Distraught over the death of his wife and daughter and still suffering the emotional scars of this tragic loss, Richard Lowery, a prizewinning photographer, may be beyond comforting. Yet he finds solace — and surprising attraction — in a stranger along the shoreline of California. As if heaven-sent, they find their lives thrust together. And neither Richard nor Janine Henderson can ignore their mutual desire.
Recovering from a difficult divorce, and focused on her New York life as senior editor of a minority-owned publishing house, Janine is not looking for love. Just the second book due from Richard on his contract. Unexpectedly, working together uncovers glorious passion — and reopens painful wounds. Janine cannot risk being hurt again...yet Richard knows that he and this complicated beauty belong together.
Now all he wants is to give her every ounce of love in his possession, so both their hearts can soar once again.
She had never even heard of Richard Lowrey before, as incredible as it now seemed to Janine. She was still barely able to believe it, the memories flooding her mind like a tidal wave, filling it with glee, contentment, optimism and even some regrets. Not until the day that was to inexorably change her life forever...
It began as a typical busy day in the life of an East Coast senior editor for the largeAfrican-American book publisher, Callister-Reynolds, Inc. The namesakes of the publisher, Earl Callister and Paul Reynolds, had been pioneers in African-American illustrated and visual books since the early 1960s. Four decades later, they had been sold twice, gone public, and were one step away from bankruptcy. Needless to say, the company had seen more than its share of ups and downs. Currently it was up, as there was suddenly a strong interest in professionally written and produced black fine arts, travel and coffee-table books.
Janine Henderson had only worked for CallisterReynolds — located in the heart of New York City — for three months now, having previously been a senior editor for a Boston trade house. Two years earlier she had divorced the father of her seven-year-old daughter after tiring of his cheating ways and of his blaming it on her inadequacies. It was the best thing she had ever done.
Till the day she met Richard Lowrey.
She had barely acquainted herself with CallisterReynolds's current list when Janine was told to familiarize herself with their backlist of titles and authors. It turned out that Richard Lowrey was prominent in the latter category. His beautifully photographed and written books exploring Africa, the Caribbean, and black America had almost single-handedly put Callister-Reynolds on the map — and had turned him into a renowned bestselling author. He was well regarded by many as an authority on unique worldwide travel experiences and hidden treasures within lands, places and spaces occupied largely by people of color.
At that point Richard Lowrey might just as well have been the man from Mars or on the moon, as far as Janine's knowledge of him was concerned. She hadn't been a real fan of fine arts and travel books and was treading relatively new ground professionally, as well.
That was when the vice president and executive editor of the publisher, Dennis DeMetris, who had summoned her to his office, literally dropped Richard Lowrey's latest book on her lap. Janine picked up the soft-cover edition titled Autumn in Zimbabwe.
"What's this?" she asked, batting her large amber eyes at him, while feeling some tightness in her light-brown-skinned, high-cheeked face.
Dennis was a tall, thin man in his early sixties with somewhat of a stoop. He had a remarkably full head of Afroish curly gray hair and a similar goatee that made him look like something akin to the devil, or perhaps an African-American version of Kentucky Fried Chicken's Colonel Sanders. Deeply lined coal eyes regarded Janine beneath wire-rimmed silver glasses.
"A masterpiece," he said simply, as if it should have been obvious.
Janine glanced at the cover. At the bottom read: "Photo-graphed and written by Richard E. Lowrey." She found herself wondering what the "E" stood for. Edward? Edmond? Elliot? Elias?
She studied the black-and-white photograph that filled the cover nicely, as if taken specifically for that purpose. It was of a dark-haired, dark-skinned boy, maybe nine or ten. He was standing in the middle of what looked like an African village, guffawing, as if his funny bone had been tickled nonstop. In the backdrop what looked to be candelabra trees were parted almost magically to show a glimpse of a river. The foreground had a portion of an old and rusting bicycle, as if purely for effect.
"There are more magnificent pictures inside," Dennis said proudly. "But save that for later...."
Janine favored Dennis's face. It was permanently crinkled above the brow and along his cheeks in deep irregular lines. Only now, there were temporary folds between his eyes reflecting his present state of mind.
"Is there a problem?" She dreaded to ask.
It suddenly occurred to Janine that she had yet to have her three-month review. Though she had done her job sufficiently — it was actually a series of jobs, some that had very little to do with editing — her confidence was not as such that she felt any real sense of security in the ever-changing, ever-downsizing marketplace.
That old last to get hired, first to get fired adage drummed in her head.
Dennis seemed to ponder the question for a moment or two, as if still trying to decide. He removed his glasses rather dramatically, and said, "Yeah, there's a problem all right...and his name is Richard Lowrey —"
Janine once again peeked at the book and back at Dennis. "Richard...Lowrey?" she found herself repeating, as though duty-bound.
Dennis chewed on the part of his glasses that fit around his ear. "He's disappeared —"
A thin brow involuntarily raised, and once again Janine found herself sounding like a parrot. "Disappeared? As in vanished...?"
Dennis sat on the well-worn, soft black leather chair beside her. He put his glasses back on, as if feeling naked without them.
"In a manner of speaking," he indicated calmly. "The man has developed what I would call a terminal and very costly case of writer's block. Autumn in Zimbabwe was published three long years ago."
