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before, which Hope knew he had. The photograph they were taking was for his eleventh book, and so far, all of them for the past twenty years had been best sellers. At forty-six, he was an institution in American literature, just as she was in her field. It would have been hard to decide which of them was more famous or more respected. They were an even match in their reputations and skills in separate fields.
    They shot for an hour, as she praised him for good moves and the right turn of his head, and she was almost sure she had gotten the winning shot in the first half hour, but she knew better than to stop there. She had Fiona move the light setup to his desk, and suggested he take a half-hour break, and maybe put a white shirt on, but leave it open at the neck. He asked if she’d like to stop for lunch then, but Hope said that if he didn’t mind, she’d prefer to continue working. She didn’t want to break the mood, or to get slow and lazy after lunch. She found that it was usually better to stay on it once she and her subject were working well together. A long lunch or a glass of wine could break the spell for either or both of them, and she didn’t want that to happen. She was delighted with what they were getting. As a portrait subject, Finn O’Neill was a dream and he was fun to talk to. The time was speeding by.
    Half an hour later, he was back in his living room, in the white shirt Hope had asked for, and sat down at his handsome partner’s desk. Hope moved the computer away because it looked so incongruous in that setting. He was a delightful subject, fooling around, telling jokes and stories about well-known artists, writers, his house in Ireland, and the outrageous stunts he had pulled on book tours in his youth. At one point he had tears in his eyes when he talked about his son and bringing him up on his own, without a mother after her death. There were so many magical moments while she talked to him that Hope knew she would have a multitude of great shots to choose from, each one better than the last.
    And then finally, after a few shots of him leaning against an antique ladder in front of the bookcase, they were through. And just as she said it, he exploded in laughter with a look of joy and release, and she stole one more shot of him, which could just turn out to be the best one. Sometimes that happened. And he gave her a warm hug as she handed her Leica to Fiona, who took it reverently from her hands and set it on a table with the others. She unplugged the lights and began to break down the equipment and put it away, as Finn led Hope downstairs to the kitchen.
    “You work too hard! I’m starving!” he complained as he opened the refrigerator and turned to her. “Can I make you some pasta or a salad? I’m about to keel over from starvation. No wonder you’re so small, you must never eat.”
    “Usually not when I’m working,” she admitted. “I get too involved in what I’m doing to think about it, and it’s so much fun doing the shoot.” She smiled shyly and he laughed.
    “Most of the time I feel that way about working on a book, although at times I hate it too. Particularly rewrites. I have a nasty editor, and we have a love-hate relationship, but he’s good for the books. It’s a necessary evil. You don’t have that with what you do,” he said enviously.
    “I have to edit myself, but I have clients to deal with who commission the work, like your publisher, and museum curators, who can be pretty tough, though it’s different than doing rewrites must be for you. I’ve always wanted to write,” she confessed. “I can barely write a postcard—for me it’s all visual. I see the world through a lens, I see into people’s souls that way.”
    “I know, that’s what I love about your work, and why I asked the publisher to get you to do the photo for the book jacket.” He laughed then as he expertly made an omelette for them both, moving like a tornado in the tiny kitchen. He had