Decisive Moments

By Toni Noel

To satisfy the requirements for her graduate degree in fine art photography, and in turn secure her young daughter's future, Amy Millington is determined to photograph Charles Harding's boarded-up mansion.

The reclusive architect allows no one to enter his former Mission Hills home, the traumatic scene of tragedy when he was four. Charles denies the gutsy widow's request, but Amy is nothing if not persistent. Amy and Marta's plan to teach Charles to have fun and smile again succeeds, and once he learns to appreciate landscape photography as fine art, he opens his house for Amy to photograph.

Even though he has no intention of entering it himself.

Then during a photo session, Marta disappears somewhere among the secrets hidden in the old home. In desperation, Charles enters his house for the first time in over thirty years to help Amy search.

He finds Marta holding his mother's long-lost suicide note. The note shatters his memories and reveals truths he'd long forgotten, opening fresh wounds. Charles must choose between letting those wounds continue to fester, or finally allow them to heal and build a new life with Amy and Marta.

144 pages

• Language: English
• Publisher: M P Publishing, S. D.
• Release date: Aug 14, 2018
• ISBN: 9781386847168

Toni Noel

Flame Arden speaks like a well-bred Southern lady. Nothing could be further from the truth. She claims to write sex scenes with squirm factor. You be the judge as she opens the boudoir door to one-man, one-woman erotic relationships and gives you a glimpse inside. Her happy and lasting marriage has prepared Flame to write sizzling love scenes, and she doesn't disappoint.

Book preview

Other Books By Toni Noel

Decisive Moments

Fairy Dusted

Fragile Bonds

Homeward Bound

Law Breakers and Love Makers

Lying Eyes

Rising Above

Temp to Permanent

To Feel Again

Writing as Flame Arden

Christmas Eve

Frankly, My Dear

Great Balls of Fire

And You, Virginia, Are No Lady

Copyright© 2011 by Toni Noel

All rights reserved. No portion of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including photocopying, recording or by any information retrieval and storage system without permission of the publisher.

Names, characters and incidents depicted in this book are products of the author's imagination, or are used in a fictitious situation. Any resemblances to actual events, locations, organizations, incidents or persons - living or dead - are coincidental and beyond the intent of the author.

Dedication

Special thanks to my photography teacher, Suda House, who taught me to set up and use a tripod and large format camera, and to my husband Jim, for his help with the technical terms and techniques used in this book.

Chapter One

The receptionist on a mission to block her path was no match for Amy Millington. On a mission herself, she darted past.

Her destination loomed ahead, the two closed mahogany doors leading to the office of Charles A. Harding, Architect.

So far, so good.

Now to outsmart the sedately dressed secretary seated at the desk just outside those doors. This formidable woman screened the architect's calls and had, on a daily basis for the last two months, refused Amy's request for an appointment.

Failure to accomplish her mission meant postponing graduation for six more months. No way. Too much was riding on her master's degree. Maybe even a Guggenheim Fellowship. Amy's new career, for sure, and with it, a secure future for her daughter. No way would she allow Harding's secretary to stop her now.

Taking a deep breath, Amy charged around the woman's desk to the doors and yanked, sending one crashing back against the wall.

The dark-haired man seated behind a massive desk looked up, surprised. His finely tailored suit matched the toasted pecan color of his eyes. His white shirt seemed almost too harsh for his silk tie softly patterned in rust and bark.

Amy's heart beat erratically, making her lightheaded right when she needed to be at her best. She didn't have much time. Building security would show up soon.

She met the man's unreadable gaze and forced her best smile. Three more strides brought her close enough to inhale the woodsy scent of his aftershave. Mr. Harding, I—

His threshold guard interrupted. I'm sorry, Mr. Harding. This young woman wouldn't stop.

He frowned, but a hint of curiosity lit his eyes. Never mind, Julia. He nodded at his secretary and she left the room, though Amy noticed she didn't close the door.

Then he returned his attention to the blueprints on his desk. The nerve of him. Like a naughty child in the principal's office, he made her wait.

