her photography, though he pointed out in dozens of subtle ways that her

hobby, as he called it, took time away from their marriage and her

support of him and his career.

It was a nice print, he might say, if one cared to look at old ladies

feeding pigeons. So why had it taken her so many hours away from him to

come up with a few black-and-white snaps of people loitering in the

park?

He supposed he could eat a cold sandwich, even though he'd been

composing for six hours. Apparently it was up to him to drag the

laundry to the cleaners, despite the fact that he'd been tied up in a

meeting all afternoon.

She wasn't to worry a bit. If her work was so b.l.o.o.d.y important, he

could entertain himself for another evening.

Whatever criticisms he handed out were tempered with compliments. She

looked so inviting standing in front of the stove making a meal. It

made him feel good to come home and find her waiting for him.

Perhaps he was too forceful about how she should dress, what clothes she

bought, how she styled her hair. After all, her image, as his wife, was

as important as his own.

He was particularly concerned about what she should wear to the showing.

But as he said, he only wanted her to look her best. And, as he told

her, she had a rather drab taste in clothes.

It was true that she preferred the column of black silk and

hammered-gold jacket to the short, snug concoction of feathers and

sequins he'd chosen. But, as he said, she was an artist now and should

look the part. Because it touched her that he'd called her an artist,

she wore it to please him. He gave her a pair of chunky gold earrings

set with multicolored stones. If they were a bit gaudy, it hardly

mattered. He had fastened them on her himself.

When they pulled up in front of the small, uptown gallery, her stomach

began doing calisthenics. Drew patted her hand.

"Come on, Emma, it's not as though you're going on stage in front of ten

thousand screaming fans. It's just a little picture show." With a

laugh, he helped her out of the limo. "Loosen up. People are going to

buy Brian McAvoy's little girl's snapshots whether they like them or

not."

She stopped on the curb, incredibly hurt. "Drew, that's not what I need

to hear right now. I want to do this on my own."

"Never satisfied." He s.n.a.t.c.hed her arm hard enough to make her wince.

"Here I am, trying to be a good sport about all this, trying to support

you in what you're h.e.l.l-bent on doing no matter what the inconvenience

to me, and you bite my head off."

"I didn't mean to-"

"You never do. Since you want to be on your own so badly, perhaps you'd

like to go on in alone."

"No, of course I don't." Nerves and frustration intensified the pounding

behind her eyes. She could never seem to find the right thing to say,

she thought. And tonight of all nights she didn't want to alienate him.

"I'm sorry, Drew. I didn't mean to snap at you. I'm just nervous."

"All right then." Satisfied with the apology, he patted her hand and