“The basement, duh.”
“I hate the basement.”
“I hate the basement.” The inner Jennifer-like voice mimicked a child’s voice. “Baby, baby, baby.”
Irritated, I shut the laptop and rose. I opened the refrigerator. All that remained was a carton of milk and Chinese food from last night. Charlie stood and walked toward me, his tail wagging.
“Keep eating takeout and you’ll get fat.”
I shut the door. “What do you care?”
“You know how I loathe shopping, and if your ass gets fat we’ll have to shop for new jeans. Just the drama of that moment makes me want to cringe.”
“I’m not getting fat.”
“Fatter. Go to the damn basement and make some pictures.” She giggled. “You know you want to.”
Rolling my head from side to side, I realized I did want to make prints. The few I’d developed the other day in the alley had whetted my appetite and reminded me why I loved photography.
Grabbing a water bottle, I headed to the door that led downstairs. Flipping on the light, I stared down the shadowed steps, wondering why the space bothered me so much. Charlie stood beside me. I was fearless until my return to Alexandria. Grabbing my phone, I plugged in my ear buds, cranked the music, and tucked it in the waistband of my yoga pants. Charlie barked and looked as if he would follow, but I ordered him to stay.
My spirit lifting, I headed down the stairs, feeling the old planks creak under my steps. I moved toward the large, deep sink, which must have been used for washing clothes back in the day. The rusted hot and cold water knobs groaned as I twisted them. The pipes shuddered, as if shaken awake, and reluctantly spat out water. I dipped my fingertips under the stream to find clean hot and cold running water.
With a determined purpose, I moved toward the other lights dangling from the ceiling in the basement and tugged their strings, waking them up. “It’s too dark.”
“Lamps upstairs, dumbass.”
“Right.”
Back upstairs, I unplugged a floor lamp from the front sitting room and lugged it down to the basement. Its light helped, but not enough. Three more trips up and down the stairs created a collection of fancy lamps that had no place in a basement, but their combined light chased the shadows from the space. No scary corners where danger lurked.
On the next trip up the stairs, I retrieved two folding tables from my SUV, which I set up along the wall. Next came the tubs for the chemicals. The entire process took me almost an hour, but by the time I was done, I had a workable darkroom.
On the first table I arranged three boxes of glass negatives I’d shot in the last year. I’d made one set in the Dakotas during the summer, and the others while driving back to Virginia. As I thumbed over the rough edges, I could picture each and every image: the Rocky Mountains, the musicians in Austin, and a singer’s cowboy boots in a Nashville honky-tonk.
Restless, I retrieved the negatives from the kitchen. These were the images I’d captured before Jennifer’s death. “I thought I lost these.”
“I guess Amelia saved them along with all the other stuff she couldn’t bring herself to toss.”
“The same stuff I tossed without any thought the day Addie and Margaret were here.”
The first image I pulled out was a view down Prince Street toward the Potomac River. “When I left town after you died, this was my last view of the city. I swore I would never come back.”
“You used to say ‘never say never,’ Lisa.”
“I know.” I held up the glass negative, allowing the light from a brass floor lamp to stream through the contrasting blacks, whites, and grays. “I wasn’t patient then. I didn’t realize it could take hours of waiting to catch the right light. As I went through the box, I realized only two were good enough to keep. The view from Prince Street, and the stoic picture of a girl with long auburn hair. Jennifer.
“Maybe the universe is sending you a message.”
I traced the outline of her eyes. “You look so much like Rae.”
“Thanks. That’s a good thing.”
It was. “Do you think she’d be my friend if she knew the truth?”
“I know the truth and I’m still sticking around.”
“You’re dead.”
“And your point is?”
Pinching the bridge of my nose, I smiled. “You’re such a pain in the ass.”
“Shut up and make some pictures.”
Even in negative form, I could see Jennifer staring boldly into the camera. She wasn’t smiling, but there was a spark in her. She’d agreed to be my guinea pig that day. It had been a chilly spring Saturday and I needed a model.
“You ruined the first couple of attempts because you kept moving.”
“Sitting still has never been my style.”
“It’s as good a place as any to start. Rae might like to have it.”
Time has a way of stopping when I’m in a darkroom. The outside world fades and I don’t get hungry or tired. It’s just me and the process. When I finally stepped back from the collection of prints fastened to a dangling clothesline, it was the early hours of Thursday morning. All the prints I’d done were of Jennifer, in varying shades of light and contrast. It had been so long since I’d seen her. For a moment, she was alive.
I moved back to the box and was about to stop when I found a negative of Jennifer and Rae. They were sitting close to each other, their heads tilted and touching. Both wore solemn expressions.
Excited, I made several prints. Despite all the skills I’d learned over the years, I couldn’t quite compensate for the negative, which showed my novice status. Drips, uneven edges, and a smudge were impossible to fix, but after a few tries, I accepted that my inexperience added to the charm of the picture. Two young sisters and a novice photographer.
