Public Secrets

Emma’s decision, Brian played the indulgent father. He bought her a Warhol lithograph, an exquisite Tiffany lamp with signs of the Zodiac, and an Aubusson rug in shades of powder blue and pink. For the week he stayed in town, he dropped in daily with a new present. She couldn’t stop him, and after seeing the pleasure it gave him, stopped trying.
They gave their first party on the night before he left for London. Packing crates stood on the priceless rug. The Tiffany graced the card table. There was food both in plastic bowls and in the fragile Limoges Marianne’s mother had shipped to them. The radio had been replaced, thanks to Johnno, by a wall-trembling stereo unit.
A handful of college students mingled with musicians and Broadway stars. Dress ranged from denim to silks and sequins. There were arguments and laughter, all drowned out by the music blasting against the windows.
It made Emma nostalgic for the parties she remembered from her youth, the people sprawled on the floor, on pillows, the bright and beautiful discussing their an. She sipped mineral water and, as she had always done, watched.
“An interesting soirée,” Johnno stated, swinging an arm around her shoulders. “Got any beer left?”
“Let’s see.”
She steered him into the kitchen. There wasn’t much left in the fridge but a bottle of jug wine and part of a six-pack of Beck’s. Emma opened a bottle and handed it to him.
“Just like old times,” she said.
“More or less.” He sniffed the glass in her hand. “What a good girl you are.”
“I’m not much of a drinker.”

“That doesn’t require an apology. Bri’s enjoying himself.” He nodded over the wall to where Brian was sitting on the floor and, like a traveling minstrel, plucking an acoustic guitar.
When she looked at him, strumming, singing for himself as much as for the group surrounding him, the love poured through her. “He enjoys playing like this as much as in any stadium or studio.”
“More,” Johnno said before he tipped back the beer. “Though I don’t think he knows it.”
“I think he’s feeling better about all of this now.” She glanced around at the mix of people crowded into her home. Her Home. “After all, he’d had a security system put in that would make the queen’s guards at Buckingham Palace look like pikers.”
“Annoying?”
“No. No, really it’s not. Of course, I don’t remember the code numbers most of the time.” She sipped, content to stand in the kitchen a half-wall away from the crowd and the laughter. “Did Luke tell you that he sent my portfolio over to Timothy Runyun?”
“He mentioned it.” Johnno cocked his head. “Problem?”
“I don’t know. He’s offered me a part-time job, as an assistant.”
He took a little tug on the hair she’d pulled back in a ponytail. “There are pitiful few who start at the top, Emmy luv.”
“It’s not that. It’s not that at all. Runyun is one of the top ten photographers in the country. Starting out with him as a janitor would be a dream come true.”
“So?”
She turned away from the party to look at him, to watch his eyes. “So why did he offer me a job, Johnno? Because of my pictures, or because of you and my father?”
“Maybe you should ask Runyun.”
“I intend to.” She set her glass down, then picked it up again. “I know that American Photographer printed my shot because Luke suggested it.”
“Do you?” Johnno said mildly. “I suppose the shot wasn’t worthy of that honor?”
“It was a damn good shot, but—”
Johnno leaned back against the refrigerator and drank. “Lighten up, Emma. You can’t go through life second-guessing everything that happens to you, good or bad.”

“It’s not that I’m ungrateful to Luke. He’s been great, right from the start. But this isn’t like giving Marianne and me cooking lessons.”
“Nothing could be,” Johnno said dryly.
“I want this job with Runyun to be mine.” She swung back her hair. Thin gold columns danced at her ears. “You have your music, Johnno. I feel the same way about my photography.”
“Are you good?”
Her chin came up. “I’m very good.”
“Well, then.” He considered the subject closed and glanced back at the party. “Quite a group.”
She started to continue, then dragging a hand through her hair, let it go. “I’m sorry P.M. and Stevie aren’t here.”
“Maybe next time. Still, we have some old faces among the new. I see you dug up Blackpool.”
“Actually, Da ran into him