“That’s great. I have no idea where to start. If you text me her information, I’ll call her.”
“He’s hot in a Men in Black kind of way. Not your type, but then again, your type isn’t much to write home about.” Jennifer was officially annoying as hell. I smiled, wondering how to elbow aside a voice inside your own head.
He shifted his attention to the camera. “So this is the camera that Amelia talked about so much. She’s very proud of your work.”
Amelia was always encouraging, but I assumed that came with the family-must-be-supportive package. Interesting that she talked to others about me. “I know this looks a bit quirky and cumbersome, but it creates a striking image when I’m on my game.”
He moved closer, bringing with him the faint scent of an expensive aftershave. “Amelia said you’ve had a good bit of artistic success.”
A cloud crossed in front of the sun, dimming the light a fraction. The dimming light meant I’d need more exposure time. A minute, maybe two. More time with Mr. West. “I’ve won some awards, but I’ve yet to cash those wins into a living wage. I’m your classic starving artist.” I’d used the last bit of prize money to buy my SUV, which had more than once doubled as a home and a studio.
“She says you travel around a lot.”
“I’m about capturing the images, and as much as I’d like them to come to me, they have not cooperated.”
“How long is the total exposure for a photograph?”
I looked up at the clouds, sensing they carried more rain. “Depends on the light. Take today, for example. I first thought I’d need about three minutes, but I’m thinking now it will take every bit of six or seven minutes.” I pointed toward the sky.
“How do you know when it’s enough?”
“I don’t, exactly. It’s as much art as science with these old cameras. Over time, you develop a feel.”
He scanned the street, checking to see if we had blocked traffic. No one was waiting on us. He worried about the details. “Amelia showed me a couple of your earlier works. Nice.”
“The prints in the house. I took those in Utah. I call that my Ansel Adams phase.” I slid my hands into my pockets.
Until now, Colin West and I had only traded e-mails. His responses were curt with no wasted words. Amelia is ill. Suggest you return to Alexandria. Matters to discuss. My responses were as brief. On my way.
“I saw Amelia yesterday,” he said. “She was sleeping.”
“She’s sleeping more each day.”
“The nurses tell me you’re there every day, but we seem to keep missing each other.”
“If she’s asleep, I don’t stay long,” I said. “And I mix up the times of my visits. Keeps the staff on their toes.”
A smile tweaked the edge of his lips. “Unexpected is a good thing.”
“So cute.” Jennifer giggled.
“You said you had the name of a real estate agent?”
“Yes. Her name is Rebecca Tuttle. I can have her here tonight if you’re free.”
“Is there a rush?”
His mood shifted, signaling that the obligatory time for polite conversation had ended. “It requires money to keep her in assisted living. And the only source is the house.”
“I thought she was set financially.”
“I thought she was, too, until I opened her files late yesterday and started reading. When she accepted ownership of the house, she had to refinance it with a home equity loan to cover some of the renovations and her living needs. She’s managed it all until now, but there’s not enough money to keep up the house and care for her.”
Bracelets rattled on my wrist as I pushed a stray strand of hair out of my face. “Debt. My father racked up quite a bit of it.”
“It looks like he used the house as collateral against loans that mostly remained outstanding when Amelia took over.”
“Amelia never told me the house was so leveraged.”
“She thought if she could keep the house in the family, and in good condition, you would have enough equity in it to pay off the loans and sell it for a tidy profit . . . if you wanted to leave Alexandria.
“I never wanted this house. I told her that.”
“How old were you when you told her?”
“Seventeen.”
“She likely didn’t think you knew your own mind.”
“I did.”
He remained silent for a moment. “This house has a ballpark value of $1.2 million dollars and roughly seven hundred thousand worth of debt against it. You should clear over four hundred thousand after fees but before taxes. I can help you with the taxes.”
“Jesus, Amelia has less money than I originally thought.”
“Five years ago she did a major, but necessary renovation on the house, which was financed against the equity.”
“I never understood why she wanted to fix this place up.”
“She knew one day this house would be yours and she wanted it in better shape than when she got it.”
“I never asked her,” I said, more to myself.
He pushed his hand into his pocket and rattled change. “But if you sell the house and settle the outstanding liens, she’ll have enough for five or six years of expenses.”
“What prompted you to look into her finances?”
“I’m an attorney, and I always want to know what my client’s risk is.”
I pinched the bridge of my nose. “Mr. West, she may outlive her money.”
“Sadly, I see this quite a bit.”
Frustration sparred with anger. “You’re not making my day, sir. Not at all.”
“Better to know the bad news sooner than later.”
“I agree.”
Panic tugged at my sleeve, but I shooed it away. A few bottles of wine wouldn’t help the situation, but Lord did it tempt. But I didn’t need guilt ladled on top of fear and worry.
“Hey, what happens to me if you leave the house?”
The house looked different than it had moments ago through the viewfinder. “It’s stood for centuries, but may be lost by the Smyth family for good this time.”
