Close Up. Erin McCarthy

1

      “IF THE GOOD Lord intended us to be naked, clothes wouldn’t have been invented.”

      Kristine Zimmerman felt the urge to laugh, but restrained herself, shifting her phone from her right ear to her left as she surveyed the tables being set up for that Friday night’s art exhibit at Collective, the gallery that had just hired her as their events coordinator. “Mom, there are plenty of valid occasions for human beings to be naked.” She could think of at least three without even trying.

      Her mother wasn’t sold. “Even Adam and Eve wore fig leaves. Why don’t they wear fig leaves in those pictures? Or better yet, those girls should have some boy shorts on. Boy shorts are cute.”

      Given that her mother couldn’t see her, Kristine felt free to give a generous eye roll. It would be a bit counterproductive for the world-renowned mass nude photographer, Ian Bainbridge, to cover his volunteer models in undies. “The photographer is not doing an Adam and Eve exhibit. The nudity is intentional to make a statement about the lack of humanity in corporations.”

      “It’s objectifying women,” was her mother’s firm opinion. “You need to quit this job.”

      Kristine was no longer amused. “No. I am not quitting this job.” She nodded as the caterer, who was setting up the tables with three staff members, held up white tablecloths for her approval. Normally setup wouldn’t occur three days in advance, but Kristine wanted everything perfect. She wanted the opportunity to see the gallery ready for the event, and make adjustments without the pressure of guests arriving in a matter of hours. This event was her probation period with this job. If it went well, her boss would know she had hired the right person, despite Kristine’s less than remarkable résumé.

      At twenty-nine years old, Kristine had virtually nothing to show for the past decade of her life. No money, no retirement fund, no significant other, no highly sought-after skills or talents, and a boatload of student loan debt for a degree she’d never finished. This job was her chance to settle down into a routine, to prove she was a grown-up, finally. Her days of wandering aimlessly from one bad choice to another were behind her, and she was determined to move forward with her life.

      Which was why she had also finally shelled out her last bit of savings to draw up divorce papers for Sean, the man she had impulsively married at the age of nineteen and shared a passionate and volatile six months with, before their relationship had imploded. They had parted in anger, but had never filed for divorce. Initially, she had been too upset to deal with the paperwork, and then as the years slid by, it had always seemed that she had something better to spend her hard-earned money on. It had also just been easier to let cobwebs collect on those emotions than disturb them. Apparently, Sean had felt the same way, because he had never contacted her for a divorce, either, even though Kristine knew for a fact he was now a highly successful businessman and money was not an object.

      It wasn’t until a few months ago, when Kristine had started dating George, a guy she’d thought she could really grow to care for, only to be dumped unceremoniously when a month into seeing each other he had found out she was still legally married. He had considered it dishonest and revealing that she hadn’t severed those ties, and he had washed his hands of her. Given that a divorce could be obtained on the internet for a few hundred bucks had made her consider the fact that George had a valid point or two.

      She was still holding on to Sean, consciously or not. He had been the first stable force in her life, and the last, and somewhere in the back of her mind, she had been treating him as a safety net.

      Which was ridiculous. Why would Sean want anything to do with her now, ten years down the road?

      The realization that she needed to move forward with her life and truly stand on her own two feet had hit her full force. She had packed up and moved back to her hometown of Minneapolis from Las Vegas to deal with her past before she could proceed with her future.

      That past unfortunately included her mother, Ebbe Zimmerman, who was, and always had been, an eccentric. Over the years, Ebbe had worked to save the whales, put warning labels on rap records, become vegetarian, then vegan, then carnivorous again, had tried her hand at raising alpacas and baking cakes—on the same farm—and had fought for a variety of worthy causes for women’s rights. But whereas in her younger years her feminist lean had been toward equal pay for women, she was now hell-bent on shutting down every strip club, burlesque show and art exhibit featuring nudity she came across. Kristine figured her mother had a right to protest whatever she wanted, and most of the time she sympathized with her causes.

      But not when it involved tasteful photography that in itself was a protest of corporate greed, something else her mother despised.

      And especially not when her mother’s actions potentially threatened her job, given that Ebbe was known for stating her opinions with a lot of pomp and circumstance. And spray paint.

      “Well, I can’t be silent about this,” her mother said firmly. “I’m going to stage a protest this weekend at the opening.”

      Damn it. Kristine strode quickly in her heels to the back storeroom, where the caterers couldn’t overhear her. “Mother, don’t you dare. I am begging you, if you love me, do not make a scene. This is my place of employment!”

      “So you would have me compromise my principles so you can rake in some greenbacks from porn distributors?”

      That was a leap of epic proportions. Art with consenting adult models did not equate to porn. There was literally no reasoning with the woman, and Kristine did not have time for this. “I need this job or I will be forced to move in with you, and God knows, neither of us wants that. So save the protests for social media, okay? Because if you show up here Friday and destroy this opening night, I will lose my job and I will never speak to you ever again, even while I’m sharing your apartment.”

      Hardball was the only way to play the game with Ebbe. Otherwise, she would do exactly what she wanted, with no thought to the consequences for those around her.

      “What kind of daughter threatens her own mother?” Ebbe sniffed on the other end of the phone.

      “One whose mother threatens to get her fired. Now I will talk to you later. Love you.” Despite knowing she would pay for it, Kristine ended the call without saying goodbye.

      Tossing her phone onto the desk, she grabbed the sign, which was going to be placed on an easel at the front of the gallery, and pushed her way back into the main room. She was about to speak to the caterer when she realized there were people by the front door. Two men, in suits.

      One looked familiar. Very familiar. Ten years hadn’t eradicated the knowledge of his muscular body, his narrow face and dark hair, despite the power suit. She knew every single inch of this man, every expression, every gesture, the touch of his hands, his lips, his tongue. Among other things.

      He strode toward her and her mouth heated. Her breath caught. Her knees wobbled.

      It was Sean, the only man she had ever been in love with.

      Her husband.

      * * *

      SEAN MADDOCK HADN’T been confronted with this many naked bodies at once since a tequila-fueled skinny-dipping party in college. Unlike then, he was stone-cold sober this time around, but fortunately, or unfortunately, however you chose to feel about it, these were not flesh and blood partygoers, but nude photographs. A lot of them. In enormous proportions. With dozens and dozens of people in each shot, so that everywhere Sean turned, he caught a breast or a backside or an eyeful of man junk.

      Damn. It was a lot to take in at two in the afternoon.

      His latest intern, Michigan, was an ambitious recent U of Chicago graduate, who had apparently broken his parents’ hearts by choosing not to attend their alma mater, which had been his namesake. Instead, he’d worked his ass off at Chicago, and Sean suspected he’d never seen this much skin at any point during his undergrad years.

      The poor kid made a strangled sound in the back of his throat as they stood in the