A fresh wave of irritation at all her wasted time washed over her. Weeks of thwarted attempts to see this illusive man, and what did he do once she'd breached his gates? Ignored her best smile. Ignored the stylish suit she'd purchased just for this moment, a suit bought with money she'd managed to cut from her school supply budget over the last six months. It looked like she wouldn't earn a second glance from this reclusive architect.

Finally he stopped shuffling the blueprints, rolled them up and stood. Five minutes.

She extended her hand, ignoring his cold demeanor. My name is Amy Millington. When he reluctantly offered his, she shook his hand, an artist's hand with long fingers, his smooth, uncallused palm unexpectedly warm.

Charles Harding, but of course you know that.

Yes, she knew his name, and a lot more about him, thanks to her research. His presence seemed to fill the spacious room, crowding her. His quick gesture indicated she should take the chair near his desk. She sat, welcoming the chance to catch her breath and corral her thoughts.

He took his seat and cleared the space before him of work, giving her a moment to study him unobserved.

A stray curl tumbled over his forehead when he glanced down at his work, giving him a boyish look. He was definitely more good-looking than any photos she'd found of him, but he looked older than his years, and almost sad.

So, Miss Millington, what's so important you couldn't wait for an appointment?

I wanted an appointment, but your secretary has refused to give me one each time I called. She insisted you were unavailable, that you would never make time to see me.

Julia simply carries out my instructions. He opened a drawer, took out a yellow pad and slid the drawer shut. What brings you to my office? Are you interested in building a home?

Amy glanced at the framed renderings on the wall behind him. All were of rather sterile, contemporary dwellings built of stone and glass. Her artistic eye rebelled at those cold images created by the man seated across from her.

House plans are not what I had in mind. She steadied her nerves and plunged on as she felt her five minutes ticking away. I'm a grad student at UCSD just weeks from completing a master's degree in visual arts. Photographing architecture is my main emphasis. I came because of my interest in your great-grandfather's home designs.

Harding's frown returned so she hurried on. He built six homes in Mission Hills. I've studied those designs, and over the past few months I've photographed the interiors of five of those homes as part of my graduate project. There's only one I still need. The house you own on Harding Road. At one time the man living there gave me permission to photograph the interior, but I'm now unable to reach him.

She watched as the architect's lips drew into a tight line, hardening his expression. A mouth revealed so much about a man.

With a deft motion, he slid open the drawer and stuffed the yellow pad inside. I'm afraid what you're about to propose is impossible. The uncle you spoke to died. Harding came to his feet, ready to kick her out.

But surely—

No. A muscle twitched in his strong jaw. Five houses should be sufficient for your needs.

Not photographing the sixth house will make my study incomplete. Please, could I—

Irritation flashed in his eyes. No one goes inside.

Why? It didn't make sense.

All right, time to try something else. I'm sure you know the first C. A. Harding included ingenious details in his designs. To Amy's relief, his stiff stance relaxed a fraction.

One interesting part of my research involved discovering the secret hidden in each of the homes he helped build. The house with the dumb waiter to the master bedroom is my favorite.

As if surprised to discover himself standing, Harding eased back into his chair.

Almost made him smile. Good. Maybe she could reach the real man beneath this hard shell. Or maybe it's the house on Dixon Drive where shrubbery hides the outside stairs leading from the garden to the eldest son's bedroom.

Amazingly, Harding's sculpted lips twitched into a smile. What a difference a grin made in his looks. Gone was the grim set of his jaw, the skeptical frown. A cleft in his chin appeared. What could have made this handsome man so dour? So serious? Charles Harding needed to learn how to lighten up.

Ignoring the sudden tripping of her heartbeat as she realized she was staring at him, she hurried on. I can just picture an adolescent son sneaking in late at night, no need to remove his shoes.

Leaning forward, Amy met the architect's gaze and smiled. What about you? Are surprises hidden in your designs?

