Coming into Focus Read online

  Table of Contents

  Cover Page

  Title Page

  Copyright Page

  Dedication

  Dear Reader,

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Epilogue

  Acknowledgements

  About the Author

  Some Assembly Required Excerpt

  What’s next on

  Coming into Focus

  EAGAN DANIELS

  CHAMPAGNE BOOK GROUP

  Coming into Focus

  This is a work of fiction. The characters, incidents and dialogues in this book are of the author’s imagination and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events or persons, living or dead, is completely coincidental.

  Published by Champagne Book Group

  2373 NE Evergreen Avenue, Albany OR 97321 U.S.A.

  ~~~

  First Edition 2022

  eISBN: 978-1-957228-63-1

  Copyright © 2022 Eagan Daniels All rights reserved.

  Cover Art by Robyn Hart

  Champagne Book Group supports copyright which encourages creativity and diverse voices, creates a rich culture, and promotes free speech. Thank you for complying by not scanning, uploading, and distributing this book via the internet or via any other means without the permission of the publisher. Your purchase of an authorized electronic edition supports the author’s rights and hard work and allows Champagne Book Group to continue to bring readers fiction at its finest.

  www.champagnebooks.com

  Version_1

  For Jesse. I would pick exactly this life and

  exactly you, every, every, every time.

  I love you.

  Dear Reader,

  Thank you for reading! I hope you enjoy getting to know Willa and her boys as much as I enjoyed writing them.

  This book started out as a fun daydream about what it would be like to be the personal assistant for a flamboyant musician, but along the way, it became something closer my heart—a reflection on what it means to strike a balance in a world that tells women how they must exist. I wanted Willa to build her own version of having it all. She is a caregiver because she finds joy and connection in it. But she’s also an artist, and a lover, a sister, a daughter, and a friend. She learns to listen to her own heart and what she wants, rather than to be swept up in an idea of what other people think she “should” be.

  It’s what I hope for myself, and for you—to be the truest version of ourselves.

  And if that comes with a found-family of pretty rock stars, so be it.

  Chapter One

  My favorite thing about working in a coffee shop was the free coffee. Obviously. My second favorite thing was that once I learned how to make the drinks, my brain was free to do other things, like make mental portraits of customers. The guy who’d just ordered an extra hot, half-caf, nonfat milk, sugar-free almond syrup extra large, for example.

  I made his coffee with a fraction of my mindshare while I used the rest of my mental energy to imagine how I’d photograph him. I landed on black and white, in profile. His eyelashes alone would warrant the side view, but his nose would also be fantastic outlined against a stark background. Noses don’t get enough attention in portrait photography. I’ve always thought so.

  I kept the ideas to myself. Nobody wants an artistic treatise from their barista. It was true I had an insightful, sparkling, unique portfolio… but it was made entirely of imaginary photographs. It wasn’t satisfying, and it wasn’t enough, but it I told myself I was keeping my creative muscles limber—so it was better than nothing.

  More importantly, I had a brother to take care of. Maybe this wasn’t a dream job, but it was a job that kept me close to home and helped me stay on top of our bills.

  My phone vibrated in my pocket—the alarm announcing it was time to leave my second job of the day and head to the third.

  My jobs were scheduled in order of preference, least to most. First job: computer lab at the community college. Boring. My only responsibility was to make sure the kids surfing porn didn’t hog the computers.

  Second job: coffee shop.

  The third job was the best one—working in the photo lab at my Uncle Ken’s music magazine, Offstage. It was the closest I was going to get to doing my own photography any time soon.

  I pulled out my phone to silence the alarm but instead found an urgent text from Hope Harper: Willa! I have the world’s most flamboyant rock star crashed on my couch. We’re HOURS behind schedule, I can’t reach any of our photographers, and I can’t let him leave town without pictures. Help meeeeeee.

  I slid off the stool and called Hope, holding my phone to my ear with one hand and wiping the counters with the other. She started talking as soon as she answered. “I’m off schedule, and all our photographers are booked. Your uncle-slash-my-editor is breathing down my neck. I need a break today, kid. If I don’t get pictures, I’ll have to use his press kit material, and it’s boring.”

  I hesitated. I didn’t want to disappoint her, but there was a ton of work I needed to get to in the photo lab, and—

  “If you nail this, it could be the feature story, Willa,” she said in a sing-song voice. “Those pay well.”

  I was sold. Paying bills before they were past due would be a joy I was unaccustomed to. Maybe I could even pay extra on Toby’s medical bills to chip away at those faster.

