The Keeping (2 page)

In the brochure
that lay on the seat beside her, The Grey Goose Tea Room sounded
quaint and boasted luxury rooms with home cooked meals. Her stomach
rumbled at the thought of food, and she knew that even if the place
was no better than a mom and pop greasy spoon, she’d devour
whatever they had to offer. Her stomach was telling her it was long
past feeding time. She glared at the snow that was messing up her
schedule, all the while hoping her room was still available once
she finally arrived at her destination. An oncoming transport
trailer uncaringly doused her car in slush and Mel swore vigorously
as her view of the road disappeared.

Quickly flicking
the wipers onto high, she peered out of the streaked windshield and
wondered once again at the sanity of taking on this particular job.
It was a ridiculous assignment, but paid well, and since she was
next thing to being broke, she couldn’t be too choosy.

After years of
working dead-end retail jobs, she’d finally gone back to school,
earned her high school diploma, and then enrolled in the journalism
program at Northwestern University. It wasn’t the most practical
course, her guidance counsellors had pointed out. If she was
looking for a secure career, computers were the way to go. She’d
thanked them kindly for the advice, but knew she’d never be able to
sit in an office all day, every day. Being in one place too long
didn’t suit her—she had ‘itchy feet’ just like her mother, which
was probably why she’d constantly drifted from one job to another.
After the initial thrill of learning a new skill wore off, she soon
lost interest and found herself searching the want ads for yet
another new position.

At least, once she
was a journalist, an employer would pay for her to move around. It
wasn’t a great wage, but it was something she enjoyed, and helped
lessen the restlessness within her. Talking to people, visiting new
locations, researching backgrounds; each day would be different or
at least that’s what she hoped. Right now, she was taking a year
off, being half way through the four year program and completely
out of funds. By juggling two waitressing jobs and writing a few
freelance articles, she was hoping to make enough money to go back
to school next year and finish the program.

That was why this
job was exactly what she needed. A lawyer, named Leon Aldrich, had
contacted her on behalf of a client—a wealthy client, no less—to do
some work as an investigative journalist. Mel had been a bit
surprised to be contacted by the man, wondering how he’d come by
her name. Mr. Aldrich claimed one of her college instructors had
passed her name along and Mel had hesitantly accepted the
explanation. It was against college rules to show favouritism, and
Mel was curious as to who had put in the good word for her. The
lawyer had merely smirked at her, saying she had been chosen from a
number of other candidates. He added it was best not to look a gift
horse in the mouth. Not quite sure what to make of the man, Mel had
shrugged and listened to his offer. She needed the money and
couldn’t afford to be too choosy.

The man had
presented Mel with a lucrative job offer; in exchange for a
ridiculously large sum of money, she was to research a photographer
named Ryne Taylor and write a piece on his life. It had seemed a
bit strange at the time. The photographer in question wasn’t famous
or anything, but after thoroughly checking out the lawyer’s
references and those of his client, Anthony Greyson, she’d decided
the job was legitimate and had agreed to the man’s terms.

It was pretty
simple. Find the reclusive Mr. Taylor. Research his life, how he
chose his subjects, where he took his pictures, and who had
purchased them. She was to give updates on each new development to
keep them aware of her progress, write a final article, and then
submit it back to the lawyer. All expenses would be paid and there
was a very loose deadline.

The job seemed
almost too good to be true, but if life was going hand her a golden
egg on a silver platter, she wasn’t going to turn her nose up at
it. She frowned as she reflected on her phrasing for that last
thought. For a journalist, she had certainly slaughtered the use of
those clichés. She chuckled, glad her thoughts were her own and not
subject to editorial criticism.

Taking note of her
surroundings, she realized that she was now inside the town proper.
Fumbling for the brochure at her side, she turned to the section
that showed a map on how to find the Grey Goose. Placing it on the
steering wheel, she glanced between it and the road while looking
for street signs to help orient her.

A mere fifteen
minutes later, she stood in the entryway of the quaint bed and
breakfast, talking to a distinguished looking gentleman who had
introduced himself as Edward Mancini.

