“I’d say pretty quickly, so you can be in and out by Christmas.” And then he realized again that it didn’t matter to her.

“I could go tomorrow night. I have a few loose ends to take care of here, and I promised to call the curator at MOMA. I could take a night flight tomorrow and sleep on the plane.”

“Perfect. I’ll tell them. They said they’d take care of all the arrangements, and I’ll find you an assistant.” It was never a problem finding people to assist her. Young photographers were always dying to work for Hope Dunne, and she had a reputation for being easy to get along with, which was well deserved. Hope was pleasant, professional, and undemanding, and what students or assistants learned from her was invaluable to them. Having freelanced for her as an assistant, even for a day, looked good on their résumés. “How long do you want to stay?”

“I don’t know,” she said, thinking about it. “A few days. I don’t want to rush. I don’t know what kind of subject he is. It could take him a day or two to loosen up. Maybe book me for four days. We’ll see how it goes. That gives us time if we need it. I’ll leave as soon as we finish.”

“Done. I’m glad you’re doing it,” he told her warmly. “And London is fun this time of year. Everything is all decorated and lit up, they’re not as PC as here. The Brits still believe in Christmas.” In the States, it was becoming a taboo word.

“I like Claridge’s,” she said happily, and then she sounded more serious. “I might try to see Paul, if he’s there. I’m not sure where he is. I haven’t talked to him in a while.” It was odd to think that they had been married for twenty-one years, and now she didn’t know where he was. Her life these days always reminded her of the Chinese saying, “That was then, this is now.” It certainly was. And what a difference.

“How’s he doing?” Mark asked gently. He knew it was a sensitive subject for her, but given everything that had happened, she had adjusted remarkably well. As far as Mark was concerned, she defined the terms “good sport” and “incredible human being.” Few people survived what she did as well as she had.

“Paul’s about the same, I think.” She answered Mark’s question about her ex-husband. “He’s on some experimental medication from Harvard. He seems to be doing pretty well.”

“I’ll call the publisher, and tell them you’re taking the assignment,” Mark said, changing the subject. He never knew what to say about Paul. Hope was always gracious about it, he knew she still loved her ex-husband, and had accepted the hand Fate had dealt her. She was never bitter or angry. Mark didn’t know how she did it. “I’ll call you tomorrow with more details,” he promised her, and a minute later they hung up.

Hope put her soup mug in the dishwasher after that, and went to stare out the window, at the steadily falling snow. There were already several inches on the ground, and it made her think of London. The last time she had been there, it had been snowing too and looked like a Christmas card. She wondered if Paul was in London now, but decided not to call him until she arrived, in case plans changed, and she had to see what kind of spare time she had. She didn’t want to see him on Christmas, and risk either of them getting maudlin. She wanted to avoid that at all costs. They were best friends now. He knew that she would be there for him if he needed her, and she also knew that he was too proud to call. If she saw him, they would both be careful to keep it light, which was what worked best for them these days. The rest was too hard to talk about, and served no purpose.

Hope stood at the window and watched a man leave footprints in the snow, followed by an old woman slipping and sliding as she walked her dog. Watching them, she couldn’t resist. She put her coat and boots on, and went back out, with her Leica in her pocket, not the fancy new one that everyone coveted, which she had too, but the old one she loved best. It was a faithful friend and had served her well.

Ten minutes later, she was walking down the street with the snow falling all around her as she prowled along, looking for the right shots. Without planning it, she arrived at the entrance to the subway, and hurried down the stairs. She’d just had an idea. She wanted to get some shots in Central Park at night, and after that, she was going to head for some of the rougher neighborhoods on the West Side. Snow had a way of softening people’s hearts and faces. For Hope, the night was young, and if she felt like it, she could stay out all night. It was one of the advantages she had discovered of being alone. She could work whenever she wanted, for however long she cared to, and she never had to feel guilty. There was no one waiting for her at home.

