The Summer Without You

by Karen Swan

  She was silent the whole while. Usually, she’d be chatting away to a customer, offering coffee and a seat and whatever else might possibly relax them, but this wasn’t a regular scenario. And anyway, it wasn’t like he was trying to fill the silence either.

  Ro walked back to the counter and he put away his phone. He’d been texting someone.

  She booted up the computer, drumming her fingers impatiently on the wooden top as it ran through its usual early morning scans. Their eyes met, once or twice, as they waited in silence, no smiles or niceties coming from either of them.

  Eventually, the desktop revealed itself, and Ro brought the image she liked best up on the screen. The bow in the little girl’s hair was caught at a good angle, enhancing the silhouette, and the children’s hands could clearly be seen to be clasped. But Ro liked most of all the way the children’s chins were tucked down, almost burrowing into their necks like roosting ducks; it had a pleasing symmetry to it.

  ‘That’s it,’ she said, turning the screen so that he could see it from where he was standing on the other side of the counter. She didn’t want him peering over her shoulder, like he had that day on the beach.

  She watched him closely as he registered the picture – noticing the slight wince and the way his eyes narrowed as he looked at his own children through someone else’s eyes – or rather, lens. He looked down for a second, as though thinking, before he looked back at it again.

  ‘Do you think anyone would know that’s your children?’

  ‘Well, no, but . . .’

  ‘There really is no breach of privacy here.’

  ‘It’s not about that.’

  ‘That was what you said on the beach,’ Ro countered, her tone bullish.

  He sighed, looking back at the picture. ‘I’m not disagreeing that it’s a beautiful picture. It is. And you’re obviously very talented.’ He gestured vaguely with his arms towards the framed portraits on the walls.

  ‘I really don’t see what the problem is. The children are anonymous.’

  ‘I don’t see why you can’t just set up a shoot to recreate this picture.’

  ‘Because you could never capture it exactly – not the feeling. Yes, I could get some models and put them in similar poses, but good photography isn’t about what you see; it’s about what it makes you feel. So many different elements came into play on that day – the offshore breeze, the light quality, the cloud cover, even the dress your daughter wore and how it caught the wind like that, the bow in her hair . . . It’s a kind of alchemy.’ She gave a nervous smile as she caught herself waxing lyrical about her passion. ‘And for the record, it’s for a good cause. A local cause.’

  ‘So you said.’ His eyes flicked over her and she sensed he was bemused by her fervour. ‘What is it?’

  ‘A campaign spearheading the regeneration of the dunes along the East Hampton beaches. The idea is to revegetate them with root grasses, which help strengthen them and protect against erosion, offering greater protection during the bigger storms.’

  He raised an eyebrow, looking sceptical. ‘Most people around here are of the view that the dunes – or lack thereof – are only a problem for the ocean-front homeowners.’

  ‘And that’s precisely the attitude this campaign is trying to redress. Protecting the dunes is in everyone’s interest. Yes, maybe it is only the ocean-front homeowners who need the dunes during the storms, but the dunes help preserve the beaches too. And I’m not from here, but it’s pretty obvious even to me that the Hamptons are the beaches. They’re the local economy, the beating heart of the area. I’ve been here less than two weeks, but every day I see people out walking their dogs, jogging, playing frisbee or volleyball, having bonfires and . . . clam thingies. It’s not just about lying sunbathing on the beach at the weekend. It’s so much more than that. And people just assume the beaches are still going to be here ten, twenty, fifty years from now, but they won’t be – not unless we take steps now to protect what we’ve got while we’ve got it.’

  ‘We?’

  ‘You.’

  They stared at each other, neither one blinking. ‘You should consider a career in politics, not photography.’

  ‘This is Florence Wiseman’s baby, not mine.’

  ‘Florence?’

  Ro nodded. ‘You know her?’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘You like her?’

  He gave a wry smile. ‘Of course.’

  ‘So then help her.’

  He exhaled wearily, his eyes tracking around the room, taking in the portraits again. ‘I’m prepared to make a deal with you,’ he said finally.

  Ro bit her lip, intimidated by how Wall Street he suddenly sounded. ‘Go on.’

