Anchor Me (Stark Trilogy 4)

I may only be an amateur photographer, but I know what I like and what I have a talent for, and I've always been drawn to faces. As if the camera can help me see what's beneath the mask that people inevitably put on.

But it's not that revelation I crave today. I want to capture young faces. Chubby cheeks and wide eyes. Faces full of hope. Faces that are looking toward a future.

I walk back in the surf and then up the path that leads to our house. I don't bother going inside; I just head straight to the garage and get into Coop. My plan is to go to the Palisades and have my fill of quality time with my niece and nephew.

Except that's not where I end up.

I'm not sure why, but when I reach the turn, I just keep driving, going on and on until I find myself in Pasadena at the gate for the fifteen acres of mostly undeveloped land owned by the Stark Children's Foundation. Right now, it's overflowing with foster kids from all over the country who've come here for one of the many week-long summer camp sessions.

I greet the guard, who lets me in without question, then head to the main building that houses the offices, cafeteria, and classrooms. I stop in long enough to let the staff know that I'm going to be taking a few photographs on the property, and then I start to walk the grounds.

All of the children have releases signed by their guardians on file that allow us to use the photos in promotional materials, so this isn't the first time that I've photographed the kids at camp or during other foundation functions. Granted, it's not usually my job, but I'm here often enough that no one will think it's odd.

Today, I'm not interested in taking publicity photos. Instead, I'm searching for hope where there was fear. Joy where there used to be loss.

I crave finding that in my viewfinder, then capturing it, as if I can bottle that kind of vibrant hope against outstanding odds.

My favorite place to sit and watch is a set of bleachers near the soccer field. Today, the kids are running relays, and I use my zoom lens to zero in on the children waiting their turn. I focus on one boy who, obviously bored, is trying to touch his nose with the tip of his tongue. Then I pan the group slowly, soaking in the expressions and the faces until I see one that is all too familiar.

I freeze, my heart pounding as I slowly lower the camera.

She's wearing a blue staff shirt and a white SCF ball cap. But even without the zoom lens, I know that face.

Sofia.

For a moment, I just sit there, certain that somehow I've been transported to some horrible alternate universe.

Then I slip my camera strap over my arm, stand up, and hurry down the bleachers.

I'm halfway to my car when she calls my name. "Nikki! Nikki, please wait!"

I tell myself to just keep going, but it doesn't matter. My feet stop, and I turn to find myself looking into her familiar pixie face and untamed auburn curls.

"You," I say stupidly. "I thought you were in Santa Barbara. Honestly, that was plenty close."

"I'm sorry," she says, and the words sound genuine. "I came here after Damien and I talked. I told him this was part of, well, of my recovery. Helping out here for a week of camp and--well, then I heard about what happened to you and, um, I guess I wasn't sure if I should stay or go."

She looks down at the dusty ground. "I came to apologize to you. I want to apologize to you. And I couldn't call and ask Damien what to do. Not with everything being so . . . you know. So I stayed."

Her words have been rolling off her tongue, and when she comes to a sudden stop, the silence is almost brutal.

"You hurt me," I say, my voice dripping with incredulity. "You tried to make me cut. And you tried to break Damien and me up--hell, you almost succeeded."

I see her throat move as she swallows.

"And as if that weren't enough, you pretended to be my friend. And now you want me to stand here and let you apologize so you can feel better about yourself? So that you can get back in Damien's good graces?"

Her head moves in the tiniest shake. "I--I didn't . . . I mean, you're right. You're so right."

But I'm not even remotely appeased. I jam my hand into my back pocket, pull out my cell, and thrust my phone at her. "Is this you? Did you email those pictures of you and Damien? Because I can damn sure see you trying to twist me up that way."

"What?" I'm watching her face as she answers. The crease in her brow. The tilt of her head. Either she really is confused, or she's one hell of an actress.

Of course, I already know that she's a hell of an actress.

"This," I say, opening the email so she can see both the message and the photos. Her eyes widen, then she thrusts the phone back at me as if it were a snake.

"No! Nikki, no, I swear. I wouldn't do that--not anymore."

"Maybe Damien believes you, but I don't."

As I watch, tears fill her eyes. "I don't blame you," she says. "But I swear on Damien's life that I didn't send those pictures. And I'll go back to England--I will. I just--it's just that I've worked so hard. So many doctors. So many treatments. I was so fucked up--I mean really, seriously fucked up. But I clawed my way back--and all of that work was so that I'd really and truly mean it when I told you that I'm sorry. Because I am sorry, Nikki. I like you--I really do. And I screwed it all up."

I say nothing, but I do clench my fists. Not because I want to lash out at her, but in defense against the way her plea is breaking through my armor.

"I'm glad Damien has you," she says. "You make him happy, and that's all I want. Really."

I just look at her. We both know that's not all she wants.

She shakes her head as if I'd actually spoken aloud. "Before . . . I was off. And maybe I won't ever be completely right. In my head, I mean. But I'm fighting and I'm winning and I'm not going to give up on me."

She draws a deep breath and shakes out her arms a bit, like she's been wound up tight until now and can finally relax. "So, anyway, that's just my way of saying I'm sorry. And, well, that's it. It's not enough, I know, but I hope you'll accept my apology. But if you won't, I get it."

Her words wash over me, sincere and dangerous.

"I--"

I swallow, unsure of what I want to say. I, what? That I understand her fight? That I enter that same battlefield every time a blade tempts me?

That I've spent a lifetime trying to prove myself professionally? To prove that I'm worthwhile even though my mother always suggested that it was only my looks which were of any value at all?

That I started out damaged, too, but that I've fought it every day?

Should I tell her that I think we're more alike than I realized--or that I'm comfortable with?

And that, right or wrong, I believe her apology is sincere. And I believe that she didn't send that email.

In the end, I don't say any of that at all. I just say, "Apology accepted."

Somehow, I think she understands.

Sofia and I walk beside each other back up the path that leads to the administration building. We're not together, not really, but we're moving in the same direction, keeping more or less in time with each other.

We reach the heavy wooden door that leads into the main reception area, and she pulls it open for me. I step through with a quiet murmur of thanks, then stop in my tracks just over the threshold.

Damien is right there, standing at the main check-in counter. Warm relief flashes on his face when he sees me--and then immediately transposes into shocked wariness when Sofia enters behind me.

"Damien," she says, her voice bright with surprise. As I turn to look at her, she takes a step toward him, then stops and bites her lower lip. She looks at me, then draws a deep breath. "I meant it," she says. "Everything I said. I hope you know that."

A flicker of a smile touches my lips. "I'm glad I ran into you."

She nods, then looks at Damien again. I expect her to go to him, but she stays where she is. "I'm so sorry about the baby, D. But I gotta go. I--I need to get back to the kids."

She gives me one final glanc

e, then scurries out the way we came in.

Damien and I stay right where we are. The receptionist behind the counter looks at him, then at me, then mutters "excuse me," and leaves as well.

Now it's just me and Damien in this small, stone room.

"D?" I say, both because I'm curious about the nickname and because the air is too damn thick.

"An old nickname. Her father only used last names. But with my dad traveling the circuit with us, it was confusing. So I became D and he became J."

I take a step toward him. "So you're not starting a boy band?"

He moves a single step toward me. "No."

"Too bad." I move closer.