Caught on Camera

Chapter 10, Scene 1, Part 18

Chapter 10

You've Got Email

Scene 1

Mopette sat obediently in a spa salon chair admiring herself in the mirror while a stream of warm air from Marie-Eve's hair dryer rippled damp white fur.

"Obviously the princess' pet is accustomed to this treatment," Rachel groused. "Unlike me." Between passes she aimed the hand-held dryer at the camera pendant dangling from her neck between the folds of the robe Mickey had retrieved from his room. A big fat tear plopped onto Mopette's fur.

The expensive secret camera had come with a manufacturer's warning to keep the delicate mechanism away from high heat and moisture. Lake Muskoka was moist. It was the epitome of moist.

When Mickey arrived back at the lake dressed in running shorts and a T-shirt and with a tired Mopette wrapped in a robe under one arm in a football carry, Rachel urged Mickey to join his friends in the screened Muskoka Room.

"I have to bathe and return Mopette before she's missed," Rachel had insisted on the beach as she gratefully accepted the proffered robe to cover her dripping nakedness. "I know you'd prefer another, uh, activity," she'd acknowledged, sensing his smoking gaze hot enough to evaporate the droplets on her skin. "So would I, to be frank." When he'd leaned in to steal another kiss, she dodged to one side and relieved him of Mopette instead. "Duty calls." 

She neglected to add that, after returning Mopette safely to the Bridal Suite, she had an even more urgent task: to determine if the pictures she'd snapped at the rehearsal dinner had survived the prolonged dunking.

The stream of warm air from the dryer nozzle soothed Mopette. Her eyelids drooped. Sleepily she circled on the salon chair, preparing to curl up for a snooze.

Rachel fluffed the soft fur at the scruff of the dog's neck, checking for dampness and stray particles of sand. "All dry, sweetie," she said, surprising herself. What was this sweetie talk? The little scamp was growing on her. She released an exhausted sigh.

They'd both survived an emotionally draining day. Titan had probably scared Mopette out of two years' growth. When Mickey kissed Rachel in the lake, her uninhibited response in retrospect both exhilarated and alarmed her. 

Fantasizing about an unattainable guest was safe. 

Drooling over a hunky male from afar was safe. 

Actually kissing him felt far from safe. If not for that suit he wore, things could have gotten out of hand. Or rather in her hand. Or in her.

Because the terrifying reality was that she lusted after Mickey like no man in her entire twenty-two years. And the distraction of wanting to be with him, touch him, hang on his every word and facial expression, at a time when her future career relied on keeping her focus, literally, on the bride and groom? Not good.

She disconnected the hair dryer and returned it to Marie-Eve's station. "Sorry, Mopette. You can't sleep here in the Spa." Rachel scooped the dog, limp and cuddly as a plush toy, into her arms.

After quietly cracking open the Bridal Suite door wide enough to nudge Mopette inside, Rachel dashed through empty corridors and stairwells to her small room in the staff quarters above the laundry. Cross-legged on the single bed at last, she booted her laptop, glanced at her alarm clock. Midnight.

The moment she'd been dreading since her backside smacked the surface of Lake Muskoka had arrived. She attached one end of a cable to the laptop and the other to the slot in the miniature camera encased in the pendant. Prayed with all her heart while waiting for the folder with contents of the camera files to open on the screen.

The file didn't open. Damaged chip.

The bottom dropped out of her world. Worst case scenario. No hidden camera for wedding photos! The reception dinner photos of Candy flashing her bling might be retrievable by an expert, but she didn't have the luxury of time. Besides, the entertainment media paid for scoops, not yesterday's news.

She accessed her email account, clicked on a single reply from a photo agency. With mounting excitement she scanned the offer to buy Kane-Armstrong wedding photos for twenty thousand dollars as long as the quality was acceptable, the agency obtained exclusive rights, and she uploaded them to the agency server within an hour of the Saturday afternoon wedding.

Both hands flew to her mouth. Twenty thousand dollars!

Then cruel reality swamped premature elation. She had a buyer but no hidden camera. No camera, no photos.

Supremely frustrated, she flung herself sideways on the bed. Bitter tears trickled onto the polyester bedspread. The universe wants me to abandon the dream of becoming a Hollywood camera operator. Why else make taking pictures so difficult?

Yet her mother hadn't raised a quitter. Rachel reached for a tissue, blew her nose, pushed herself to sitting position. In one palm she bounced the water-damaged camera pendant she'd pinned her dreams on. Where to obtain a replacement?

Muskoka cottage country shoppers ordered specialty items on-line or drove two hours to Toronto. Buying another miniature camera before the afternoon wedding wasn't a realistic option. Neither was the bulky professional digital SLR purchased for her college courses.

The smartphone charging on the nightstand dinged with a notification. She snatched it up. An older silver-colored 3G model, it captured photos and video. Attach it to the flower stems with elastic bands deep inside the bouquet, separate the flowers for an unobstructed view, and voilà: a hidden camera.

She activated quiet mode, plugged it into the charger, and patted it for good luck. "Hey phone, you're my only hope."