  ‘I’ll give you permission to use the image – only that one – if you agree to take the commission I tried to hire you for last Wednesday.’

  Ro frowned. ‘And what is the commission, exactly?’

  He began walking around the room slowly and she felt the balance of power shift to him. ‘A photo shoot of the kids,’ he said, pointing at the walls. ‘Although not for another few weeks – Finn has had a bad haircut that needs to grow out a little.’ He stopped by the centre table, flicking quickly through the photobooks. ‘And some of these. One for each year of each child’s life.’ He looked up at her. ‘Ella’s just turned four; Finn’s three.’

  That was seven books.

  ‘Plus I want two copies of a combined book of both children for each year, to give to their grandparents.’

  Another four, times two.

  He stopped and stared at the films that were running on loop in silence, headphones still hanging on hooks beside the screens. He walked up and placed one headphone to his ear, just able to make out the film’s audio. Four children were running at a sports-day race, one chesting the winner’s ribbon, the camera beginning to move up and down as the cameraman (or -woman) began jumping up and down, obviously celebrating.

  ‘And a movie.’ He watched, transfixed, as the images segued to the same child sleeping in bed that night, a gold medal with a blue silk ribbon hung round the top bedpost. ‘They’re made of home videos, right?’ He replaced the headphones on the hook, walking back towards her at the counter.

  Ro nodded. ‘Highly edited.’

  ‘So one of those.’

  ‘That is a huge job. There’s well over a hundred hours of labour just in the photobooks alone. And as for the film . . . How many video files have you got?’

  He shrugged. ‘But I wouldn’t need them till September. My mother-in-law’s birthday. Is that enough time?’

  Ro looked away. The money she’d make from this would take away all her financial pressures. In fact, it would pretty much pay for the summer. But she didn’t want his money – anyone’s but his. It had felt so empowering rejecting his commission the other day.

  ‘Time isn’t the issue,’ she said curtly. ‘Let’s just take a step back for a moment, shall we? The point of us meeting here today is that you did something wrong and you’re supposed to be putting it right. All I need is your permission to use the image and then I will squarely let you off the hook for your disgusting behaviour the other week. We’re not here to negotiate on what I can do for you.’

  His expression remained steady. ‘Everything in life is about negotiation, Miss Marmalade. It’s all a question of balance and whether what you want is worth trading for what I want.’

  Ro gaped at him, distracted. What had he called her? She wanted to laugh, but she was too busy trying to keep her poker face on. ‘Well, it’s not,’ she shrugged finally.

  He blinked at her, his expression impassive, but she could still sense his disappointment. ‘So then we both lose. And you still get to think I’m an asshole.’ He turned and walked towards the door.

  Panic mounted in her immediately. Now that she’d hit on her idea for the campaign, she knew it was the right one. It was what she’d been waiting for and she’d been right when she’d told him it couldn’t be restaged. Mome
nts had to be captured, not recreated.

  ‘Wait!’ she said, looking down at the counter.

  He turned, walked back slowly. No smile, and yet a smile just the same.

  She met his eyes, resentment simmering in them. ‘Fine. It’s a deal.’

  He held out a hand, but she just stared at it.

  He lowered his head till his eyes caught hers. ‘Shake or no deal. I know from bitter experience just how sly you can be.’

  ‘Sly?’ Ro gasped with annoyance, before seeing the smirk on his face. He was actually teasing her.

  Reluctantly, she shook his hand and he gripped hers hard, like she was a man – his size, his strength. ‘My name’s Ted, by the way. Edward Connor, but everyone calls me Ted.’

  ‘Rowena Tipton,’ she muttered, furious to be forced into niceties with this man, of all men.

  He didn’t say anything about having called her Miss Marmalade and she wondered whether he had already known it wasn’t her actual name. She bit her lip as it occurred to her: if he was Long Story to her, was she Miss Marmalade to him?

  ‘So what next?’ he asked, pushing his hands into his jeans pockets.

  She cleared her throat. ‘You need to send your photos and films over to me on an external hard drive,’ she mumbled resentfully.

  ‘Anything else?’

