Mirror Image

She stepped aside and he joined her in the entry. It would have been natural for him to gaze around at the unfamiliar and impressive surroundings, but instead, he stared into her face. Avery pitied him his confusion. “You are…?”

“Oh, sorry.” He rubbed his palms self-consciously on the seat of his jeans, then extended his right hand. She shook it quickly. “Van Lovejoy.”

“I’m Carole Rutledge.”

“I know. I was there the day you left the clinic. I work for KTEX.”

“I see.”

Even though he was making an attempt at normal conversation, his eyes hadn’t left her. It was agony to be this close to a friend and not be able to behave normally. She had a million and one questions to ask him, but settled for the one that Carole would logically ask next.

“If you’re here representing the television station, shouldn’t you have cleared it first with Mr. Paschal, my husband’s campaign manager?”

“He knows I’m coming. The production company sent me over.”

“Production company?”

“I’m shooting a TV commercial here next Wednesday. I came today to scout my locations. Didn’t anybody tell you I was coming?”

“I—”

“Carole?”

Nelson moved into the hallway, subjecting Van to a glare of stern disapproval. Nelson was always military neat. He never had a wrinkle in his clothing or a single gray hair out of place.

Van was the antithesis. His dingy T-shirt had come from a Cajun restaurant that specialized in oysters on the half shell. The lewdly suggestive slogan on the shirt read, “Shuck me, suck me, eat me raw.” His jeans had gone beyond being fashionably ragged to downright threadbare. There were no laces in his scuffed jogging shoes. Avery doubted he owned a pair of socks because he always went without.

He looked unhealthy and underfed to the point of emaciation. Sharp shoulder blades poked against the T-shirt. If he had stood up straight, each rib would have been delineated. As it was, his back bowed over a concave torso.

Avery knew that those nicotine-stained hands with the chipped and dirty fingernails were gifted in handling a video camera. His vacuous eyes were capable of incredible artistic insight. All Nelson could see, however, was an eternal hippie, a wasted life. Van’s talent was as well disguised as her real identity.

“Nelson, this is Mr. Lovejoy. Mr. Lovejoy, Colonel Rutledge.” Nelson seemed reluctant to shake hands with Van and made short business of it. “He’s here to look over the house in preparation for the television commercial they’re taping next week.”

“You work for MB Productions?” Nelson asked stiffly.

“I freelance for them sometimes. When they want the best.”

“Hmm. They said somebody would be out today.” Apparently, Van wasn’t what Nelson had expected. “I’ll show you around. What do you want to see—indoors or out?”

“Both. Any place that Rutledge, his wife, and his kid might spend an average day. Folksy is what they said they wanted. Sentimental crap.”

“You can see all of the house you want, but you’ll have no access to my family, Mr. Lovejoy. My wife would be affronted by the crude wording on your shirt.”

“She’s not wearing it, so why the fuck should she care?”

Nelson’s blue eyes turned arctic. He was accustomed to being treated with more deference by anyone he considered of inferior rank. Avery wouldn’t have been surprised if Nelson had grabbed him by the seat of his pants and the scruff of his neck and thrown him out. If Van’s business hadn’t dealt directly with Tate’s campaign, he probably would have.

As it was, he said, “Carole, I apologize for what you just heard. You’ll excuse us?”

Van turned back to her. “See you around, Mrs. Rutledge. Sorry I stared, but you look so much like—”

“I’m used to people staring at my face now,” she interrupted quickly. “Everyone’s naturally curious about it.”

Nelson impatiently inclined his head. “This way, Lovejoy.”

Van gave one last puzzled shake of his head before ambling off down the hallway behind Nelson. Avery retreated to her room, leaning against the door after she had closed it behind her. She breathed deeply and blinked back tears of nervousness and remorse.

She had wanted to grab Van’s skinny arm and, after a jubilant reunion, pump him for information. How was Irish? Was he still grieving over her death? Was he taking care of himself? What had become of the new weatherman? Had he been canned or had he left of his own volition? Had the pregnant secretary delivered a boy or a girl? What was the latest gossip from the sales department? Was the general manager still cheating on his wife with the socialite?