Feeling an acute sense of satisfaction, I climbed the stairs and let Charlie into the backyard, and when he returned, I took a quick shower before falling into bed. Charlie jumped up on the bed and settled beside me. My eyes closed, I dropped into the darkness.
Colin West called at half past seven, waking me. I started up in bed, sure that something terrible must have happened to Amelia for anyone to call me at this ungodly hour. Blinking, I shoved hair out of my eyes and reached for my phone. “Hello.” I cleared my throat. “Hello?”
“I woke you?” Colin’s voice was far too alert and cheerful this early. It was wrong on so many levels.
“Is there a problem?”
“I woke you.”
“I was up until four A.M. developing pictures.” Charlie stretched but didn’t open his eyes.
“Do you often work through the night?”
The question irritated me. “I try not to, but when inspiration strikes, I answer.”
“More photos of the Prince Street house?”
“Some, yes.” I swung my legs over the side of the bed.
“Well, I’ve good news.”
I yawned. “I won the lottery.”
“Not exactly. But the real estate agent has a very good offer on the house. I wanted to show it to you.”
“That’s great. When?”
“Twenty minutes. It’s the only time I have today. I’ve got to be in court.”
I pinched the bridge of my nose. “Sure. That should give me enough time to pull my hair into a ponytail.”
He laughed as he hung up.
Ten minutes later, I was resting my head on the kitchen’s marble countertop, waiting as the coffeepot gurgled out a fresh brew. Charlie climbed back on his dog bed and drifted to sleep.
Though I had no idea where I’d live after the place sold, I was glad to be leaving. The past was not my favorite thing, and here I was surrounded by it. The doorbell rang before the pot finished brewing. Charlie scrambled to his feet and barked.
Casting a wistf
ul glance at my yet-to-be filled cup, I moved down the center hallway toward the door. I opened it to a very bright and energetic Colin.
“Stop smiling so much,” I said. “That kind of cheeriness is wrong on too many levels this early in the morning.”
Charlie pushed past me to greet Colin, who rubbed him between the ears and patted him affectionately on his side. “It’s the middle of the day.”
“Right, if you’re a farmer. Come on in. I’ve got a pot of coffee that’s brewing particularly slowly this morning.”
He closed the door behind himself, Charlie’s paws matching his clipped steps. “You look pretty good for only a few hours’ sleep.”
“It’s a façade. I’m weeping inside. Black?”
He chuckled. “Any sugar or milk?”
“High maintenance,” she teased. I filled his cup and set it on the marble island, and Colin took a seat on one of the bar stools surrounding it. I set the milk carton and the entire sugar canister on the island. Rae would have done a fancier job of serving. She’d have used the right kind of milk pitcher and probably had those little sugar cubes like her mother used to keep on hand. I was just grateful the milk was fresh.
Charlie sat beside Colin as he splashed milk into his mug. I did the same and added a heaping teaspoon of sugar. Ex-drinkers gravitated to sugar, and I was no exception. The craving had something to do with the receptors in the brain.
I sipped. Added another teaspoon and then sipped again. If he hadn’t been there, I’d have added another spoonful, but I decided to pretend I didn’t have an overpowering addiction to sugar. “So, you have an offer.”
“I do.” He tugged a folded piece of paper out of his breast pocket. He slid the number my way. I was impressed. “That’s about ten percent over asking.”
“Rebecca’s good at what she does.”
“How much of that does Amelia get to keep?”
He tapped a finger on the countertop. “Enough to keep her in her current situation for about five years.”
“Five years.”
I had no way of knowing if she’d live six days or ten more years. “Okay. Well, at least that gives me time to figure out what to do for her.”
“What will you do?”
“Not exactly sure. Maybe I’ll finally get serious about my photography and find a way to support us.”
His stare was bold, direct. “I looked you up online. “You had some good reviews.”
“I never did much with them. I could have traded them for more gallery showings and better exposure, but I didn’t.”
“Why not?”
Because there was a part of me that believed I didn’t have the right to a full life. My stupidity cost Jennifer her life, so as long as she was dead, so was I. “Who’s to say?”
“Been my experience that when people get vague, they have an answer. The just don’t want to share.”
I tapped the tip of my nose. “You’ve got good senses.”
He sipped his coffee. “What do you think of the offer?”
“Take it. Just let me know where to sign and when I need to be out of here.”
“Where will you go?”
“Don’t know, but I always land on my feet. I’m like a cat.”
“Can I see the pictures you developed?”
“Sure.” I pushed away from the counter with the cup in hand. “In the basement.”
“I didn’t see equipment down there during the tour.”
“Don’t tell Rebecca, but I set it up last night. Nothing that can’t be broken down in about an hour.” Moving to the small side door by the kitchen, I opened it and switched on a light. I ordered Charlie to stay, but he tried following anyway.
Colin looked at the dog. “Sit.”
The dog sat, ready for his next command.
“Wow,” I said.
“You’re too soft on him.”
“Right.” We stepped down the center staircase. I turned on the collection of floor lamps brought from upstairs.
“Looks like you raided every light in the house.”