I'm more concerned with function. With practicality. My clientele demands modern efficiency for their money, clean lines and easy care. Hidden passageways are remnants of another time.

That may be true, but what romantic times they were. Have you asked your clients if they might prefer something more imaginative? A design with a few soft curves to soften all the cold stone and glass?

What might seem appropriate in your art would be considered impractical in modern homes.

Modern designs held no appeal for her she'd learned. Now, about photographing your house...

Anger—or was it something else—flared in his eyes as he stood. There is no chance of you ever photographing my house, he said, a note of finality in his voice.

Here's my card, in case you change your mind.

He slid the card into his desk without a glance. I won't.

She tucked her purse under her arm and headed for the door. Across the room a burst of buttercup yellow caught her eye. Her own reflection in glass. The only spot of color in the dreary room was her best suit.

*****

Strange, Charles thought, staring after the striking blonde who had interrupted his morning's work, the sudden burst of sunshine brightening his office seemed to have followed her out the door, making the office dreary again.

He ran a finger around his collar, which suddenly seemed tighter than it had when he'd dressed. He straightened in his chair and picked up a fine-tipped red marker, prepared to finish checking the blueprints on his desk.

For a long moment he studied the renderings of the formal entrance with thoughtful concern.

Cold stone and glass. She'd certainly been outspoken about his designs. Accurate, but far from complimentary.

Her disdain of his work stung.

Why, and what had made her settle on Great-Grandfather's houses to photograph?

The area surrounding Balboa Park offered a number of homes built around the same time as his, any one of which should meet the young woman's needs. She could photograph those to her heart's content without disrupting his life.

A lifetime had passed since he'd set foot in those early houses his great-grandfather built.

Charles stuffed his marker in his desk drawer. These drawings held no interest for him today. The unexpected intrusion by the yellow bundle of trouble made it impossible to concentrate.

In surrender, he reached for his briefcase and headed for the gym. A rapid walk on the treadmill should put an end to his restlessness.

*****

As she paid the parking attendant and pointed her vehicle away from downtown Amy frowned to herself. All of this was Charles Harding's fault.

Hidden away in his dark cave of an office. If his space belonged to her, she'd flood the room with light and an abundance of San Diego sunshine.

Maybe the man never thought about anything but business. She checked herself in the rearview mirror. She'd taken time to get the look right. Professional, yet alluring. She'd hoped he'd notice both.

She needed to chill.

How could she? Someday the settlement from Randy's military insurance would run out. She'd never feed and clothe her fast-growing child without that degree.

She'd long ago given up on figuring out why Charles Harding's childhood home called to her from out of the past as silently as the fog rolled in along San Diego's shore. As she had so often before, she took the exit to Mission Hills. She'd learned it didn't pay to question what kept her returning to the site. Or to fight the urge.

What secrets were hidden within those walls? What had led a successful but reclusive man like Harding to close his wonderful old house? Why didn't he just move on and sell the place? And what strange force kept drawing her to this street?

She turned the corner, slowing as she rolled down the window completely and inhaled. Even the air tasted better along this row of affluent houses set far apart on a quiet street.

She parked at the curb before number 1221, a three-story house with a gabled roof.

Not just any house. Hushed silence cloaked this stately structure with an air of mystery. Set far back from the street in a cluster of spreading oaks and sycamores, and constructed of dark red brick with even darker trim, it waited. Ominous. Brooding. Two adjectives she might also use for Charles Harding.

Unusual, the effect this house had on her. At first glance it appeared abandoned, but she'd come often enough to notice the leaves cleared and lawns trimmed from time to time.

Not by Charles Harding. Ten-to-one he never left his darkened cave he considered an office except to sleep. Was it the root of her slight attraction to him? Another workaholic?

Maybe. Workaholics were safe. They had no time for long-term commitments, the farthest thing from Amy's mind.

She glanced back at the house. Closed shutters covered the upper windows. She'd already determined plywood prevented anyone from entering the doors or windows on the ground level. Not planning to break in, but curious to know why such a desirable home stood empty, she'd tested each entrance on an earlier visit. Just in case.

