more normal. The four of them had known each other for years and no one could have been more faithful visiting her at the hospital and then at home, phoning and using Skype when they were out of town on jobs. Maybe friendship was better than romance. It certainly seemed more reliable.
“I thought you had two operations to go before making a decision,” Logan said.
“The benefits would be marginal at best, so I told the surgeon that enough is enough. Besides, Kevin made inquiries and nobody wants to hire me. They say it’s been too long and there was too much press about the accident—that my injuries are all consumers will think about. If they even remember me.”
Adam scowled. “Advertisers are remarkably shortsighted. But I’m glad you’ve decided not to have more surgery. We’ve hated seeing how much it drags you down.”
Rachel squared her shoulders. “Well, now I can rebuild myself and move on.”
“What about buying into your parents’ business in the Seattle area? You’re a great cook.”
She shook her head. “That isn’t the answer. For one, my little sister hopes to eventually take over Clarion Catering, and my being there would be a complication. Not to mention it would be like going back to childhood.”
Nicole shuddered. “What an awful thought.”
Both Logan and Adam groaned in a chorus of agreement.
Ironically, of the four of them, Rachel had experienced the most normal life growing up, but she still didn’t want to go backward. Anyhow, each time her parents visited, they wanted to coddle and protect her...and deny the reality of what a huge, ancient lighting boom could do to the human body if it wasn’t properly secured. She loved them, but she needed to reclaim her life. It was what her trauma counselor kept saying, but that didn’t make it less true.
Logan leaned forward. “Is there anything you’re especially interested in doing?”
“Not really. I’ve enjoyed the travel connected to modeling, but I can’t see becoming a flight attendant.”
“How about doing makeup for photo shoots?” he suggested. “You’ve helped out several times when the professional artist couldn’t get the look I wanted. And there was that one shoot where the entire makeup staff got food poisoning from sushi and you did it for everybody.”
Makeup artist was an interesting idea. She had the insurance payout, so she didn’t have to worry if the work wasn’t regular. And she’d be in the same field as her friends.
“Would it be hard to work in a setting similar to where the accident happened?” Nicole asked, looking concerned.
“Maybe, but I’m getting counseling for post-traumatic stress and I doubt that running away is the answer.”
Rachel almost felt guilty for talking about PTSD. After all, she’d been posing for a picture when something heavy fell on her, not saving lives like the two firefighters she’d met in the hospital. They ran into burning buildings when everyone else was running out of them. But when she’d tried dismissing her own experience, they’d said to stop, that trauma was trauma, no matter what had caused it.
Rachel struggled to smile. Right now she needed to concentrate on getting through each day, one step at a time.
“What do you know?” she announced in a determinedly cheerful voice. “You’ve managed to help me plan a new life in less than ten minutes. I’m impressed.”
Eight years later
RACHEL ATE BREAKFAST on the balcony of her new condo overlooking Lake Washington, relishing the crisp, cool air of early fall. The view was partly why she’d bought this place. At night, the sparkle of electric lights ringed the dark lake, and in the daytime the vista was ever changing, depending on the weather and which boats were out.
It was funny... She’d grown up in a small town near Seattle and had resisted returning after the accident, yet here she was, less than thirty miles from where her parents lived. Maybe Washington would always be home, or maybe she was just happy that the goal she and her friends had set three years earlier—buying a talent agency—had finally been reached.
Actually, they’d owned Moonlight Ventures for a year, but Nicole had run it alone at first, and then Adam had joined her. Now Rachel was here, and Logan would be joining them soon, as well. Becoming a talent agent was a challenge, the same as when Rachel had built her reputation as a model, and then as a makeup artist.
She decided to go for a walk and automatically checked her appearance in a mirror by the front door. It was Saturday and she didn’t have any appointments, but makeup was a habit that made her more confident. She kept it as light as possible, using the barest amount necessary to cover the lingering scars from her old injuries.
Rather than taking the elevator, she ran down the stairs. Since her accident and being bandaged like a mummy so often after surgeries, she’d become slightly claustrophobic.
“Hi,” said a childish voice as Rachel walked through the building lobby. A little girl gazed up at her. She was cute as could be, with brown eyes, reddish hair and an inquisitive expression.
“Hello. Who are you?”
“My name is Livvie. I’m seven.”
“I’m Rachel. Do you live in the Carthage?” The Carthage was the name of the building, supposedly chosen to evoke images of strength and engineering excellence.
The youngster vigorously bobbed her head. “We used to live in Seattle before Daddy went to work in New York, but I asked if we could come back because this is the place I like best. It’s...” She chewed on her lip. “It’s where I remember Mama best.”
Livvie seemed remarkably articulate and self-possessed for a child her age, though Rachel was hardly an expert on kids. “It was nice of your daddy to do that.”
“Uh-huh.”
“Ready for our walk, Livvie?” a young woman asked, coming up to them. She looked at Rachel. “Hello, I’m Gemma.”
“Gemma is my nanny, ’cept I’m too old for a nanny, so she just takes care of me,” Livvie volunteered.
“Hi, Gemma. I’m Rachel Clarion. I live on the second floor.” Rachel deliberately provided the information, figuring a nanny worth her salt would want to know exactly who had been talking with her charge.
“Daddy’s girlfriend was awful mad when we moved home,” Livvie said blithely, “but Gemma was happy because she grew up here and wants to go back to college.”
“Sweetie, you shouldn’t talk about your father that way to a stranger,” Gemma cautioned. She had a clear, melodic voice that probably appealed to a child.
“Why not?”
“Because it... It’s because some things are private.”
“Everybody knows. I heard Daddy say on the phone that Sandra whined to the newspaper people about us leaving.”
Rachel suspected that explaining privacy to a seven-year-old was like trying to bail water with a sieve. It would be even harder if Livvie’s father was well-known. As for his “whined to the newspaper” comment? The word evoked an image of a man who was impatient with women, maybe even scornful of them.
“Gemma, how long have you been a nanny?” she asked as a distraction.
“Since Livvie was a baby. When did you move to the Carthage?”
“A few weeks ago. I grew up in Washington, but lived in Los Angeles for a number of years. It’s nice to be back.”
“I know how you feel.”
Livvie tugged on Rachel’s arm.