“If I could carry it, I brought it down. Though I did discover that too many lamps blow a fuse. It’s a little disconcerting finding yourself in a dark basement all of a sudden at night.”
“You’re not afraid of shadows?”
“And you’re not?” I moved toward the clothesline, where I’d pinned up a collection of glass plate prints. They would dry for several more hours before I coated them with a fine sheen of wax.
He leaned in, studying the pictures, moving down the line slowly and carefully. To his credit, he seemed genuinely interested. “These are very good.”
“This is one thing I do particularly well.”
“You should consider having a show in town. The locals would love it. I’m sure Rebecca would help.”
“It’s not quite that easy. It’s a lot of work making inroads with the art dealers.”
“The D.C. market has a fair number of galleries.”
“I’d still have to create a portfolio and get my act together.” I sipped my coffee. “But you’re right, I do have to do something. My gypsy days are over while Amelia is sick.”
He moved to the pictures of Jennifer. “Who’s this?”
The quality of the negatives was poor. I had only just begun learning the art of coating the plate with chemicals, and consequently there were runs and untreated spots that would never develop. “I took those in high school. That’s my friend, Jennifer.”
“She’s pretty.”
“She was.”
A frown furrowed his brow. “Jennifer McDonald. Amelia told me about her. She died in a car accident.”
“We were seventeen.”
“That couldn’t have been easy.”
I wasn’t allowing self-pity today. “Never is.”
“These prints are not as polished as the others, but I really like them.”
“Thanks. My developing skills have grown, but I can only do so much with a novice’s negative. I was thinking I’d give the prints to Jennifer’s sister. She might like to have them.”
“I’m sure she would.” His watch beeped. “I’ve got to be in court in a half hour, so I’ve got to be leaving.”
“Thanks for delivering the good news. Let me know when I need to hit the streets.”
“Right. Will do.” He climbed the stairs and paused at the front door. “Would you like to have dinner?”
“Dinner? You mean like a business dinner or a date?”
“A date.”
“Wow.”
His hand on the door, he looked amused by my confusion. “You sound surprised.”
“It’s been a while since I had a real date.”
“Then we’ll keep it simple. There’s a pub on Union Street.”
Considering all I had were jeans and maybe one nice sweater, it would have to do. Though pubs meant alcohol, I could be surprisingly controlled when I wasn’t alone. “Sure. That might be fun.”
“I’ll pick you up at seven on Saturday night.”
“Okay. Looking forward to it.”
When he left, I stood in the hallway, allowing the silence to fold around me. The moment’s exhilaration faded and I was left with an overwhelming sense of guilt. I was going on a date. Living my life.
“If you back out of this date, I’ll scream.”
“I’m not supposed to have fun.”
“Bull. You can have fun.”
“The deal was as long as you couldn’t have fun, neither could I.”
“Who says I’m not having fun? I haven’t seen you squirm like this in years.”
“Go away.”
“What, now? It’s just getting interesting. No way.”
July 12, 1769
My Dearest Children,
The boys
have long left. Hanna is betrothed to a young man in the city. He is a master carpenter and he hails from Scotland. Their wedding will be right after the harvest, and I spend most of my days helping her sew clothes that she will carry into her new life.
Mr. McDonald’s wife rarely gets out of her bed now, and when Dr. Goodwin visits the farm, he leaves her with a fresh bottle of laudanum to help her with her pain. The wife is too sick to notice that the boys are gone and Hanna will soon follow. Both Mr. McDonald and I mourn the loss of the children. We speak fondly of the days when we had three lively children bustling about the cottage and of the nights we sat by the stone hearth while his wife read to us.
Unable to sleep, I prowl the nights often, and I fear with my long fiery red hair billowing about my shoulders under the moon that I do indeed look like the witch who many still believe me to be.
—F
Chapter Eighteen
Rae McDonald
THURSDAY, SEPTEMBER 1, 11:00 A.M.
Hope doesn’t go hand in hand with the McDonalds, and especially me. There was a time before Jennifer died when Hope and I were pals, but Hope had disappointed me one time too often, so I cut it loose after I gave Michael away. But when Susan accepted my invitation to the witch bottle presentation, I thought maybe we could be friends.
According to Margaret, the local media were very interested in her witch bottles and wanted to interview the surviving ancestors. We would all meet at the Shire Architectural Salvage warehouse tomorrow at four.
When the doorbell rang and I saw Zeb’s truck in the driveway, I was oddly excited. I’m not sure why I walked a little faster toward the door, but I did. Maybe it was the break in the rain or the idea of seeing Michael again. Whatever the reason, it had been a very long time since I’d believed that life could truly get better.
Opening the door, I actually smiled. “Mr. Talbot. Thank you for coming so soon.”
He studied me an extra beat, clearly trying to figure out what had changed. “Dr. McDonald. Are you okay?”
“Yes, why wouldn’t I be?”
“You don’t usually smile like this.”
Did the smile make me look more than a little demented? It had been a long time since I actually tried smiling. “You can call me Rae.”
The View from Prince Street Page 25