  Ro looked down, beginning to jot notes in her notebook. ‘No, that’s it until we do the photo shoot. Unless you have any specific instructions for material you want to be included or an angle you want me to take.’

  He was silent for a minute. ‘No, nothing. I just want proof with my own eyes that it was all actually real.’

  Huh? She looked up to ask him what he meant, but he had already turned and was halfway out the door.

  Chapter Fourteen

  The water felt silken over her skin, air bubbles rushing past her ears as her fingers touched the wall and she turned without breaking cover. One more length. Every fibre of her body was straining for fresh oxygen now, one more breath on which to power, but she kept on kicking, fighting the urge that felt so natural and right, and going with the defiance that kept streaking through her like a wilful child: why should she breathe? Why should she stop? She could decide what she did and when.

  The wall was there suddenly, her hand flat against it, and she burst through the water like a torpedo, gulping down air, her heart on a sprint her lungs couldn’t keep up with. She collapsed her arms onto the side of the pool, resting her cheek on her arms, eyes closed as she let her body recover from the sudden, fierce punishment she had meted out against it. It was fair to say yesterday’s meeting still rankled.

  ‘I thought I was going to have to go in there and fish you out.’ Florence smiled from her position at the table. A deep tray of what looked like soil was in front of her as she balled the seed mix into small ‘bombs’ and put them in brown-paper bags.

  Ro raked her hair back from her face and waded over to the steps. ‘I don’t know what came over me. I just . . .’ She shook her head, her breath still coming hard. ‘I don’t know, I just wanted to really go for it. God, I haven’t done that for years.’ She blew out through her cheeks. ‘Wow. Exhausting.’

  ‘Come and have your smoothie.’

  Ro climbed out of the water with wobbly legs and wrapped a striped towel round her. She picked up the glass with ghoulishly green contents, managing not to grimace this time, and took a sip. ‘Mmm, that’s surprisingly good.’

  ‘It sets you up for the day like nothing else I know.’

  Ro collapsed down on a curvy wicker chair opposite Florence. ‘I’ll help you with some of those as soon as my hands are dry,’ she said, holding up her wet palms. One touch of the brown powder and it would turn into a gloopy mess. ‘So, this is how you spend every morning, is it?’ Ro asked, looking past the bottom of the garden to the dunes and the ocean beyond. It glittered like a sequin belt, thrown out over the horizon, and she could make out the red and blue sails of some windsurfers, jibing into the wind.

  ‘Pretty much. There’s something about the wind off the ocean . . .’ Florence closed her eyes for a moment, enjoying the gentle breeze that pushed her silver hair away from her face.

  ‘I feel like I’m in a film.’ Ro looked slowly around the mature garden, which had clearly been developed over decades, with meadows in the furthest stretch of lawn leading down nicely to the dunes on the outer boundary, and wildflower arrangements in the artfully dishevelled beds.

  Ro watched a man walking along the shoreline, a dog no doubt bounding somewhere ahead of him. His hands were raised against the sun as he looked up at the big houses with the bigger views, and she could imagine a lot of people stared up here, at Grey Mists, wondering what it was like to sit where she was sitting.

  She turned back to Florence. ‘So, I think I cracked it. The campaign, I mean.’

  ‘I can’t wait to see it. You’re just a marvel to have done it so quickly.’ Florence leaned over and patted Ro’s hand. ‘And thank heavens I got you when I did. You’re going to be inundated when Lauren and Paul’s pictures come out – they’ve been telling everyone, you know. And they’re so excited about the idea of the movie and how you’re going to add to it every year. Nan was saying the other photographer never even offered them anything like that. Did you get to talk to everyone you needed?’

  ‘Yes, Nan was on the case. We set up in the library and interviewed people individually in there. There were some good stories and insights. I’m pretty excited with what we’ve got.’ Hump had been a trouper with the footage he’d shot.

  Florence leaned over and patted Ro’s hand with her dusty one. ‘What you did was very kind, stepping in like that when you no doubt had other plans yourself. It won’t be forgotten, you know.’

  Ro blushed, pleased to have done Florence proud.