He stared at me for a long moment. “I anticipate a solid bid in a matter of weeks given the location and its condition. Where will you go?”
“I’ll manage. Sell it as quickly as you can.”
“And Charlie?”
“Charlie will be fine with me. Sell it.”
“It’s been in your family for years. You have no attachment to it?”
“I do, but I have to be practical.” My shirt smelled of chemicals, my hair needed washing, and I could use a manicure. “Besides, do I look like the lady-of-the-house type?”
“I’ll tell the agent to come by tonight.”
“Thanks. Give me a time, and I’ll be here.” I wished I could control this mess as easily as I could my negatives. “Have any more good news for me, Mr. West? Fire, plague, or maybe some other natural disaster I should know about?”
“No. No other news for today.”
The problem of Amelia had morphed from crisis management in the beginning to the slow daily grind of watching her deteriorate. Amelia had done right by me and I would take care of her. I wouldn’t panic. Or get stupid and drink. I would have to find a way to fix this.
“Why did you drop the baby book off at Amelia’s room, Mr. West?”
The abrupt shift in conversation caught him off guard. Clearly, he expected more drama and discussion from me. “She asked me for it. She was having a good day and wanted it so she could show it to you. I assume she did share it with you?”
“She did. But how did you get it?”
“She left it with the firm about two years ago. Asked us to keep it safe.”
I moved around to the front of the camera as clouds hovered around the sun. Mentally, I added anot
her minute to the exposure time. “She never asked you to dig into her past.”
“No. I offered, but she refused. Said it didn’t matter.”
The Alzheimer’s had stripped away pretense and exposed raw feelings. She did care. Very much. “I’ve dropped it off with a local historian who is digging into the history behind it.”
“Did you know she was adopted?” he asked.
I checked my watch, and seeing I had only twenty seconds left of exposure time, readied the lens cap. “It was news to me. But it makes sense. She was different from my father.”
“How so?”
“She was open. Funny. Never kept secrets.” I gently replaced the cap on the camera lens. “Though her finances make me realize she learned how to keep secrets. If you don’t mind, I need to keep moving with this negative if I want it to turn out. Seems even more important now than ever that I capture the image.”
“Of course, go ahead. Mind if I stay and watch?”
“Sure.” I pulled out the negative cartridge, grateful that Mr. West’s car blocked the street, I hurried to the back of the SUV.
He followed in no rush, but keeping pace with me. “May I ask what you’re doing next?”
“I’m pouring developer over the glass plate and then the negative should materialize. You may want to stand back so that this doesn’t splash on your suit.” I reached for a glass bottle and uncorked it. And then, holding the glass over a shallow bin, I poured the clear liquid onto the exposed glass surface.
The acrid smell rose, but it didn’t seem to deter Mr. West. He watched with fascination as the liquid developer slowly coaxed out the black-and-white image on the glass. The negative space was light and the positive space dark. It was a view of the house, angled slightly so that bits of the river drifted in at the edges. I was pleased by the contrasts, especially since the sun had run for cover mid-exposure.
“It’s backward,” he said.
“It will flip around when I actually develop the picture.”
“And the streak of white in the upper right corner?”
Frowning, I looked at the glass and then up at the house. “Maybe I didn’t disperse the chemicals correctly. I’ll know better in the darkroom.”
“Your timing is perfect. No cars are blocking the view. It looks like it could have been taken hundreds of years ago.”
“In the last six weeks, I’ve noticed the cars on this side of the street are gone about this time of day. And a few well-placed plastic cones always keep people away.” I laid the negative on paper towels so it could dry.
“A lot of work for one shot.” His deep tone carried with it the question many asked. Who works so hard for just a moment?
“That’s photography. Lots of waiting and watching and then hoping you finally snap the right image at the right time.”
“You’ve been doing this awhile?”
“Since I was sixteen.”
“Impressive.”
“Maybe, or perhaps I’m a little nuts.” I shook my head, a half laugh catching in my throat. “Who spends this much time on work that pays below minimum wage?”
Instead of answering the question with an answer, he said, “If you’re willing to make an extra print of the house, I’d like to buy it.”
“Why?”
“I’ve always liked this street. This town. And a print of that house would fit nicely in my home.”
I imagined a house filled with the sleek and modern, and tried to envision the photo hanging on a white sterile wall. “Sure. I’ve got all your contact information. Seeing as I might not have a house soon, I’ll take a few more pictures and after the Realtor leaves, I’ll spend tonight in the basement developing several prints.”
“Great.”
I half expected him to leave but he lingered, watching me prep the next glass negative. His quiet, steady energy had me glancing at his left hand for a wedding band. None. I was intrigued.
It had been a long time since I’d had a man in my bed, and in these few silent moments, I was very aware of his presence. My hands trembled a little as I poured the syrupy collodion onto the next glass plate, which would become a negative. The liquid didn’t quite make it to all the edges of the glass, but I let it go, accepting that the flaw might add interest to the picture.
“Looks like you missed some portions of the glass. Will that mean it won’t develop?”