“Yes, Ms. Greene,
I took your reservation over the phone last night. I’m so glad the
weather didn’t delay your travel plans.”

She smiled and
brushed her hair out of her face for probably the fiftieth time
that day—she really did need to get it cut. “It wasn’t the most
pleasant drive, but I made it.”

“Well, we’re glad
you’re here safe and sound. If you’ll just follow me, Ms. Greene,
I’ll show you to your room.”

“Please, call me
Melody.” Using her most ingratiating smile, she looked up at the
man and noted in response, a faint upturning at the corners of his
mouth. Personally, she didn’t care much for her name and usually
went by Mel, but men seemed to like ‘Melody,’ and as a ‘wannabe’
hard-nosed journalist, she didn’t hesitate to use the fact to her
advantage.

“Melody, then. And
you may call me Edward. Follow me.” As she walked behind him, Mel
mentally gave herself a point. Getting on a first name basis with
the people you were going to interview was a great way to ensure
they would be willing to open up to you—or so her college
instructors had told her. And, while she wasn’t going to be
interviewing this man exactly, she was hoping to extract a few bits
of information from him.

As he led her into
her room, she thanked him politely and noticed that he was looking
at her surreptitiously. Mel knew what he would see. At five foot
four, she wasn’t tall, but she balked against the label of short.
Her figure was a little disproportionate, being rather too rounded
up top, and bit narrow in comparison around the hips. Her legs were
slim, and thankfully, due to that fact, looked longer than they
actually were. Shoulder length, honey brown hair, and deep brown
eyes gave her a warm, friendly look as did her generous smile.

Her college
professors had told her that her friendly, girl-next-door
appearance would help her make contacts and win the confidence of
those she interviewed. Personally, Mel longed to be a drop-dead
gorgeous, sophisticated reporter, who could wrap an interviewee
around her finger with a mere bat of her eyelashes and some pithy
repartee.

It was impossible
for Mr. Mancini to know what she was thinking, but for some reason
the man’s lips twitched as he finished giving her a once over. He
made no comment however, merely nodding his head and exiting,
softly pulling the door shut behind him.

As the locking
mechanism clicked into place, Mel turned to examine her room only
to catch a glimpse of herself in the mirror. A mortified groan
escaped her. No wonder Mr. Mancini had trouble keeping a straight
face. Her hair was a mess, her coat was buttoned crooked, and there
was a smudge of chocolate from her make-shift lunch smeared across
her chin. Her shoulders sagged; so much for being
sophisticated.

Shrugging off her
coat, she sat on the edge of the bed and pulled her boots off
before flopping backwards on the mattress. Oh well, even if she
looked a mess, Edward seemed to like her, and that meant he’d most
likely be willing to talk to her when she started doing her
research.

As she stared at
the ceiling, she ran over her mental checklist on ‘how to be a
journalist.’ Establish contacts—check. Be friendly so the other
person will open up and talk to you—check. Listen attentively—umm,
not quite a check.

Mel gnawed on her
lip. That was always the hardest part for her. She tended to be a
bubbly, outgoing sort who loved to talk and was always forgetting
that she wasn’t supposed to interrupt the interviewee with her own
random thoughts. In her mind, she tattooed the words ‘shut up, Mel’
across her brain, while ruefully acknowledging that it probably
wouldn’t help.

Last on her to-do
list was reporting the real story without personal bias creeping
in—another partial check. ‘Report the facts,’ the instructors had
always told her, ‘not opinions.’ Unfortunately, Mel tended to have
lots of opinions about almost everything, and found it hard not to
state them. Well, she inwardly shrugged, at least for this
assignment all she needed to write was a straightforward report on
a person’s life. A photographer wasn’t likely to be involved in
anything controversial and his life couldn’t be that interesting.
After all, the man took pictures of flowers and wildlife; she
doubted she’d be able to muster much of a personal opinion about
that!