  ‘So, this big idea – let me see it.’ Florence put on her half-moon reading glasses, which hung from a silk cord round her neck, and rubbed her hands together in keen anticipation as Ro reached down for the board-backed envelope she’d stolen from Hump’s desk. Biting her lip anxiously, she pulled out the sheet of paper she’d spent all of yesterday working on after Ted had left.

  ‘Now, this is just a suggestion, an example. I don’t expect you to go for it completely as is. I’m not an ad guru. I just wanted to clarify the angle I’m coming from.’

  She took a deep breath and let Florence examine the poster; she had tweaked the colourings of the photo, printing it in sepia so that the sunset was amplified and the golden and bronze tones of the sand and ocean were deepened against the black silhouettes of the children, the dune grasses in the background picked out against the clear sky. ‘Legacy,’ was rendered across the top of the image in fine gold lettering and below it, ‘Protect the dunes.’

  ‘I thought that by bringing the children to the forefront of the image, it reinforces the idea that what we do now affects future generations. That we’re doing this for them, not ourselves, not some philanthropic ideal – our kids. So that they can enjoy what we do.’ She shrugged. ‘It’s the emotional link you need, in my view.’

  Ro waited apprehensively as she watched Florence’s eyes roll over the poster, the silence pregnant with expectation. Eventually, Florence looked at Ro over her glasses. ‘You know, I had a feeling about you the day we met. I really did.’ Florence smacked her hand to her chest, squinting as she looked at it more closely. ‘And, oh my goodness! Aren’t they just the most adorable children?’ she asked, pointing to Ella and Finn, delight dancing in her voice.

  ‘It was pure chance. They just happened to be playing there when I was out with my camera. Sometimes you get lucky like that.’

  Florence sat back in her chair, nodding intently at the poster, unable to take her eyes off it. ‘I just love it. I can’t wait to present it to the committee. We have a meeting tonight. I’ll take it with me then.’ She smiled at Ro. ‘It’s just perfect. I’m not going to change a thing.’

  ‘Really? Oh phew! I’m so glad
you like it,’ Ro laughed, mock-wiping sweat from her forehead and looking back down the garden again. She saw a man walking on the boardwalk that led over the dunes to Florence’s garden from the beach. Ro watched him. It appeared to be the same man she’d seen just moments ago walking along the shore. He didn’t seem to be looking for his dog, and from the surety of his stride, he didn’t appear to be lost either. He was holding something in his hand, something he raised to his face. A camera? Ro squinted. No. Binoculars.

  She glanced at Florence, who was still examining the poster, one hand on the arm of her glasses as though adjusting them like a microscope. Ro watched the man. He was definitely staring up at the house, gradually turning his view across the garden to the pool house and pool terrace where she and Florence were sitting.

  She saw the man freeze and knew the two of them were in his sights. She stood up – as suddenly angry as she was uneasy. The man didn’t hesitate; he turned round and marched quickly back down the boardwalk to the beach again.

  ‘What’s wrong, dear?’ Florence asked, looking up at her.

  Ro stalled. The man was almost out of sight already, not even a footprint in the sand to indicate he’d been there. ‘Uh . . . cramp. I always get it if I don’t stretch out.’ She made a play of massaging her thigh, her eyes flicking back to the end of the garden repeatedly. But there was no sign of him. He had gone.

  Ro sat back down, unsure whether to say anything. She didn’t want to alarm the older woman. She lived here alone, after all. But then again – she lived here alone. ‘Florence, that boardwalk. Is it private, or can just anyone use it? Is there a path that leads off from the beach to the lane down there?’

  ‘Oh no. It only comes into our backyard. It used to happen occasionally. As you can see, our drive runs parallel to the dunes, along the bottom of next door’s yard, before it comes up the side of the lawns and sweeps round to the front of the house. Well, a few times we’d get people who thought they could access the beach by walking along our drive and cutting across the boardwalk. That’s why we put the electric gate in, and there’s now a chain and a trespass notice at the bottom of the boardwalk steps, which has done the trick. Why? Was somebody trying their luck?’ She frowned and turned in her chair, looking down towards the empty boardwalk.