  I couldn’t deny it would be a good “career” move, such as my career was. Uncle Ken said I could leave the lab and begin work with the magazine as a junior staff photographer. If I was going to take a job with the magazine, though, I wanted it to be because I earned it. I wanted to be sure Uncle Ken would have hired me off the street if I walked into his office. Not because I was his niece, not because he pitied Toby and me. It was stupid to be proud when I couldn’t afford it, but I was proud. I’d work in the coffee shop and the lab before I’d take a handout—even if that handout was my dream job.

  This was an opportunity I couldn’t afford to pass up.

  I gave the counters a last swipe before I tossed the washrag in the sink behind me. “I’ll be there in fifteen minutes,” I told Hope. How lucky for both of us my camera was with me—because it always was. It was locked, lonely and impotent, in the trunk of my car. It was finally going to see some action.

  I’d call Toby on the way to Hope’s to tell him I’d be late, and I’d make up the darkroom time later. I poured three coffees to go, shoved them in a carrier, and shouldered my way out the door.

  I was halfway to Hope’s before I realized I hadn’t even asked her who it was.

  Chapter Two

  The sun was setting by the time I let myself into Hope’s house to find her darting around with an open purse hanging off her arm and a scarf trailing out of it, chanting, “Keys, keys, keys.”

  She patted her pockets and checked under the stacks of unopened mail on the glossy black mantle above her fireplace, sighing with relief when she noticed me.

  “Oh, thank God, Willa. We are…” She glanced at her watch, and then side-eyed the man on her couch. “Very behind schedule.”

  “I can’t help being interesting, love,” said the man of the hour. “You should have allowed more time to get to know me.”

  His English accent wasn’t a surprise. Even the brief glance I’d given him was enough to know he wasn’t from here. The soil in Nashville doesn’t grow men who look like him. He was reclining on his elbows on Hope’s zebra-print couch, watching her with a half-smile. A mass of curly hair, dark eyes, ridiculous eyelashes… He was familiar, but I couldn’t quite place him.

  This assignment would be a piece of cake. I didn’t want to jinx myself, but short of cataclysmic equipment failure, there was no way to blow it. He was probably the most photogenic person I’d ever seen.

  Hope ignored him and focused on me. “This is what we’re going to do. Oh!” She interrupted herself. “Did you bring me coffee? You’re the best.” She took a cup from the carrier and drained it. “Ah, God. I needed that.” She gave her head a shake. “Take the pictures, do whatever editing you need to do, then send them to me ASAP. I need them to be great to help me pitch it for the feature story. I’m sure you can do it.” She gave him an appreciative glance. “The raw material is definitely there.”

  The couch man gestured at his body with one hand.

  I ignored him for now and concentrated on her. “What do you mean, send them to you? Where will you be?”

  “I have to run to the office. I have two articles due by morning, including a stupid review of stupid Benny Walker’s stupid band’s stupid new album. Something more elaborate than ‘tired Dad-rock from a so-called legend who has worn out his welcome.’”

  Oh, hell no. Som
e things were sacred. Or should be. Things like Benny Walker. I glared at Hope.

  “I forgot you’re a fan,” she said, with an exaggerated eye roll. “Believe me, that guy doesn’t need you to defend him. Here’s the thing, Willa. I’ve reviewed a million albums by his band. I don’t have anything else to say at this point.”

  She hopped on one foot, trying to get her other one into a high-heeled leather boot. Her hair was a long, wavy mess, currently red. No matter what color it was or what she did with it, it was perpetually perfect. She was tall and leggy, and I felt like an awkward kid next to her.

  What she’d said was starting to sink in. “Wait. You’re going to leave me here with—”

  She focused her attention on the man. “It was great to meet you. Be good for Willa. Behave yourself. Oh, keys!” She dumped them out of a fancy vase on the coffee table.

  “Don’t worry about a thing,” he said. “I’m good to my photographers.”

  I wanted to make the distinction that I wasn’t his photographer, I was a photographer, but I held my tongue. “Hope, who is he?”

  She choked on a laugh. “You don’t know?”

  I frowned. “His name isn’t coming to me.”

  “You’re so funny, Willa! You need to work less, enjoy yourself more.” She patted me on the cheek.

  “What are you girls talking about?” he called from the couch.

  “Women,” I corrected automatically.

  He swung his feet to the floor. “You’re talking about women? I want to talk about women,” he said. “Let me in on that.”

  Hope laughed, but I ignored him. I prompted her again. “Hope?”

  “He’s Jimmy Standish.”

  “Ohhhh. Right, right, right. From the band…” She wasn’t going to help me out. No problem. I knew it. Sort of. “Starts with a ‘c,’ right? Corkscrew? Cocksure?”

  She laughed again. “Cocksure would probably have been a better name, but it’s Corporate. They’re exploding, Willa. How do you not know?”

  I snapped my fingers. “No, right, of course. It was on the tip of my tongue.” It hadn’t been.

  I needed more. Right now, all I had to work with was that he was a pretty pop singer. Photographs showing an attractive man being attractive would not be the breakthrough I needed.

