Bride Quartet Collection Read Online Free Page A

foyer, into the enormous parlor, and down the aisle formed by the chairs.
    The attendants followed, shimmering silver, and at last, the maid of honor in gold.
    Mac crouched to aim up as the bride and her father stood at the top of the stairs, holding hands. As the bride’s music swelled, he lifted his daughter’s hand to his lips, then to his cheek.
    Even as she took the shot, Mac’s eyes stung.
    Where was her own father? she wondered. Jamaica? Switzerland? Cairo?
    She pushed the thought and the ache that came with it aside, and did her job.
    Using Emma’s candlelight, she captured joy and tears. The memories. And stayed invisible and separate.

CHAPTER TWO

    S HE WORKED AT NIGHT BECAUSE SHE HAD A FULL DAY OF APPOINTMENTS. And because she liked working at night—alone, in her own space, at her own pace. Mornings were for coffee, that first intense, blood-surging hit of it, and days were often for clients, for shoots, for meetings.
    Nights, alone in her studio, she could focus entirely on images, how to select, to improve, to enhance. Though she worked almost exclusively digital, she retained the darkroom mind-set when it came to creating the print. She layered, highlighting, shadowing; she removed blemishes or hot spots to create her base for her master print. To this she could refine specific areas, alter density, add contrast. Step-by-step she would shape the print, sharpening or softening to suit the mood, to create an image that expressed that moment in time, until she felt what she hoped the client would feel.
    Then, as she did most mornings, Mac sat down at her computer to check her thumbnails and to see if her morning self agreed with her night self.
    She huddled over them in her flannels and thick socks, her bright red hair a forest of spikes and tufts. And in the utter quiet. At a wedding she was most often surrounded. By people, by chatter, by emotion. She blocked it or used it as she searched for the right angle, the right tone, the right moment.
    But here, she was alone with the images, ones she could perfect. She drank her coffee, ate an apple as a concession to the previous morning’s Pop-Tart, and studied the hundreds of images she’d captured the day before, the dozens she’d finessed during the night session.
    Her morning self congratulated her night self on a job well done. More to do yet, she mused, and when she had the best of the best for the clients to consider, she’d give them one more going-over before scheduling an appointment with the newlyweds to view the images in slide-show format and make their choices.
    But that was for another day. In case her memory proved faulty, she checked her calendar before going up to shower and dress for her first appointment.
    For a studio shoot, jeans and a sweater would do, but then she’d have to change for the consultation scheduled that afternoon at the main house. Vows policy demanded business attire for client consultations.
    Mac pushed through her closet for black pants, a black shirt. She could toss on a jacket after the shoot and meet the dress code. She played with jewelry until she found what suited her mood, slapped on some makeup, and considered the job done.
    The studio required more attention than the photographer, in her opinion.
    Elizabeth and Charles, she thought as she began the setup. Engagement shot. They’d been firm, she recalled, at the consult. Formal, simple, straightforward.
    She wondered why they didn’t just get a friend with a point-and-shoot to take it then. And she recalled now with a quick smirk, that those words had nearly come out of her mouth—before Parker had read her mind and shot her a warning glare.
    “Client’s king,” she reminded herself as she set her backdrop. “They want boring, boring it is.”
    She hauled in lights, positioned a diffuser—boring could at least be pretty. She brought out her tripod, mostly because she felt the clients would expect equipment. By the time she’d chosen her lenses,