photographs similar to these?”
“At least a dozen,” she said with as much composure as she could summon. “And I’m certain I could make more.”
“Splendid. Our upcoming showcase has room for one more promising photographer, and I believe I’ve found that artist in you. Might we arrange a meeting to discuss what we’re looking for?”
“Of course.” She took his card with trembling fingers. “Thank you so much, Mr. Parker. I look forward to speaking with you.”
The older man bowed his head and then melted into the crowd.
Scarcely able to believe the turn of events, Imogen smiled invitingly at a young blonde dancing on her toes at the front of the line.
The next hour flew by as she engaged dozens of attendees in conversation.
The number of insightful questions and thoughtful comments humbled her.
When a gaggle of stylish young men and women from her social circle stepped forward, however, her confidence wavered.
She braced herself for some off-hand comment about her former fiancé, but it never came.
All they wanted to know about were her professional plans.
As she’d so fervently hoped, her public jilting was already old news.
She only wished Tommy were there. He would give her that cocky smirk, the one that said he’d been right all along.
Her heart squeezed wistfully. How long would it be before they were together again?
Her patience was far from that of a saint—more like a toddler before a dessert table.
She would have given in to despair weeks ago if it hadn’t been for the constant arrival of Tommy’s letters.
Sometimes one a day, sometimes two or three.
She never knew what they’d include; a book quote, a pressed flower, a detailed description of his day.
She lived for the arrival of those letters, which the scoundrel undoubtedly knew.
Today of all days, though, one hadn’t arrived. The mailman had shrugged, then grown disgruntled when she demanded he check his bag again. Imogen hated how quickly her niggling doubts had reared their ugly head. One missing letter surely meant nothing.
Bright red hair flashed in the corner of her eye.
Excusing herself from the line, she took three steps forward.
The ballroom had grown even more crowded, and large hats sporting feathers and silk flowers blocked her view.
She shook her head at her strike of fancy.
One glimpse of the color red and she was conjuring the man in her mind!
“Looking for me, Genie love?”
Tommy’s resonant voice rumbled close to her ear and she spun around so fast she stumbled forward.
Tommy caught her against his chest, his gloved hand wrapping around her waist. She reveled in his touch for three precious seconds before reluctantly pulling back.
Her eyes devoured him, taking in his close-cropped hair—too short for fashion but much better than it had been the last time she’d seen him—his sparkling blue eyes, his darling freckles, and an immaculate suit.
She shivered at the longing that swept through her.
She was so used to seeing him in ridiculous clothing that the sight of a well-fitted suit had her libido doing somersaults.
“You didn’t write today,” she said faintly.
His lips quirked. “I knew you’d be upset about that, but my news could never have fit inside a letter. I came to tell you myself.” He lifted his head and took in the crowded ballroom. “And I wouldn’t have missed this for the world.”
“You could have told me you were coming.”
“Where’s the excitement in that?”
“Touché.” She gripped his hand. “Oh, Tommy, you wouldn’t believe the reception. It’s positively wonderful.”
“Show me.”
She drew him to her photographs and awaited his verdict.
“How disappointing.”
Her breath caught. “What? Why?”
He turned to her, eyes twinkling. “I had hoped the photograph of my bare behind was the cause of all the fuss.”
She let out an indelicate snort. “In a way, it did.” She leaned in close. “I have news, too. Shall we go somewhere private?”
“Call me a scoundrel, but I also hoped to steal you away for a little while. I have something to show you.” He waggled his brows. “Who do we need to escape this time?”
A wave of intense affection washed over her, and she laughed helplessly. “We’re not escaping anyone. Not anymore. Give me a few minutes to find my Aunt Judith and let her know.”
“She won’t mind?”
“She’s a wonderful aunt…and a terrible chaperone.”
“Thank God for family like her.” His blue eyes glittered in the ballroom’s electric lights. “Meet me by the taxis out front?”
She agreed, then went in search of Aunt Judith.
As she navigated the room, she was occasionally stopped by former classmates and acquaintances who wished to congratulate her.
The bustle inevitably roused the curiosity of nearby attendees, and it was a while before she was able to find her aunt and inform her of everything that had happened.
Luckily, Judith was once again willing to turn a blind eye to her plan, so long as she promised to return within the hour.