by Dara Girard
He stumbled back as though he’d been punched in the gut. All his joy vanished. Even in this seemingly peaceful place reality’s cruel grasp had reached him.
“What are you doing out here?” Mariella said, coming up to him.
He spun around. “Go back inside.”
“I was only…what’s wrong?”
“Nothing. I told you to go inside.”
“But if something’s wrong—” She stopped and saw it. “Oh no.”
“Go inside.”
She touched his sleeve. “It’s okay. You don’t have to protect me.” She took his hand. “Come on, let’s go have some breakfast.”
He didn’t eat. The sight of the dead fox haunted him like the year after he’d taken pictures of children and one of them disappeared. They’d found his body years later. The carefree photographer of those photos had disappeared too and he’d buried him. That afternoon Ian went back to see the dead fox, he had to face it, but it was gone. There was no blood. Nothing. As though it had never been there. He rushed back inside. “Where is it?”
Mariella looked up from her makeup case where she’d been playing with different lipstick colors. “Where is what?”
“The fox.”
“What fox?”
“The dead fox that was there this morning.”
She lifted her compact and powdered her nose. “I didn’t see a dead fox this morning.”
“Yes, you did. We saw it together.”
She snapped the compact closed. “Saw what together?”
Ian opened his mouth then closed it catching on to her ploy. “Forget it.”
She sent him a significant look. “Yes, I think that’s a good idea.”
But he couldn’t. He tried to shut off his mind. Things die every day. He was stupid to believe the universe was punishing him for his moment of happiness. They spent the rest of the day exploring the house and then each other. They found books and read passages and discussed them—they made each other laugh and shared private thoughts. Ian pushed the fox from his mind, but that night he tossed and turned. He couldn’t allow himself to enjoy the warm body next to him and revel in her beauty. He’d never tell her how much her beauty affected him, she already held enough power over him.
How could he lie beside her taking pleasure in her softness, listening to the silence around him when people were dying and starving? Cathleen always liked to remind him of that. How he’d grown up privileged while others were suffering. He’d been determined to make a difference. But how was he making a difference now? He felt useless and yet that was the man Mariella admired. If he’d been the Ian of before, the cynical photojournalist—the Ian he somehow still was—would they still be together?
As he struggled with his thoughts, Mariella struggled with hers. She could sense his unease, but couldn’t understand it. The death of the beautiful fox saddened her but hadn’t affected her as it did him. She rested her chin on his bare chest.
“Can’t sleep?” she asked.
“No.”
“Want to tell me about it?”
He shook his head then said, “Why did you love my father?”
“Why did you hate him?”
“I didn’t. We just didn’t always get along.”
“I loved him as a friend.”
“And you were willing to do anything for him?”
“What do you mean?”
“Why did you let everyone believe that the drugs were yours?”
She sat up startled. “How did you…?” She pulled the covers close. “They were mine.”
“But you got them for him, didn’t you?”
She was quiet then lowered her gaze. “He was dying and I felt helpless. I wanted to do whatever he wanted to somehow ease his suffering. I didn’t see any harm in it.” She met his gaze. “No one understood our relationship. He said that the herbs would help him, I wanted to help him the way I hadn’t been able to help…” She took a deep breath. “My parents.” She touched his face in a light, fleeting gesture. “I know about ugliness, I know about death and disease. I know about despair and destitution. I know humiliation.”
“Those photographs of the children were taken when I was eighteen.”
“You were very talented then.”
“Yes, and I knew it. From that age to about twenty-three I had an overinflated ego. I knew I was good-looking, talented and rich. You wouldn’t have liked me very much then.”
“Who says I like you now?”
He smiled, sliding his hand to the curve of her hip. “I think you’re warming to me.”
“So what changed you?”
“Two things. One of those kids was murdered.”
“I’m sorry. And two?”
“I met…I met my wife. She wasn’t from my world and wasn’t impressed with my pictures. She told me everything that was wrong. I fell in love with her instantly. She wasn’t worried about her weight or her looks, she was passionate about her work. I learned from her. We traveled all over the world. Then in Gambia. I felt uneasy. I wasn’t sure about the driver, but she went along with everything. We were ambushed. They just shot her. While I was standing there. She was dead before she hit the ground. In the movies you see the wounded linger. I still dream about having a moment with her, having the chance to cradle her in my arms, but that wasn’t how it happened.
“I don’t remember leaving the country or arriving back home. About a year of my life is blank to me, but after that I couldn’t see joy. I envy your ability to see beauty and light.”
She stared at him. “Claiming her darkness as your own won’t keep her alive. Her memory is enough. You don’t have to deny beauty or pain. It just is. You can’t hurt enough to ease someone else’s suffering, you can’t weep enough to stop someone’s pain. You can only do your best to help others and enjoy your life.”
“I don’t know if I can,” he said, his voice hollow.
