She wanted to tell him that if her head had ever been on straight, she wouldn’t be working in a greasy spoon and dodging her ex. Common sense kept her mouth shut. No need to make a bad situation worse by adding unemployment to the mix.
To her great relief, she stepped out to an empty street to wait for her taxi. Thank goodness. How she hated being back to looking over her shoulder. After six weeks, she’d foolishly begun thinking her life might actually be her own again. Granted, it wasn’t the best of lives, but it was hers. Or rather, she’d thought so until Warren tracked her down. You’d think he’d be glad to be rid of her. Wasn’t he forever telling her how she made his life so difficult?
Letting out a breath, she leaned against the railing in front of Guy’s storefront. She hated taking a taxicab, too. Spending money earmarked for savings. It wasn’t that she was so afraid of Warren. Sure, he’d gotten physical a few times—more than a few times—but she could handle him.
Liar. Why are you taking a cab then? Just a few hours ago, she’d worried today might the day he’d go over the edge.
Breaking up with Warren was supposed to be her new beginning. The end of walking on eggshells. Now she was stuck either leaving the one lousy job she could find, or praying that Warren had lost interest now that he’d tracked her down.
Angry tears rimmed her eyes. She sniffed them back. Warren wasn’t going to win. She wouldn’t let him.
Just then, movement caught the corner of her eye and she stiffened, hating herself even as she gripped the iron railing. Slowly, she pulled her thoughts back to her surroundings.
It was the photographer, coming down the street, camera slung around his neck. His sunglasses had migrated to his eyes, hiding their unique color. Didn’t matter. He was still looking in her direction, his attention causing her stomach to quiver with unwanted awareness.
“Everything okay?” he asked as her taxi pulled up.
For crying out loud, couldn’t a woman buy a moment of privacy? As it was, he already knew more of her business than necessary.
She slid into the backseat without answering.
* * *
Hunter spent the next day shooting landmarks around the city, updating his portfolio of stock photos. By this point he had more than enough shots for his files, but the project kept him busy. Downtime and he weren’t good friends. Too much time off the job and he got antsy, a trait he’d inherited from his father. Inherited, or learned from watching. Either way, he hated being between jobs same as his father did. Only difference was Hunter didn’t have a teenage son in tow.
It was midafternoon when he returned to his apartment building. One of the things he liked about this particular piece of real estate was that his street was basically an alleyway, meaning it had less crowds and traffic than other parts of the city. This time of day, the traffic was particularly slow. Guy’s had closed, and rush hour had yet to begin.
As he rounded the corner, a familiar flash of butterscotch caught his eye. It was Abby, her angular frame bundled by a woolen coat. She was leaning against the diner’s stair rail, her face and attention a thousand miles away. Her topknot, he noticed, had transformed itself. What was left of the mass had fallen to the nape of her neck, while most of the strands had worked loose and were framing her face.
Hunter felt a stirring deep in his gut, the sensation he got whenever he found a special shot. In Abby’s case, the special element came from her posture. While she looked as exhausted as you’d expect a woman who’d spent eight hours on her feet would do, her shoulders and spine were ramrod straight. Pushing back against the weight of the world. Before she could notice his presence, he raised his camera and clicked off a half dozen frames. He managed to snap the last one as she turned, zooming in until her face filled the entire frame. That’s when he saw the unshed tears that turned her eyes into shining brown mirrors. Hunter wondered if later, when he uploaded the shot, he’d see himself reflected in them.
He clicked one last photo and lowered the camera. Perfect timing, because she suddenly gripped the railing. She was still on edge from this morning, he realized. The reaction bothered him. He wasn’t used to women growing rigid in his presence.
“Everything all right?” he asked, just as a taxicab pulled up alongside her.
He didn’t expect an answer, and he wasn’t disappointed. She slipped into the backseat without a word.
There was a padded shipping envelope propped atop his mailbox when Hunter finally entered his building—an advanced copy of a travel guide he’d shot earlier in the year. New Zealand, New Guinea; one of those places. He tossed the envelope, unopened, on his sofa. It landed with a puff of air, sending stray papers and a Chinese take-out menu sailing. Place had gone to pot since his assistant, Christina, had left to make her mediocre mark on the photography world. Not that she’d kept the place in great shape to begin with. She’d been far more interested in taking her photos than assisting him—a less than stellar characteristic in a photographer’s assistant. At some point, he supposed, he should hire someone new and put this mess back in order. Unfortunately, like his last assistant, he was more interested in taking photos than in finding her replacement.
He thought about the pictures of Abby he’d just shot. He was eager to see how they’d turn out. If those eyes of hers were as riveting on paper as he suspected. When it came to photography, his instincts were rarely wrong. Then again, he’d learned through the lens of a master.
“No amount of raw talent can replace the perfect image,” his father used to tell him. Joseph Smith had spent his life chasing the perfect photograph. Hell, he gave his life for the perfect shot. The rest of the world had to fall in line behind his work. A philosophy his son had learned the hard way how to embrace.
Sometimes, though, great images fell into your lap. Moving a pile of research books, he fired up the computer that doubled as his digital darkroom—one difference between his father’s brand of photography and his. Modern technology made the job faster and easier. No makeshift darkrooms set up in hotels. All Hunter needed was a laptop and a memory card.
Though he had to admit that, every once in a while, he missed the old way. There was a familiarity to the smell of chemicals. As a teenager, he’d come to think of the smells as the one constant amid continual change. There were nights when he still walked into hotel rooms expecting the aroma to greet him.
Maybe he should install a darkroom in the building. Might make the place feel less like a way station.
Then again, building a darkroom was a lot like hiring an assistant. Nice in theory, but not as important as the photos themselves. Besides, nothing would make this apartment feel less like a way station because that’s what it was. A place to sleep between assignments. No better than a hotel room, in reality. Less so, seeing how he actually spent more time in hotel rooms than his apartment.
Thumbnail images lined his computer screen. He’d shot more than he realized, a luxury of digital photography. He scrolled down until he found the series he’d taken of Abby. Sure enough, her face loomed from the screen like a silent-movie actress. The emotions bearing down on her reached out beyond the flat surface. He could feel the weariness. The grit, too. Hunter could see the glint of steely resolve lurking in the depths of her big, sad eyes.
To his surprise, he felt the stirring of arousal. A testimony to the quality of the shot. Good photos should evoke physical responses.
Of course, he didn’t usually respond to his own work. He knew better than to get emotionally involved anymore. Start caring about the subject, and you set yourself up for problems. Images were illusory. The world on the other side of the lens wasn’t as welcoming as photos made it appear. On the other side of the camera was pain, disinterest, loneliness, death.
Better to stay at a distance, heart safely tucked away where the world couldn’t cause any damage. Of all the photography lessons his father had taug
ht him, distance was the most important. Of course, at the time, he’d been too young to appreciate it, but eventually life had helped him to not just understand, but embrace the philosophy.
Yet for some reason, Hunter found himself being drawn in by a simple photo of a waitress. Seduced by the emotion he saw lurking in her eyes. So much simmering beneath the surface...
Only for a moment, though. He blinked and the distance he prided himself on returned. He was once again the observer, and Abby’s face merely another photograph. An intriguing, but ultimately meaningless, two-dimensional moment in time.
ISBN: 9781460316863
MIRACLE IN BELLAROO CREEK
First North American Publication 2013
Copyright © 2013 by Barbara Hannay
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Miracle in Bellaroo Creek (Bellaroo Creek!) Page 17
