mother’s medical bills and all of his college expenses.
“How will you be taken seriously as an attorney if people know you’ve paraded around, selling some product?” Dermott demanded. “I want my children to have respect, not be laughed at.”
“I’m not parading, I’m modeling, and nobody is laughing.”
Adam decided not to add that he’d switched from pre-law to another major. Being a lawyer was his parents’ goal for him, but he’d become convinced over the past year that he wasn’t cut out for a legal career.
In all honesty, he’d never been that interested. As for modeling? It was fun and there was a lot of money that could be made. If he hit it really big, he could save enough to retire early and start a whole new career. He wasn’t sure what that career might be, but he knew it would be something he wanted, rather than a dream of his parents’.
“No,” Dermott barked. “That isn’t—”
“Would you quit it? You’re upsetting Mom,” Sophie suddenly yelled.
Shocked, they all looked at Elizabeth, who was pale and had her hand to her throat.
“I’m...okay,” she gasped. Yet her face lost even more color and Adam saw beads of perspiration dotting her forehead.
He barely managed to catch her as she pitched forward in the chair.
* * *
TWO HOURS LATER at the hospital, Elizabeth Wilding’s heart specialist glared at Adam and his father equally.
“Mrs. Wilding is going to be all right. She hyperventilated due to anxiety and passed out. But how many times have I said that she requires rest and calm? She worries far too much, and I’m convinced she feels guilty for getting sick in the first place. Regardless, having the two most important men in her life squabbling like boys in a school yard is unacceptable.”
“How can she feel guilty for needing heart surgery?” Adam asked, bewildered.
“Because that’s how patients with a major illness often feel. It’s human nature.”
“It isn’t logical.”
“Agreed, but the emotions are real. I’ve seen it over and over again. Now, as to the argument between you and your father, that’s the last thing she needs to hear at this point in her recovery.” Dr. Chu crossed her arms over her chest and her glare became even more severe, except this time it was specifically directed at Adam’s father. “So your son is modeling to help pay the bills and you don’t approve. Deal with it. One of Elizabeth’s concerns is about money.”
Dermott, who was at least ten inches taller than the surgeon, flushed and looked abashed. “I’m sorry, ma’am. It’s just that Adam won’t be respected in the legal—”
“Frankly, I don’t care how you feel about it,” Dr. Chu interrupted. “My concern is Mrs. Wilding. She has a full, happy life ahead if her family resists putting undue stress on her. Now, I’ve said a whole lot more than I’d intended, but I don’t appreciate a patient’s recovery being hindered this way. I trust that I won’t have to say any of this again in the future?”
“No, Doctor,” Dermott and Adam declared in unison.
“Good.”
Dr. Chu gave Sophie a reassuring smile, then turned and marched down the hallway.
Adam and his father glanced at each other.
“Are you going to keep modeling?” Dermott asked.
“Who cares?” Sophie hissed. “Adam can do whatever he wants. Just give his check to the hospital. I have to keep hiding the bills from Mom because she gets upset and I’m sick of it.” With that, she burst into tears.
Feeling awful, Adam fished the certified check from his wallet and handed it to his dad before putting an arm around Sophie’s shoulders. At twelve, she’d had too much put on her the past few months.
“Fine. For now,” Dermott muttered. He turned and headed down the hallway. Clearly he hadn’t given up, just temporarily retreated.
Adam ground his teeth, knowing a part of him blamed his father for Mom’s illness. Okay, maybe that wasn’t fair. But Dermott was her husband and he’d been there, every day. Why hadn’t he noticed his wife losing energy and the other slow, insidious signs of declining health? She might have gotten treatment earlier, before it came to a crisis.
Adam squirmed at the thought, knowing he could have returned to Albuquerque for the summer and gotten a construction job. Then he would have been at home, too. Instead he’d stayed in Los Angeles, helping build swimming pools for the Hollywood elite and hanging out with his friends.
So if he wanted to blame anyone, he didn’t need to look any further than his own mirror.
Fourteen years later...
A KNOCK SOUNDED on Adam’s office door and he looked up to see Nicole George, one of his three business partners.
“Hey, Nicole, you seem excited.”
She grinned. “I just learned that a new TV movie is going to be shot here in the Seattle area. They’re hoping the network will like it enough to turn it into a series. The casting director saw Doria Atchison in the clip we posted online and was impressed enough that he’s emailing a list of what they’re looking for. Auditions won’t be for a little while, but it sounds promising.”
“Excellent.”
When he and his friends had bought the Moonlight Ventures talent agency, one of their concerns had been that Seattle wasn’t at the heart of the fashion or entertainment industry. Local business was fine, but they also wanted broader exposure for their clients.
Their concerns had proved unfounded, though. Several of their models had already gotten television ads for national campaigns and they’d placed actors with two movies being filmed locally, as well as guest and extras spots with a network series based in the region.
“I’ll forward the list as soon as I get it,” Nicole assured. She was an exceptionally beautiful woman, but ever since she’d gotten engaged, her face possessed a special glow. If she hadn’t quit modeling, it would be easy to pick up the phone and get her a dozen top contracts.
Adam almost chuckled at the thought; after just a few weeks on the job, he was already thinking more like an agent than a model. Nicole had run Moonlight Ventures by herself for months, though he and their other partners, Logan Kensington and Rachel Clarion, had flown in regularly and teleconferenced with her. Now that his own modeling contracts had been satisfied, he’d started working at the agency full time.
“How is the writing going?” he asked. The previous owner of the agency had put out a quarterly trade newsletter, but they were working toward converting it to a general circulation publication. For the launch issue Adam wanted a feature piece by Nicole about “lessons learned” from her years as a supermodel.
She scrunched her nose at him. “Slowly.”
“Anything I can do to help?” he asked.
“You can tell me you’ve changed your mind about having me write it.”
“Afraid I can’t.”
Actually, Adam felt bad that they’d asked her to be “the story” again, as Nicole put it. Ironically, it was when PostModern magazine had asked to do a series of articles about her transition from supermodel to agent that she’d met her fiancé.
Technically she’d simply met Jordan again, having known him as a kid. Jordan had still written the articles, telling readers that while he was now engaged to the subject of his interviews, he’d tried to be unbiased—but might have failed. In