He quirked an eyebrow. A strange expression, and one that she couldn’t read.
“I know, you think I’m an airhead. I am. It’s just that I keep trying things and none of them last. I lose interest. And then I flake out.” She lowered her eyes. “It’s what I do.”
He didn’t say anything. She didn’t know why she expected him too, but she could only look at her toes for so long. She looked up.
His head was cocked, his eyes crinkled as if he was amused. “Maybe you just never found the right thing for you.”
She groaned. “I’ve tried. I tried journalism, I tried fashion photography, I tried gallery work, I tried . . .”
“Doesn’t it occur to you that you’ve found the right thing but have been looking at the wrong part?”
“Huh?”
He crossed his arms and leaned back against the counter.
The wrong part. What wrong part? And then she got it. In a moment of glorious epiphany. Hell, she wouldn’t be surprised if a chorus of voices with full orchestra started singing like something from the karaoke bar.
Her camera. She was always looking outward, but seeing inward. That’s what made her a good photographer. That’s also what made her flit around like a total ass. Always looking out there for the perfect opportunity, when she’d been carrying it around with her all the time.
“What a dope I’ve been. I’ve just been dancing around on the fringes, afraid to make a real decision. One that would last my whole life, and get my family off my case. But I was looking for a quick fix. Dragging my camera around to all these different venues, when it wasn’t out there, it was in the lens, in me.
“I don’t have to find one thing and stick with it forever, because I have access to whatever I want, through the lens. I am such a dope.”
“I wouldn’t say that. Just stubborn.”
“Carlyn said you all put piecemeal work together to keep doing this.”
“It’s the only way we get to do what we want to do.”
“I can do that. Can’t I?”
He shrugged.
She thought about it. She could photograph houses, people, landscapes, while she developed her own signature look, maybe have a gallery show—or two or ten. Open her own studio someday. For the first time ever, she could see a future, not all in one piece but developing sometimes quickly, sometimes slowly. Good times and bad times, hard and easy. But it could be hers. If she only had the courage to take the chance.
It was so obvious and so hokey that she almost laughed out loud.
Well, she’d start right now. She’d tell Carlyn that she’d like to rent the room in her apartment. And then she’d tell her dad.
“Bruce, you’re amazing.” She walked straight across the room and kissed him on the mouth. And that was pretty amazing, too. Then she turned and strode out the door.
“Me?” Bruce said, sounding stunned. “I didn’t do anything.”
She just waved and went to find Carlyn.
Geordie went straight home after work and spent the evening online, researching local photography businesses. She knew better than to strike out on her own right off the bat. Just look at Bruce. He at least had built a bit of a reputation so that he could supplement his restoration work with regular renovation.
She needed a steady job, one with a salary so she could budget and begin to save, so she could get her own place, and gradually build up a repertoire of gallery work. But not just any job. One that would challenge her, feed her creativity. It would be out there somewhere.
She typed in photographic studios and was surprised at how many there were in the area. She clicked on one at random, and the photos were just what she expected: weddings, anniversaries, family portraits. Most were nice, what most people wanted. A shot of bride and groom cutting cake, standing on the lawn with the sea in the background. Groups of posed shots, perfect for sending to relatives on Facebook and Pinterest, or framing on the office wall or over the piano. The kinds of photos that found their way to family albums, and recorded the day’s events.
Perfectly respectable, perfect for what they were. But they were not for Geordie.
The old familiar flutter began in her stomach, turning to a knot. The renegade thoughts. This isn’t going to work. Another dead end. I have to find something, have to start again. Have to . . . She wrote down the name and number, clicked on another and added it to the list.
She picked out a few and wrote down their e-mail addresses and phone numbers. She’d just get something for the present then try again later. Then she thought about standing behind a tripod, moving people closer together, standing and kneeling, so that everyone’s face could be seen. Telling them to smile, counting to three. Never veering from the tried and true.
She tore off the list from her notepad and threw it in the trash.
She wouldn’t settle for a job out of desperation, just to stop her parents from worrying about her, from pressuring her to settle down. She would find a happy medium, something that would be satisfying and would keep her solvent. Something that would give her time to work on her own photography but not sacrificing hours a day to work by the numbers or constantly scrambling for freelance work.
Her stomach growled. She went into the kitchen and got down the jar of peanut butter. Reached in the drawer for a spoon and touched the envelope she’d hidden the night before. it would be so easy just to take it, deposit it, and go on to the next chapter. Who was she kidding? Her life didn’t have chapters, just thirty-second commercial spots.
She went back to her computer, kept at it. Found one studio that thought a little outside of the box. Used interesting filters, unusual backgrounds, an undirected moment. She could work like that.
The next one was a large studio but too traditional. The next more inventive, but just didn’t speak to her. She skipped over some and lingered on others, rejected some and added others to her list, and by midnight she had a handful of A-list studios that spoke to her. Now if only her photographs spoke to them. And each was in need of a staff photographer.