“Correct, but sometimes there’s great beauty in imperfection.” I dunked the glass into the tank of silver nitrate. “The process isn’t precise, but it’s like scratching a lotto ticket. I never know when I’ll hit it big.”
“I can see it’s quite technical.” His cell phone rang in his pocket and he pulled it out, frowning as he studied the display. “Excuse me, I have to go. But I’m glad I caught up with you. I’ll text you the time when Ms. Tuttle will come by this evening.”
“The sooner it’s sold, the better.”
“You’re remarkably calm, Ms. Smyth.”
“You just told me I’m about to be evicted, and I may or may not have enough money to care for my aunt. I think you can call me Lisa now.”
Colin West grinned. “Well then, you may call me Colin.”
I pulled the negative out of the silver nitrate, waved it until it dried, and then inserted it into the antique cartridge. “Cheer up, Colin. One door closes on me and another will open.”
“I’ll talk to you soon.”
October 4, 1753
Dearest Mother,
The baby stirs in my belly and I still feel full of vigor. Last night, I spied Faith under the full moon speaking in low whispers and I know she again prays to her god that I deliver a boy. I see the way she looks at my son, and I think she believes I will forget all about Patrick if I deliver a boy. He is my child. Mine alone. And if she has issue, there is no one in the colony that will not back me.
—P
Chapter Ten
Rae McDonald
FRIDAY, AUGUST 19, 6:00 P.M.
I received Margaret McCrae’s voice mail after the last client of the day left my office. Speaking in her customary staccato delivery patterns, she said, “Rae, I’ve got information about the family and want you to come by the salvage yard this evening at seven . . . that is, if you can. Thanks.” I texted her and told her I was available.
Before leaving, I checked my e-mail one last time in case the boy had responded in the last thirty minutes—which he had not—and then I headed into the city. The drive up the George Washington Parkway was always pretty this time of day. With the sun hugging the horizon, the treetops glowed with a delicate orange and the waters of the Potomac River shimmered. Traffic was light—most of the commuters were safely home and sitting down to dinner at this point.
In town, I drove along Union Street and turned left on King Street. With no street parking to be found, I circled the block and came back around where I eventually found a spot. Once out of the car, I fed the meter and started toward the salvage yard.
I strolled the street until I looked up and saw the Union Street Bakery sign. Slowing, I was surprised to see the Open sign in the door. From what Margaret said, the bakery now only maintained storefront hours on Fridays and Saturdays.
The picture of baby Michael eating a sugar cookie flashed and made me wonder if any sugar cookies had been baked here. A bone-deep craving took hold. I didn’t believe it was a craving for something sweet, but a missed moment with my baby.
I stopped at the brightly painted front door. Elbowing aside rational arguments, I pushed open the door and entered. Bells jangled above my head. Immediately, the soft scents of cinnamon and chocolate greeted me with a warm embrace.
The walls were painted a soft yellow and decorated with a collection of black-and-white pictures featuring the bakery over the decades. The storefront was the same in all, but the city around it changed with the passing de
cades. Horse-drawn carriages, women in long skirts. Model T Fords. Fedoras. Tie-dyed shirts and bell bottoms. The bakery had steadfastly stood its ground for nearly a century, a sentinel in a world that hinged on change and modernization.
Huddled close to the back wall of the bakery was a large spotless glass display case. On its white shelves were two different types of heaven, chocolate chip and sugar cookies. A sign read Get ’em While They Last.
A small woman with rosy cheeks and strawberry-blond hair tied up in a topknot pushed through a set of saloon doors. She wore jeans and a white shirt under a full-length apron that was double knotted at her waist. “Welcome to the Union Street Bakery.”
Her coloring matched Margaret’s and their similarities were clear. Margaret was taller and sturdier, whereas this woman was petite and trimmer. This was Rachel, the widowed sister with two children and an ex-boyfriend from France, who was in need of a good man.
“I’m Rae McDonald,” I said.
Her head cocked. “Rae. The lady with all the family papers.” She wiped her hands on a towel tucked in her apron before extending her hand over the display case. “I’m Rachel.”
Accepting her outstretched hand, I noticed her grip was firm. I thought about Margaret’s request on Rachel’s behalf. It was doubtful that Rachel knew about this. “Your sister is studying quite a few documents for me.”
Rachel hitched her hands on her hips. “And might I say, she’s having a ball. Any time she finds new information on this city, she’s in heaven. I suppose she told you all about the witch bottles.”
“I’ve heard about them. In fact, I’m headed to the salvage yard now to hear her latest update. Margaret sounded very excited on the phone.”
“She is, but she won’t tell any of us what she’s discovered until she tells you first.”
“I’ve never given much thought to my family history, but I’m very intrigued.”
“My sister has already left for the salvage yard.”
“I know, but I saw your sign in the window and heard good things about the bakery.”
“Can I interest you in some cookies?” Rachel asked. “I’m testing new recipes and when I have too many extras I flip the sign to Open for as long as they last. You’re in luck because I just put these out.”
The View from Prince Street Page 15