The final report
wasn’t due for several months, so once she’d tracked the fellow
down and interviewed him, she’d have plenty of time to write his
life story. Writing was what she did best and those were the
courses where she’d received her highest marks. Words seemed to
flow through her mind and onto the page in an unending stream. In
fact, writing too much tended to be her biggest failing in that
area. Luckily, it shouldn’t be a problem in this circumstance, she
decided. The report didn’t have to fit the confines of a newspaper
column, so she’d be able to ramble as much as she wished...provided
Mr. Taylor had anything in his life worth rambling about!

Lying on the bed,
she absentmindedly studied the design on the ceiling and thought
about what she’d discovered so far. At first, she’d done the most
obvious—searching Ryne Taylor’s name on the web. The internet
hadn’t turned up much; he was a photographer of some minor renown
specializing in nature photography. A few art galleries had shown
his work with sales being modest. The picture that had sparked her
benefactor’s interest had been purchased at Bastian’s Fine Art
Gallery. It was located just a short drive from the man’s last
known address, which was in Smythston, Oregon. The previous week,
she’d phoned the gallery, but the call had produced very little
information. Yes, they had sold a Ryne Taylor photograph to a Mr.
Greyson. No, there was no information available to the public about
the photographer himself.

The fact that the
information wasn’t available to the public meant that there was
information available; Mel just needed to find a way to get her
hands on it. Unable to find an address or phone number for the
mysterious Mr. Taylor, she was resorting to what was affectionately
called ‘old fashioned leg work.’ Hence, she found herself
travelling half-way across the country in the middle of February to
this small non-descript town.

Stretching, she
ran her hands through her hair and forced herself to sit up. While
she would prefer to be investigating someone on a tropical island,
her present location wasn’t all bad. Giving a small bounce, she
deemed the bed comfortable and looked around the room, for the
first time taking real note of her surroundings.

Decorated in turn
of the century elegance, the room had gleaming wood and rich hues
throughout, creating a warm and welcoming atmosphere. Aside from
the mirror that had revealed her less than perfect appearance,
there was a small fireplace with a love seat in front of it, a
breakfast table and two chairs, a bed, night tables and a dresser.
A door to the side of the room appeared to lead to the bathroom,
which made Mel recall her earlier desire for a warm shower and a
meal.

Calling the front
desk, she arranged for the delivery of a meal to her room. While it
was being prepared she headed for the shower, emerging fifteen
minutes later wrapped in a white terrycloth robe, and feeling
considerably refreshed.

Her timing was
perfect. A knock on the door signalled the arrival of her meal and
her stomach rumbled in anticipation. Thanking the slight girl who
wheeled the cart in, Melody spared her a momentary glance. The girl
had dark hair and green eyes; a pretty thing, only slightly younger
than herself.

“If you need
anything else, just call downstairs and ask for me. My name’s
Elise.”

“Thanks, Elise.”
Mel lifted the lid off her plate and inhaled the delectable scent
of steak cooked to perfection. “Have you worked here long?”

“For about four
months. I usually just work in the tea room but Mr. Mancini asked
if I’d help out up here this weekend. There’s a ’flu bug going
around and he’s short-handed.”

Mel forced herself
to ignore her meal in favour of cultivating yet another local
contact. Four months was long enough for Elise to have possibly
encountered the elusive photographer. “This seems like a lovely
place. Do you get lots of business?”

“It’s steady. Lots
of locals stop by downstairs for lunch and a few rent rooms up here
for weekend getaways or if they have company and need a place for
guests to stay. And, of course, we get a few travellers such as
yourself. Where are you headed?”

“Actually, I’m a
free-lance journalist and I’m researching local artists for an
article.” That was the story Mr. Aldrich, the lawyer, told her to
use. He didn’t want anyone knowing who she was really working for.
Mr. Greyson liked to keep his life and his interests private.

Elise smiled at
her. “Be sure to check out Bastian’s Gallery, then. It’s just down
the road and they show quite a few of the local artists.”

“Thanks. I’ll put
them at the top of my list.” Even though she’d already planned on
going there, she didn’t want to hurt Elise’s feelings.