She started to close the window, decided to look at just a few more. And found a real winner. Wedding portraits, anniversaries, head shots, they were all there. They were inventive, but they were more than that. They caught that internal spark of the people being photographed. They drew her in. She clicked through photo after photo, and thought, Yeah, I could do that.
She added the name and address to the top of the list. Glanced at the time. Eleven o’clock. Looked over to the photos lined up against the wall. She would have time to arrange a hard-copy portfolio as well as a digital one.
She closed out of the internet and opened her photo gallery.
Two hours later she had some definitive shots, ones she thought would appeal to the first studio on her list. She composed an e-mail, mentioned how their photos had drawn her in. Attached a few of her own. Asked for a job.
Six e-mails later, her eyes began to close and she caught herself making spelling mistakes. Six was a good start. She’d do more tomorrow.
And if no one answered, she would go in person, take her portfolio, keep her fingers crossed that they would give her a job.
No, not a job, a career.
Chapter 12
GEORDIE DIDN’T TELL anyone what she’d done, not her colleagues and not her parents. Days passed. She got two no-thank-yous, but mainly just no responses. That was the problem with e-mail, you never knew if they just weren’t interested, if the e-mail had gone to their spam folder, or if they were so busy they hadn’t gotten to it yet.
Each night she went home to check her e-mail and send out more. Each night she picked up the envelope, put it down again. She had to get off this treadmill, even if she had to go crawling back to her family later. At least she had a family to crawl back to.
She thought about Bruce, virtually alone in the world, who took the leap to go
it alone. Doug, whose accident had taken away his profession; he’d created another one for himself, but it couldn’t have been easy. Meri and Carlyn loved their work, even though they had to pinch pennies all the time. Carlyn could make a lot more money doing something else, but she chose not to. And Meri? She had never thought of doing something else.
And Geordie wanted to be like that. She was like that. Maybe that’s why she’d never settled down: if something didn’t look feasible immediately, she panicked and tried something else.
Yeah, she had a short attention span, but not when she was photographing. Then she could work for hours without stopping. Could go back day after day. It was something she wanted to go back to day after day. And if she had to piece together several part-time jobs to do it, she would. She had saved the four hundred dollars to rent Carlyn’s extra room; she could live like everyone else.
What would she miss about her life? This apartment? She’d never felt at home here. It wasn’t home. And since she’d started work at the Gilbert House, she hadn’t even thought about going to a fancy restaurant, a trendy bar, or a quick trip to any resort. Didn’t miss them. She’d had fun at the local karaoke bar.
She took a breath.
It was time.
She walked over to the kitchen counter, opened the drawer. Picked up the envelope. Opened it, slid the check out. One thing about her dad, he was generous. She could take it to the bank, cash it, it would give her a little pad until she got established—just one more time.
And that’s what always got her in trouble, the just one more time. She took a breath, slowly tore the check across the center and again, and again, until little pieces rained into the wastepaper basket.
Then she sat down at her computer and opened her e-mail.
Dear Dad, Received your check. I really appreciate it as always, but I’ve decided not to cash it. It’s time I did things for myself. I’ll be sharing an apartment with a colleague until I can afford a place of my own. I love photography and I’ll figure out how to make a living doing it. I hope you’ll be happy with my decision. Love, Geordie.
She read it over. And pressed SEND.
There it was done. She went back to her job search.
Her phone rang. Surely her father couldn’t have read the e-mail already.
She picked it up.
“Ms. Holt?”
“Yes?”
“This is Roger Diffens of Diffens Photography. I’ve looked over your portfolio, and I wondered if you’d be interested in coming down to discuss doing some work for us . . .”
SHE HUNG UP. She had an in-person interview. He liked her work. Thought she might be a good fit. Could she come in the next day? She told him she could get there during lunch.
Diffens was one of her first-choice studios. She practically danced across the room to her line of photos. Chose a couple of portraits and carefully lifted them off their backing. Got out her portfolio and chose a few more. Then back to the computer, where she began to print several others.
She had no illusions about how easy or hard the life she’d chosen would be. But for the first time in her life, she was really ready to face it. And she owed a lot of that realization to her colleagues at Gilbert House.
A half hour passed and she was totally involved with organizing her portfolio.
Her phone rang.
This would be her father.
Hello?”
Silence.
“Hello?”
“Hey. It’s Bruce. I was thinking about coming down near you for a bite to eat. And thought maybe if you hadn’t eaten, you might want to come. I know a place that has dynamite burgers. If you’re not busy.”
“I’m busy, but I’d love to.”
“You sound different. Is everything okay?”
“Yep. In a nutshell, I tore up my allowance, e-mailed my father that I was giving up money and apartment and striking out on my own. I must be nuts. But then Roger Diffens, this really good photographer called and I have an interview with him tomorrow. Is that amazing, or what?”