  Hope wasn’t going to help, though. She was shrugging into a jacket on her way to the door. “Jimmy Standish, meet Willa Reynolds. Be nice to her because she’s saving our asses.” To me, she said, “Love to Toby. Remember to send these to me when they’re ready.”

  She took another coffee from the carrier, did a “cheers” lift to me, and she was gone.

  Leaving me with Jimmy Standish.

  I squared my shoulders and stood taller, projecting the air of someone who’d done this a million times—or at least more times than never. “Right. Let’s get started. Will anyone else be joining us?”

  He frowned, then his face cleared. “Oh, you mean the lads?”

  “Mmhm. Exactly. The lads.”

  “From the band…?” He prompted with a wicked smile.

  “Corporate! I knew as soon as I walked in, obviously. I was just, uh, flustered. Because I’m such a huge fan, Mr. Standish.”

  His full-on smile lit up the room. My fingers itched to get to my camera, and he wasn’t even trying. “Ooh, you are the most adorable girl!” He swung his feet to the ground. “Never call me Mr. Standish again. It’s Jimmy. You are a terrible liar, but I appreciate the effort to protect my ego.”

  “I’m older than eighteen,” I pointed out. “You must have meant to say ‘woman.’”

  He approached me, beaming and holding my hand for a long moment as he loomed over me. It should have been intimidating, but it wasn’t.

  “The other two aren’t here yet. I’m here doing a press tour before the real tour. It’s our manager’s idea, not mine. Hawk’s an asshole, but since he’s an asshole with great business sense, we usually listen to him anyway. I want us to sell out this entire tour, and we’re close, Willa. You can help me get there.”

  Even close-up, he was beautiful. His skin was perfect. Like he was lit from the inside.

  I was studying him, but he didn’t care since he was studying me at the same time. “Adorable,” he said again.

  “Professional,” I said, countering him. “I’m not here to be cute; I’m here to do a job.”

  “All right,” he agreed. “Professional. In a little, endearing way. We’re going to be a great pair, Willa.”

  Maybe, if I could decide what to do with him. I didn’t know a lot about his career or his persona. There was nothing to do but ask. He didn’t seem like the kind of guy who’d be reluctant to talk about himself. “Tell me about your music.”

  “Would you rather listen to it?” he suggested, finally dropping my hands. He crossed the room and sank gracefully into a chair. “I’m sure you’ll like us because we are very good.” He gestured to my phone. “Search for ‘Corporate.’ Or ‘best band in Britain at least since The Beatles but possibly including the Beatles.’ Or maybe ‘English rock stars who could be models because they’re so attractive.’ That would bring me up. And probably the other two, to be honest. They get overlooked sometimes because of the glare coming off me, but they’re both lovely.” He shifted in the chair he was in and frowned down at it. “This is a wretched chair. I thought it would be comfortable because it looks cool, but it’s awful.”

  “Don’t tell Hope.” I carried my camera bag to her dining room table and arranged my lenses. “Elvis Costello sent it to her. It’s her prized possession.”

  “Prized for what? Not for sitting in, surely.”

  “Prized for giving her a chance to say, ‘Elvis Costello himself sent me this chair,’ I guess. Check out the photo behind you of the two of them in sitting in it together.”

  He craned around in the chair then turned back to me with wide eyes. “Um, you don’t seem to know a lot about music, darling. That’s Hope with Madonna.”

  “Other shoulder.”

  He turned the other way and came face-to-face with an even bigger framed photograph of Hope and Elvis, both in fedoras. She was sitting on the arm of the chair; his glasses were perched on her nose, and she was resting her chin on his head. A high-heeled shoe dangled off the toes of one of her crossed legs. They were cuddled up like they’d been besties their whole lives. The real story was they’d met about fifteen minutes before the image was taken.

  Jimmy wasn’t impressed. He’d also sat in Elvis Costello’s lap for all I knew. “He probably sent her this chair so he wouldn’t ever make the mistake of accidentally sitting it in again himself.” He brought the conversation back to research suggestions for me. “Did you Google me yet?”

  “I don’t want to learn about you from someone else,” I said. “That will be their point of view, not mine. How about…what if we walked through a day in your life? We’ll pretend you’re going through a normal day, starting with first thing in the morning.”

  It couldn’t fail. Hope could use it as a photo essay if she wanted, or she could cherry-pick any images she liked. Since he’d be driving the action, it would be authentic.

  He nodded. “I like where you’re going with this.”

  “We can call it ‘A Day in the Life of an Emerging Legend.’”

  He countered with ‘A Day in the Life of a Legend as He Becomes More Legendary Even.’ I agreed it could be our working title.

  He headed down the hallway toward Hope’s bedroom.

  “What are you doing?” I called.

  “A day starts in bed, darling! Let’s check out Hope’s…oh, perfect. It’s lovely. Look at this.”

  I followed him. Hope’s bed was covered by a huge fluffy white comforter with pristine, white pillows. Jimmy yanked his shirt over his head, kicked off his shoes, and nestled into the blankets.

  He slipped one heavily tattooed arm out of the covers to display it on the snowy white bedding. “How’s this?”