Later that night she walked back down Prince Street at three A.M., smiling to herself and content with her night’s work. The snow had just stopped as Hope let herself into her building, and walked up the stairs to her loft. She took her damp coat off and left it in the kitchen, and reminded herself that she had to pack for London in the morning. Five minutes later, she was in her cozy nightgown and tucked into her narrow bed on the sleeping balcony, and she was asleep as soon as her head hit the pillow. It had been a very enjoyable, productive night.

Chapter 2

When Hope got to the airport, the flight to London was two hours late. She had her cameras in her hand luggage, and sat reading in the first-class lounge until they called the flight. She had picked up another book of Finn O’Neill’s and wanted to read it on the trip. It had started snowing again, and after they left the gate, they had to de-ice the plane. In all, they were nearly four hours late taking off, after waiting on the runway for two hours. Hope didn’t really care, she always slept on long flights. She let the flight attendant know that she wouldn’t be eating the meal, and told her what time she wanted to be woken up, exactly forty minutes before they landed at Heathrow. That would give her time for a cup of coffee and a croissant before they began their descent, and also time to brush her teeth and hair. It was all she needed in order to look respectable enough to go through immigration and go to the hotel.

As she always did, Hope slept soundly on the plane, and was happy to see that they landed without difficulty despite the morning fog. As it turned out, the delay had served them well and had given the winter weather time to clear. And as promised, the car from Claridge’s was waiting for her as soon as she cleared customs carrying her camera bag. She had already ordered the rental of all the equipment she needed, and it was being delivered to the hotel that afternoon. She was meeting her subject at his home the following morning. She wanted some time to get to know him and they were going to shoot in the afternoon.

So far, everything seemed easy and was on track, and since she had gotten enough sleep on the plane, she was wide awake as they drove into town, and happy when she saw her room at the hotel. It was one of Claridge’s prettier suites, with walls painted a deep coral, floral fabrics, English antiques, and framed prints on the walls. It was warm and cozy, and she ran a bath as soon as she arrived. She thought about calling Paul, but she wanted to wait until she saw Finn, so she could determine what kind of free time she had. If need be, if he was in town, she could see Paul on the last day. She shut her mind to all thoughts of their earlier days, she didn’t allow herself to think about it, and slipped into the bath and closed her eyes. She wanted to go for a walk as soon as she dressed and had something to eat. It was two o’clock in the afternoon in London by then. And as soon as she called room service to order an omelette and a cup of soup, her rented equipment arrived, the assistant they had hired for her called, and it was four o’clock before she was able to leave the hotel.

She went for a long brisk walk to New Bond Street, and looked at all the shops. They were brightly decorated for Christmas, and every store she glanced into was full of shoppers. Their holiday shopping was in full swing. She had no one to buy a gift for-she had already sent Paul a framed photograph from New York, and a case of good French wine to Mark. She walked back to the hotel around six o’clock, and as soon as she walked into her room, Finn O’Neill called. He had a deep masculine voice that sounded a little hoarse. He asked for her by name and then exploded in a fit of coughing. He sounded very sick.

“I’m dying,” he announced, when he stopped coughing. “I can’t see you tomorrow morning. Besides, I don’t want to get you sick.” It was nice of him to think of and be concerned, and she didn’t want to get sick either, but she hated to lose a day. She had nothing else to do in London, unless she saw Paul.

“You sound awful,” she said sympathetically. “Have you seen a doctor?”

“He said he’d come over later, but he hasn’t shown up yet. I’m really sorry. You were nice to come all the way to London. Maybe if I stay in bed tomorrow, I’ll be okay by the next day. Are you in a hurry to get back?” He sounded worried, and she smiled.

“I’m fine,” she said calmly. “I can stay as long as I have to, till we get the job done.”

“I hope you have a good retoucher. I look like shit,” he said, sounding like a little kid, and very sorry for himself.

“You’ll look fine, I promise. It’s all in the lighting,” she reassured him, “and we can airbrush. Just get better. Chicken soup,” she recommended, and he laughed.

“I don’t want to look like Georgia O’Keeffe’s grandfather on the book.”

“You won’t.” It was quite an image. She had looked him up on the Internet, and knew that he was forty-six years old, and now she remembered what he looked like. He was a good-looking man. And his voice sounded young and energetic, even if he was sick.