Epilogue
The reporter stood on the sidewalk
outside the gallery, twisting the earpiece into a more comfortable
place in her ear. Her cameraman was flicking his fingers in the
countdown so she stopped fiddling and gave her neat, pressed shirt
a last quick adjustment and deliberately widened her
smile.
“Three, two, one, live feed.” The
camera’s light blinked green on her indrawn breath.
“We’re here outside the Prometheus
Gallery tonight, which is hosting the cream of San Francisco’s
elite. This is the first major showing since the gallery’s owner,
Carrie McCray, and her new husband, renowned billionaire shipping
magnate Davros Gianikopolis returned from Central America where
they were held hostage.
“Shortly after their heroic rescue and
their return to the United States, Ms. McCray and Mr. Gianikopolis
were married in a private ceremony attended only by their closest
friends.”
The light blinked red, and she
continued the voice-over, knowing they would be showing pictures,
released selectively to the media, of the happy couple on their
wedding day. The bride had been married in a glorious confection of
cream-colored silk created by a local designer. The groom,
resplendent and handsome in a tuxedo, despite the grievous injuries
suffered during his captivity, had beamed with barely suppressed
joy.
“Seen here in a photo released after
they left for their honeymoon in an undisclosed location, the
couple appears to be fully recovered from their
ordeal.”
The light blinked back to green and she
turned slightly to her right, letting her best side show to the
camera. She knew the cameraman would be panning wide to get the
crowd, and the elegant sign outside Prometheus.
Her busy intern had prepped the area,
and was just out of camera range, drawing arriving celebrities and
couples over to speak to her on camera as they
arrived.
The feed in her ear gave her details to
prompt the approaching grouping. “Mrs. Bellweather, I understand
you’ve been a longtime supporter of the Prometheus
Gallery.”
The society matron did her bit,
preening into the camera and giving her an excellent sound bite.
Her assistant hustled another couple over, but their comments were
gushing and far too lengthy. She moved out of the camera’s ideal
range as she spotted another local couple. The woman had been in
the news about the same time as Carrie McCray, involved somehow in
the scandal of the previous year.
Yet, here she was, attending the
reopening of the gallery.
“Good evening.” The reporter smiled
brightly, praying they would talk to her as the cameraman refocused
on her and the patrons. “Would you like to say a few words about
this evening’s event?”
The man avoided her gaze, dropping just
slightly behind his wife. The reporter gritted her teeth. The man
was gorgeous in a good-camera way with lots of angles and planes to
his face, but he wasn’t going to talk to her, she could tell. The
wife, on the other hand, beamed. This would work, since the woman
was succinct and positive about the gallery and the reopening
event. Her producer kept urging her to keep them talking, that it
was a good clip.
“This is going to be a lovely evening,
I can feel it,” the woman said, her smile dazzling. It helped that
she was visibly pregnant. The delighted glow she exuded would show
up well on camera.
“We’re so happy to be here. My husband,
Gunther, and I”—she smiled over her shoulder at her reluctant
husband—“enjoy Prometheus, and are delighted to celebrate this
special event.”
“It’s a lovely event, yes,” the
reporter prompted. “Have you and Mrs. Gianikopolis compared baby
names?” she asked, referencing the society tidbit that Carrie
McCray was already obviously pregnant, and probably had been before
the wedding.
“Oh—” The woman blushed. “We’re not
that well acquainted, but of course, I wish her all the
best.”
“Thank you, Mrs....” The reporter let
her fill in the blank space.
The woman smiled into the camera and
said, “I’m Mrs. Gunther Kraff,” she offered, then smiled. “Caroline
Kraff.”
“Well, Caroline, thank you for speaking
to me. Any words of wisdom for the newly married
couple?”
Caroline smiled again, and the reporter
hoped the camera was catching the gleam in her eye, and the twinkle
of humor. It would make fabulous television.
“Oh, I wouldn’t dream of it, but...”
She glanced once more at her bashful husband, whose head was now
ducked a bit.
“But?”
“Well, I’m sure they already know far
more than I would about wisdom, but as to advice, they’ve already
followed the advice I’d give.”
“And what would that be?”
Caroline Kraff looked at the reporter
with a shrewd, knowing gaze, but the face she turned to the camera
was once again that look of innocent, glowing happiness. “Why, when
you’ve got a chance at love, take the shot.”
“There you have it,” the reporter said,
obeying the signal in her ear to wrap it up. “Thank you, Mrs.
Kraff, Mr. Kraff. Enjoy your evening. This is Melanie Stuart, live
at the Prometheus Gallery in downtown San Francisco.”
From the balcony, Gates and Ana watched
as the attractive pregnant lady and her husband were snagged by the
reporter. Gates frowned at the man’s behavior, his avoidance of the
camera, but the woman’s obvious pleasure belied any real
suspicion.
Until they left the reporter and
entered the gallery, that is. He saw the man straighten and sweep
the crowd with an assessing gaze.
“Did you see that?” Ana whispered in
his ear.
“Yeah,” he muttered, focusing in on the
man, watching as Geddey’s men—no longer his team—caught Geddey’s
reaction to the sweeping glance, and suggested that someone should
get him the guest list and determine just who this
was.
“Just like old times,” she said,
snickering, remembering how he had told her he knew she wasn’t what
she seemed when she too had entered the gallery and given that
exact, measured assessment of the teeming crowd.
He laughed as well, never taking his
eyes off the couple in question.
A booming laugh distracted him from his
quarry and he turned to see Dav and a brilliantly beautiful Carrie
coming his way. They looked happier than he’d ever seen either of
them.
Ana slid her hand through the crook of
his arm and leaned into him. “They look happy, don’t
they?”
“They do.”
Dav strolled up, snagging two
additional champagne flutes as he came. “You must have champagne,
and we must have a toast.”
“Absolutely,” Gates said. “But first,
do you recognize that couple?”
Carrie stepped to the balcony rail as
well and looked down. “That’s Caroline Yountz Kraff. She married a
German software entrepreneur she met through her late
husband.”
“May he never rest in peace,” Ana
muttered, having been the target of Yountz’s ire prior to his
death.
“She looks happy,” Dav
offered.
“And he looks familiar,” Gates
replied.
Carrie tapped Gates’s shoulder. “No
business tonight.”
She smiled, and Dav kissed her, and
they all agreed. Raising her glass filled with what looked like
champagne, she said, “To what should we toast?”
She saw Ana eyeing the glass and said,
“Sparkling cider.”
“Excellent vintage,” was Ana’s sly
comment.
Dav tucked Carrie against his side and
raised his glass as well, facing his best and dearest friends. “To
love,” he offered.
They each echoed him, “To
love.”
And drank.