Stone In Love

Chapter 4

I stood at the back of Saint Thomas Church snapping shots of the awe-inspiring structure, which included the man behind the podium. In a voice that was impossible to ignore, Vincent  rendered the packed house mute as he spoke of his late father, Roberto Valentino. Apparently, the deceased man had devoted his life to preserving the historical buildings of New York, London and Paris, and Saint Thomas had been a particular favorite of his.

Based on everything I knew about Vincent, he shared his father's passion, but one could not tell this from watching him speak. His expression remained impassive, with his gaze directed over the heads of his audience as he delivered the eloquently-written speech. He could have just as easily been reciting the monthly financial reports to a board of directors, and I wondered if he employed some sort of method to get through the dedication without showing any sign of weakness or emotion. While some would see this as a fine quality for a successful businessman, I saw it as the potential cause for his string of failures on the relationship front.

After the dedication, Sheila and I converged in the parishioners meeting room, a reasonably well-lit space crowded with buffet tables and folding chairs. We exchanged business cards and made small talk as I walked the perimeter with my exposure meter, determining the best location for the shoot. Sheila chose a sunny spot for the interview, setting up a pair of chairs near a vertical window, and I readied my tripod and reflector as we waited for the man of the hour.

A good thirty minutes later, when my stomach had started to growl from hunger, Vincent arrived, accompanied by an attractive woman carrying a briefcase and wearing a severe expression, which might have been due to the tight ponytail she wore. She approached Sheila and me, greeting each of us with a firm handshake.

"Apologies, ladies. Vincent was beset with well-wishers after his speech. I'm Amelia, Vincent's publicist. I spoke to you on the phone." She directed her statement at Sheila, after which she turned to me, making a slow, deliberate scan of my body. "I don't believe we've met."

"I'm Reese Kentwell," I said, ignoring her overt scrutiny and chalking it up to stress, or maybe her tight ponytail. "I'll be providing the photography for the piece Sheila is writing. I'm subbing for Cassie Bennet."

Amelia studied my name badge. "Reese, huh? The name suits you. Do you have a release you need Vincent to sign? We already handled those details with Cassie, but I assume you have your own."

"Yes, and a non-disclosure statement as well." I dug the documents out of my camera bag, pretending the strange vibe coming from this woman was just my imagination. When the papers were signed, Amelia tucked them into her briefcase, offered Sheila and me a clipped nod, then took a seat at the far end of the room.

Once Sheila and Vincent got settled, she proceeded to grill him about his successful rise in the business sector and his position as chief of the World Relics Preservation Cooperative founded by his grandfather in the nineteen seventies. During the interview, I attempted to make myself as inconspicuous as possible, taking candid photos of Vincent from different angles as he described his lifelong interest in the architectural styles of the renaissance era. 

The timbre of Vincent's voice soothed me like the fingers of a masseuse, and several times I found myself biting my lip as I listened to him speak. He also shared my obsession with gothic architecture. The photographs decking the walls of my apartment could easily prove this, and I wondered what he would think of them. Why was I picturing Vincent in my apartment? 

Through the eye of my camera, I noticed Sheila straining to stay composed as Vincent gave her his undivided attention, pinning her with his intense gaze while offering brief but thorough answers. He seemed oblivious to the clicking of my shutter, but his body shifted almost imperceptibly as I moved around him, always managing to keep me in his peripheral view. The guy was extremely photogenic, and despite my efforts to stay focused and dry, I felt my sweat glands hemorrhaging. At one point, I realized I'd been staring at his face without taking a single shot. I'd photographed plenty of hunky men before, but something about Vincent had me stupefied.