“Let me help you. I’m going to close my eyes and I want you to tell me what you see in this room.”
“I see the remains of a cobweb and a shadow of a lamp on the wall, buckled hallway and couch that has been sat in too many times. Dark paneled walls and a fire. That’s it.”
“Okay, now you close your eyes.”
“You think you’ll see something different?”
“Just close your eyes.”
He did.
“Okay, what do you see?”
“I see us.”
He opened his eyes. “You can’t see that.”
“Yes, I can.”
“How can you see us?”
She pointed. “That mirror. I always know when there is a mirror in a room. It’s a gift.”
“I didn’t even notice it.”
“I know. For an observer you miss a lot.”
Over the next two days, they settled into a routine. Mariella had found some salmon and had cut it into thin strips and “cooked” it by pouring lemon juice on it. A skill she said she had learned from her father when she had gone on camping trips with him as a child. She also set aside a small jar of olive oil to use as a daily moisturizer, which she dutifully applied. Then there was the unforgettable moment when she applied mayonnaise to her hair as a deep conditioner and soaked her feet in a baking soda and vinegar mixture. They both experimented with dishes over the fire using the cast iron pot. Mariella’s jambalaya went well, but Ian’s attempt at macaroni and cheese did not. They found some old photo albums, several musical instruments and also played board games in the evening.
On the fifth day electricity returned. They celebrated by going for a walk. Mariella took her camera and snapped images of the landscape. Then she turned the camera on Ian.
He moved to the side, his tone accusatory. “What are you doing?”
She positioned her camera until he was in the frame again. “I’m going to take a picture.”
“I don’t like my picture being taken.”
“Why not?” she challenged. “It’s no big deal. I just want to take a pict
ure of—” She stopped.
“Of what?”
The man I love. She finished the sentence silently but the impact of it nearly made her legs collapse beneath her. She gripped the camera, afraid her trembling fingers might make her drop it. She was wrong, it was just a passing notion. She didn’t love him. She couldn’t love him. She refused to. No matter how his eyes, which she’d once thought so cold and without feeling, could warm her heart. No matter how tenderly he held her in his arms or listened to her fears, she would not succumb to such a dangerous and foolish emotion.
Ian took a step toward her, concerned. “What’s wrong?”
She took a step back and stiffened her spine. “Nothing. I was just thinking.” She smiled tremulously. “I just had a horrible thought.”
Ian folded his arms and feigned a pained look. “That’s comforting. You look at me and then have a horrible thought. What was it about?”
She moved her shoulders in a dismissive gesture. “It was nothing really.” She lifted her camera although her hands were still unsteady. “Now smile.”
He moved out of her view. “No. I told you I don’t like having my picture taken.”
She lowered the camera, sighing with frustration and thankful that his stubborn side pushed away her foolish thoughts. “Come on. I just want to take a picture of a man in the woods on a snowy day.”
“I still don’t like it.”
“Please.”
“Okay.” He turned his back to her. “How about this? I’ve been told I have a nice head shape.”
She jumped in front of him. “I want to show your face.”
He walked past her, over to a tree and placed his palm against the trunk, his head held down. In his dark clothes he was a striking contrast to the white snow around him.
“Ian, I just want you to see what I see.”
He sent her a cautious look. “What will you do with the picture?”
“What do you mean?”
“Who will you show it to?”
She could see him weakening and controlled her growing excitement. “Nobody,” she promised. “I’ll keep it in my own private collection.”
He chewed his lower lip. “Is that a promise?”
“Yes.”
He straightened. “A solemn vow?”
“Yes.”
He ambled toward her and looked deep in her eyes.
She pressed her lips against his. “There. Sealed with a kiss.”
His voice deepened into huskiness. “There’s another way to seal a bargain.”
“Well, we’re not doing that here. Now stop stalling. I’m going to take your picture.”
“All right,” he said without enthusiasm. “Just don’t tell me what to do.”
“I won’t.” Of course she couldn’t help herself. Once Mariella was behind the camera, the photographer in her took hold and she told him how to hold his head, and angled him in certain poses. At first he balked, but she made him relax and eventually got him to smile. When she was done she handed the camera to him. “Now it’s your turn.”
He looked at it as though it were a foreign object. “To do what?”
“To take pictures.”
He looked around him. “Of what?”
She raised her hands. “Of all the beauty around you. The trees, the snow, anything.”
“I don’t do landscapes.” His gaze fell on her. “And I don’t do models.”
She snatched the camera from him. “I’m sorry. I forgot you don’t take pictures of pretty things. You like it raw and ugly. Perhaps I should dig up the dead fox I buried for you.”
He softly swore. “Mariella, I didn’t mean it that way.”
She began to walk away. “I’ll see you later.”
“Where are you going?”
She kept walking.
He followed her. “Mariella. Where are you going?”
“I’m continuing this walk alone. I prefer my company to yours.”