The cost of upkeep on a place like this must approach the national debt. Property taxes alone could amount to more than she and Marta needed to survive for a year.

Amy looked at the house more closely.

Spooky. If a body believed in ghosts and the like, Charles Harding's house was the place to look.

Stubborn—intriguing—man. She'd seen the haunted look in his eyes. She didn't intend to disturb any family ghosts, hoped only to capture a few images, and leave his past undisturbed.

Amy whacked the steering wheel hard. Her frustration might ease she promised, rubbing her hand, but not her determination. She allowed herself a tiny smile. This boarded-up house might belong to an obstinate man, but she wasn't giving up on getting inside. With a sigh, she headed back toward Marta's school to pick her up from kindergarten.

*****

Like most almost five-year-olds, Marta seemed to feed on questions. Today was no exception.

"Why did you wear your bestest suit if you don't even know the man?"

I wanted to make a good impression.

Marta opened the passenger door and settled into the booster seat. "What's a mmpression?"

Amy waited for Marta to fasten the seat belt, checked it herself, then settled in the driver's seat. Through the rearview mirror she could see her waiting for an answer.

Amy started the car and pulled away from the curb. That means I wanted him to like me.

Did he?

Amy's laugh held no humor. I'm afraid not.

Maybe he was just having a bad day. Like my teacher had.

Amy wished it was the only thing bothering the man. If it was, she might hope for a change of heart. There had to be a sense of humor in there some place. After all, for an instant she'd seen his smile and watched the clouds lift from his face.

How would his face change if he allowed himself the pleasure of a good, hard laugh?

Amy slowed, turned in the driveway of her complex and parked her aging Geo Tracker in her designated spot. Marta skipped ahead of her on the curved walk leading to their condo and unlocked the door with the keys she'd demanded. Pigtails bouncing, her child hurtled through the opening and Amy followed her to the kitchen.

Would you fix us a sandwich, sweetheart, while I change out of my good clothes?

"Sure, Mom. Is blony okay?"

As good as she would get with Marta in charge of their meal. Fine. Purchasing mayonnaise in plastic squeezable containers provided her daughter a modicum of independence, but limited today's lunch choices to baloney or cheese.

Amy slipped into a pair of jeans, then a blue shirt. The wear-softened fabric hugged her size 14 hips like a close friend.

Recalling the meeting with Charles Harding, her temper flared. She had gone to a lot of trouble to see the man, dressing for his benefit, prepared to convince him to let her into his house. Well, he wouldn't squelch her interest without a fight.

By the time she and Marta had eaten lunch, Amy again surrendered to her latest photographic obsession. She secured her daughter in the back seat of the Geo and headed for Harding Place, thinking if Marta's legs grew much longer, they would soon need a new car. A new used car.

Please, not yet.

Not until she had established herself in the art world. A few more exhibits like the one coming up, a Guggenheim Fellowship if her luck held out—and the keys to a still-in-its-prime Toyota Camry might be within her reach.

Where are we going? Marta asked.

Looking into the rear-view mirror, Amy smiled. For a little girl you ask a lot of questions.

"But I need to know."

We're going to drive by a house I want to photograph.

Oh. Satisfied, Marta peered out the window, but not for long. Bobby Denton's father talked to my class today. He's nice, and pretty, too.

Good-looking, sweetheart. You don't say men are pretty.

"But Bobby's father is pretty."

He may look it to you, but the way to describe him is good-looking, or handsome. Men don't like to be called pretty.

"Han-sum. Marta repeated the word. Bobby's father called himself a lawyer. What is that?"

He didn't explain?

"He said a lot of things I didn't understand about torts and Mur-randa rights, but he didn't tell us what a lawyer is."

Amy thought a moment, careful to choose the right words. A lawyer goes before a judge in court and defends... the law. He goes before a judge and argues for the rights of his clients. If he does a good job, they win.

"Does