would be in London. She was going to tour with Devastation again, but this time, she had a title. Official photographer. It was a tide she’d earned, Emma thought as she hauled the first suitcase onto her bed. She’d been given her shot when her father had asked her to photograph the group for the album cover. The Lost the Sun cover, Emma remembered. The stark black-and-white portrait had earned enough acclaim that even Pete had stopped mumbling about nepotism. And he hadn’t said a word when she’d been asked to shoot the cover for their current album.
It gave her a good deal of satisfaction that it had been he, as the group’s manager, who had called to invite her on the tour. Salary and expenses included. Runyun had muttered, but only briefly. Something about the commercialization of art.
London, Dublin, Paris—a quick visit with Marianne—Rome, Barcelona, Berlin. Not to mention all the cities in between. The European tour was slated to take ten weeks. When it was done, she would do something she’d been promising herself for almost two years. She would open her own studio.
Unable to find her black cashmere suit, Emma headed out and up the stairs, pausing to pick up the blouse and shoe. There was a fascinating mix of scents. Turpentine and Opium. Marianne had left her studio exactly as she preferred it. In chaos. Brushes and pallet knives and broken pieces of charcoal were stuffed into everything from mayonnaise jars to a Dresden vase. Canvases were stacked drunkenly against the walls. Three paint smocks, their bright colors splattered with even brighter paint, were tossed over tables and chairs.
An easel still stood by the window, along with a cup of something Emma wasn’t sure she wanted to investigate. With a shake of her head Emma moved over to the bedroom area. It was hardly more than an alcove. As the years had passed, Marianne’s art had taken over. The big bed with its ornate rattan headboard was squeezed between two tables. A lamp with a shade fashioned like a lady’s straw bonnet sat on one, and half a dozen candles of various lengths stood on the other.
The bed was unmade. Marianne had refused to make her bed on principle since they’d left Saint Catherine’s. In the closet Emma found three items, all hers. The black cashmere suit hung between a red leather skirt she’d forgotten she owned, and an “I Love New York” sweatshirt torn at the sleeve.
Emma gathered them up, then sat on Marianne’s rumpled sheets.
Good God, she was going to miss her. They had shared everything—jokes, crises, arguments, tears. There were no secrets between them. Except one, Emma remembered. Even now it made her shudder.
She’d never told Marianne about Blackpool. She’d never told anyone. She had meant to, especially the night Marianne had come home drunk with the certainty that he was going to ask her to marry him.
“Look, he gave this to me.” Marianne had showed off the diamond heart that hung on a gold chain around her neck. “He said he didn’t want me to forget him while he was in Los Angeles working on his new album.” She had all but cartwheeled around the loft.
“It’s beautiful,” Emma had forced herself to say. “When does he leave?”
“Tonight. I took him to the airport.”
The relief had come in waves.
“I sat in the parking lot and cried like a baby for a half hour after his plane took off. Stupid. He’ll be back.” She had whirled then to throw her arms around Emma. “Emma, he’s going to ask me to marry him. I know it.”
“Marry him?” Relief had skidded into panic. She had remembered the feel of his hands on her, bruising her breasts. “But, Marianne, he’s—how—”
“It was the way he said goodbye, the way he looked at me when he gave me the necklace. Christ, Emma, it took everything not to beg him to take me with him. But I want him to send for me. I know he will. I know he will.”
Of course, he hadn’t.
Marianne had sat by the phone every night, had rushed home from classes day after day to check for messages. There hadn’t been a word from him.
Three weeks later, the first inkling of why had come in via the airwaves. There had been Blackpool, in his trademark black leather, escorting a young, sultry brunette backup singer to some Hollywood bash. The first clips ran on television. Then the tabloids dug in.
Marianne’s first reaction had been to laugh