“Don’t go too far.”
“Why not? Are you afraid there might be bears? That would be a good story for you. Ex-model gets mauled by bear. You could take a nice picture of me lying dead on the ground with my neck ripped away.”
He grabbed her arm, his voice rough and hard. “Don’t ever say that to me again.”
Her gaze clashed with his. “Would you prefer me to just think it?”
His gaze fell, his grip loosening. “You don’t understand.”
“Then explain it to me.”
“I can’t take a portrait of you,” he said awkwardly. “I don’t do portraits.”
“I’m not asking you to do my portrait. I’m asking you to take my picture as my…” Her voice died away.
His gaze lifted and he searched her eyes. “As your what?”
“I don’t know.”
“Yes, you do.”
“I’m cold. I’m going back.”
He blocked her. “You weren’t cold a minute ago.”
“Well, I’m cold now.”
“No, you’re afraid now.”
She sent him a hard look. “And you’re not? You can’t even take a photograph of a woman standing two feet away from you. Did your father’s brilliance paralyze you that much?”
A muscle in his jaw twitched. He held out his hand. “Give me the camera.”
She did. “Where do you want me?”
He looked at her with interest. “Seriously?”
“To pose,” she clarified.
“Oh.” He shrugged. “Anywhere.”
“Okay.” She turned and spotted a stump surrounded by rocks. She dusted off snow. “Here’s a good spot.”
“Yes.” He lifted the camera then didn’t move. He remained frozen. Mariella stayed the same as she watched him unmoving with his trigger finger trembling above the shutter button. She didn’t know what to say or whether she should move. She thought about how easy it had been for Jeremiah to take her photographs and how Ian seemed to be in agony. Why? Why would something so simple prove so painful?
“The light’s dimming,” she said in a bright voice. “You’re right, it’s not a good time to take my picture.”
Ian lowered the camera and stared down at it. “You know he was brilliant with this thing. He could turn anything into art. He could take a picture of anyone and make them look beautiful. He had an eye, a special gift. I never told him how much I—” He took a deep shuddering breath. “I’m a fraud. I went into photojournalism because I couldn’t stand the comparison. I couldn’t take photos like he did. Give me action, give me a stranger, but I can’t take pictures of people I…” He shook his head. “Every time I tried it was never good enough. Not up to his standards.” He captured her eyes. “I can’t take you comparing a picture he took of you with one of mine.”
“But I wouldn’t.”
“Perhaps, but I would and then I’d remember that you were his…model.”
“Well, you need to learn to forget that.” She lifted the camera in his hands. “Am I in the frame?”
“What?”
“Am I in the frame?”
He checked. “Yes.”
“Good.” She pressed his finger over the shutter button. “There. All done. Now let’s get a few things clear. I’m your lover. I wasn’t your father’s. That’s a big difference and if you can’t get that straightened out we should end things now.” She took the camera and turned. “I’ll be back.”
“Where are you going?”
“I’m giving you time to think.”
“I don’t need to think.”
“It’s good for you. I’ll be back in twenty minutes.”
“Make it ten, it’s getting dark.”
“Fifteen.” She turned and winked. “It’s not that dark.”
“Ten. It soon will be.”
Mariella playfully stuck out her tongue then left. Ian watched her, his heart feeling both heavy and light at the same time. On one hand he didn’t understand her, but on another he understood her completely. He had to let the ghost of
his father go if he wanted this to work. And he desperately wanted it to. She was the key to his peace; she could keep the dark shadows away. He knew that the first moment he met her. She had forced him to feel. He didn’t even miss his darkroom. But could their relationship handle their return to New York: the innuendos, the gossip, the attention, the disbelief. How could he protect her from that? He’d have to do his best to make sure everything worked.
He returned to the cottage and saw a second car in the driveway. His heart fell. He didn’t have to wait to go to New York. New York had come to them.
Chapter 15
Josh jumped out of the car. “There you are. We were getting worried.”
Ian frowned, shoving his hands in his coat. “We?”
“Yes, Gen’s in the car.” He lowered his voice. “You wouldn’t believe how much time I’ve been able to spend with Gen since Mariella’s been away. A couple more weeks and I’m going to seal the deal.”
“Seal the deal?”
“Ask her to marry me.”
“Good for you,” Ian said, a little envious that his brother’s love life was going more smoothly than his own.
Gen stepped out of the car and shyly smiled at him. “Hi.”
He waved.
Josh nudged him. “You could at least say something more. She’ll be part of the family soon.”
“I’m not in the mood,” he grumbled.
“You could try.”
“I am trying.”
Gen looked at the two men unsure of what they were whispering. “Is Mariella inside?”
“No,” Ian said. “She went for a walk.”
“Oh.”
“Come on, let me help you with the bags.”
Ian helped them with their luggage and entered the house. “One room or two?” he asked at the top of the stairs.
