Chapter 7: Louisville

The photographer in Louisville was a skinny man with a trade-magazine badge and a camera the size of a toaster.

He was standing across the parking lot when I kissed Joanna goodbye.

I didn't know he was there.

It was seven in the evening, the station party was over, and the sky had gone peach and lavender over the river.

She was about to climb into the car for a dinner with sponsors.

I fixed her collar, and she looked down at me with her red mouth slightly open.

Nobody was watching, so I kissed her.

It wasn't for a crowd, and it wasn't for a contract.

It was a kiss I'd wanted to give her for six hours.

She kissed me back with one hand flat against my cheek and the other still holding her briefcase.

The camera clicked six times before I heard it.

"Oh, that's beautiful," the photographer called, walking over. "Ms. Breckinridge, may I run that?"

Joanna's face went blank.

"It's a private moment," she said.

"It's the best shot of the whole tour," he said. "People are going to melt."

Behind him, Joanna's communications director, a young woman in a navy blazer, was already nodding.

"It's perfect, Joanna," she said. "It looks completely real."

Joanna said nothing.

I felt the words land between us.

"It does look real," I said brightly. "That's the idea, isn't it?"

She looked at me then, and I could see she wanted to say something and could not.

She said, "Run it," and got into the car.

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