“Amazing. That’s really great.”
“Yeah. Kind of scary.”
“You’ll be okay. Might be tough at first, but if it’s important, it will be worth the effort.”
“I know. I have a good feeling about this. A different feeling. A really scared but happy feeling.” She smiled. A really happy feeling. “I’m just putting some photos together, but I’m starving.”
“A half hour okay?”
“Perfect.”
“Uh, it’s nothing fancy. See you then.” He hung up.
Amazing. A job interview and a . . . a date? She automatically went to her closet and started looking through her clothes. Stopped. Looked down at her jeans—not her best, and kind of beat up from work. Kind of perfect for her new life.
She did wash her face and put on makeup. No reason to go totally overboard.
When the intercom buzzed she was ready.
Bruce stood at the door, still dressed in his work clothes, a champagne bottle in his hand. A fairly good champagne, too.
“What’s that for?”
“We’re celebrating.” He held up the bottle. “Not as good as the one you have in the fridge but pretty nice.”
It was, and he shouldn’t have spent the money on her . . . on them?
He poured the champagne and handed her a glass. “Congratulations on your new career, your new job, your new . . .”
“Attitude.”
They touched glasses. Took a sip.
“This is pretty good,” she said.
He grinned. “Well, drink up. From here on out it’s going to be beer on tap.”
Beer on tap. Hmm. It sounded like a pretty good way to go.
Want more?
See what happens next in Shelley Noble’s stunning novel
Breakwater Bay
Prologue
ALDEN WASN’T SUPPOSED to take the dinghy out today. That’s the last thing his dad said when he left for work that morning. “Don’t go on the water. There’s a bad storm brewing.”
He’d only meant to be out long enough to catch something for dinner, but the storm had come in too fast. Now the water boiled black around him. Already he could hardly tell the difference between the black clouds overhead and the black rocks of the breakwater. Knives of rain slashed at his eyes and slapped his windbreaker against his skin. The shore looked so far away. He knew where the tide would pull him before he got there.
He was scared. His dad would kill him if he wrecked the dinghy. A huge wave crashed over the boat, throwing him to the floor. One oar was snatched from his hand and he barely managed to grab it before it slipped from the lock. And he forgot all about what punishment he would get and prayed he could stay alive to receive it.
He threw himself onto the bench and started rowing as hard as he could.
And then he saw her. A dark form. Standing on the rocks. At first he thought she must be a witch conjured from the storm. He tried to wipe his eyes on his sleeve, but he couldn’t let go of the oars.
She waved her hands and began to scramble down the rocks. And then she slipped and disappeared.
He stopped trying to save himself and let the breakwater draw the boat in. He knew just when to stick out the oar to keep from crashing. Held on with all his strength. The dinghy crunched as it hit, and he flung the rope over the spike his dad had hammered into the rock years before.
He couldn’t see her now. He clambered from the boat, slipped on the rocks. Called out, but the wind snatched his voice away.
And suddenly there she was, lying not three feet away. Motionless.
He crawled over the slimy rocks, grabbing at whatever would keep him from sliding back into the sea, and knelt beside her; shook her. “Lady? Lady, you gotta get up.”
She didn’t move.
He grabbed under her shoulders and tried to drag her toward the boat. She was heavy, heavier than she looked, and she wouldn’t help.
And he just kept thinking, Please don’t be dead.
Then she moved. Her eyes opened, and they were wide and scared. She grabbed hold of him, nearly knocking him over, but together they crawled to where the dinghy bucked like a bronco in the waves.
He didn’t know how he got her into the boat, or how he rowed to shore, or pushed the dinghy to safety on the rocky beach. He was so cold he couldn’t feel his fingers or his feet. And she’d closed her eyes again. This time he didn’t try to wake her; he ran, not home, but across the dunes to Calder Farm. Burst into their kitchen and fell to his knees.
“The beach. Help her.” And everything went black.
When he awoke he was lying in a bed, covered in heavy quilts.
“Go back to sleep. Everything’s all right.”
Gran Calder.
“Is she dead?”
She patted the quilt by his shoulder. “No, no. You saved her life. You were very brave.”
His lip began to tremble. He couldn’t stop it.
Then somebody screamed and she hurried out of the room. He pulled the covers over his head so he wouldn’t hear, but he couldn’t breathe. Another scream, worse than before. What were they doing to her?
He slid out from the covers but he wasn’t wearing anything. Someone had taken his clothes. He pulled the quilt from the bed, wrapped it around himself and dragged it out into the hallway.
Only one light was on, but a door was ajar at the end of the hall. He crept toward it, trailing the quilt behind him.
The girl screamed again. Then stopped.
He stopped, too, frightened even more by that sudden silence.
Then a new, smaller cry filled the air.
Newport Dreams: A Breakwater Bay Novella Page 10