That explained, in part, why she wasn't familiar with the title. In the publishing world, three years was like an eternity. Ancient history. Without fresh exposure, even the hottest authors could turn cold as ice.
It still didn't explain the mystery that was unfolding about Richard E. Lowrey.
"So what happened to him?" Janine asked on cue, her interest admittedly piqued.
Dennis's face darkened as surely as if someone had dumped soot on it. "Lowrey's wife and daughter were killed in a car accident," he said almost resentfully. "Occurred on the same day we sent him his copies of Autumn in Zimbabwe. Which also happens to be the last manuscript we've received from the man, though we still have him under contract for two more books."
Janine couldn't begin to relate to the sense of loss, despair and emptiness Richard Lowrey must have gone through in having his family taken away from him so suddenly and tragically. As a result, he had apparently shut off completely from that which he must have dearly loved at one time — his stunning photography and writing. But coming off a disillusioning divorce from a cheating husband at thirty-six years of age, and as a result being left to raise a child alone had left Janine with a certain sense of bitterness and loss in her own right, along with lingering feelings of frustration, resentment and betrayal.
On the other hand, Janine also felt as if she could empathize with Richard Lowrey on some sort of spiritual, emotional and perhaps physical level as well. Any separation could be numbing and seem as if one had slipped into a dark, desolate hole with little chance of ever coming back to the surface.
This is surely how Richard Lowrey must feel these days, she thought.
"We don't want to see Lowrey's promising career go up in smoke," Dennis said matter-of-factly. "And we certainly don't want to lose the rather substantial advance we paid him for the books he still owes us. There was a clause in his contract for nondelivery to this effect. The man sure as hell can't have it both ways...though he seems to think so —"
"Well, has anyone tried talking to him?" Janine asked, in what seemed like a reasonable question. Or am I missing something here?
Dennis waved his hand in the air as if swatting a fly. "Calls have gone unanswered...voice mails unacknowledged," he responded bitterly, shaking his head. "Mail has been returned unopened as if there was no one at the other end to receive it. It's been frustrating as hell, to say the least."
Janine stiffened. "I'm sorry," she told him, not quite sure where this was going or even why she was sorry. She had a feeling she was about to find out on both counts.
"Everyone's sorry," Dennis grumbled, rolling his eyes.
"But that won't solve our little problem, will it?"
Janine did not respond as she assumed the question was rhetorical. Even then she didn't exactly consider it her problem...not yet, anyway.
Dennis furrowed his brows and said bluntly, "We think Lowrey's grieved long enough — assuming that's what's behind his lack of production. Now it's time for the man to honor his commitment to this publisher —"
Janine swallowed the lump in her throat. Courageously, she asked thoughtfully, "Can anyone really determine how long is long enough to grieve for another?"
She recalled that her father had been dead for more than twenty years and her mother had still grieved for him right up until the day she died. And, if true to herself, Janine had to admit that she, too, was still grieving somewhat for the man she had once thought would be her lifelong marriage partner. In reality, she decided, her sorrow might have been more for the fear of being alone, albeit due to circumstances that left her with no other sensible choice.
Dennis dismissed her words the way one might a gabby inlaw's, and, looking Janine straight in the eye, said flatly, "I want you to pay Mr. Lowrey a visit —"
Janine's jaw dropped. She suddenly felt as if she had been backed into a corner — like a trapped rat — in which there was no way out. But she tried to escape nonetheless.
"Dennis, I'm not sure I'm the right person to get Richard Lowrey to cooperate or whatever you want to call it." Not to mention there was nothing in her duties, as Janine understood them, that included visiting and nurturing wayward authors.
"Isn't this something the attorneys ought to be handling?"
The frown deepened above Dennis's hard gaze. "Absolutely not!" he stated firmly. "We're not looking for a legal battle here — at least not yet — even if the terms in the contract Lowrey signed speak for themselves. What we really want is to get the man back in the fold, doing what he does best and what's best for Callister-Reynolds. Plain and simple. The time is right and the market is ready to embrace his considerable talents again in book form."
Perhaps, Janine thought. She just wasn't nearly as confident or comfortable with the thought of intruding upon this man's personal life for professional gain. Even if it was in his best interests, as well.
"Are you sure this is really such a good idea, Dennis?" she asked uneasily. "Maybe he just needs a bit more time to get his house in order."
"But it's our house we're trying to get in order," the vice president of the company reminded her, with a solid edge to his voice.
"Time is money and there are simply no more bits and pieces we can spare to Richard Lowrey — you know what I'm saying?"
Janine nodded, even if doubts still lingered like a nagging pain. I can only hope that I feel better about this when all is said and done.
Dennis seemed to sense her misgivings. "I assume you are still part of our team, Janine." He favored her a shrewd look. "Aren't you...?"
Janine nearly froze under the weight of his cold stare. She took it as a veiled threat that she was either to cooperate or consider her employment on the ropes, if not subject to termination altogether.
Even if her heart was definitely not in it, she was not foolish enough to put her job on the line by taking a stand against something that technically could have been part of the job description — insofar as doing whatever it took to keep the lines of communication and cooperation open between the publisher and writer.
Think positive, her aunt Josephine always said. Easier said than done.
