Gail was delighted when she called her that afternoon. She had finished with her class around two-thirty and would be free for coffee, or possibly a light meal, around four-thirty or five. “Give me a little time to shower off the mess of paints and sweaty child!” She laughed. “If you could see me now—no, you don’t want to see me now! I’ve got a green nose.” They agreed on a place to meet, and Carrie quickly hung up. Then, with an hour or two on her hands, she happily went down to the pool to swim a few laps before changing and leaving to meet Gail.
Gail looked tired as she eased into the seat across from Carrie in the small restaurant. “Whew!” she sighed, drawing a hand in front of her forehead in an exaggerated gesture. “Every morning I look forward to going to work, and every evening I’m desperately grateful to escape! Why do I put up with those monsters? I must be a masochist!”
Laughing at her, Carrie commented dryly, “You must get some enjoyment out of it, or you wouldn’t be so cheerful about it.”
“Oh, I really do love my job,” Gail assured her unnecessarily. “It’s just when Jerry puts Melissa’s books in black paint, and Karen falls out of the window because she was trying to catch a butterfly—thank God it’s a one-storey building—and Aiquin flushes live goldfish down the toilet because he’d seen his mother do the same thing with their dead one, that—”
“Stop!” Carrie gasped, holding her sides. “Enough! You’re going to have me asphyxiated from lack of air, I’m laughing so hard!”
“But,” Gail continued drolly, “I don’t really want to talk about me. Why don’t you tell me about you? How’s your vacation coming along?”
Calming a little, and yet still smiling, Carrie replied, “Well, right now it’s non-existent. Gabe Jackson asked me to photograph his shopping centre, and I’ve been busy with that.”
“Gabe Jackson?” the other girl repeated with delight, her eyes dancing. “Wow, honey—that man is a dream! What’s he like, really? Do you like him or not? Come on now, ’fess up.”
Carrie shrugged, infuriatingly casual, “He’s very nice, and yes, I do like him.”
Gail howled, “You newt, I mean do you like him? Come on, give me more information than that! Are you physically attracted to him? Is there chemistry between you?” This last bit was accompanied by a roguish leer.
“For heaven’s sake, Gail!” she sputtered, almost spitting her coffee all over the table. “I hardly know the man! Give me a break, will you?”
“All right.” Her eyes lit with amused affection, Gail appeared to reluctantly agree. “But,” she warned, wagging a slow finger, “I want a blow by blow account of anything that might happen to—er—develop.”
“The only thing that is going to develop is the film that I shot up,” Carrie spoke with a certainty, and wondered about a sudden flat feeling inside.
Gail was studying her face with an underlying seriousness. She noticed the lighter expression, the absence of strain, the easier pose of the smaller girl and impulsively took one of Carrie’s hands in a rare gesture of affection and squeezed quickly. “Tell me,” she said abruptly, “how are you, Carrie? Really, I mean. Is everything all right?”
Carrie paused for a moment as she considered Gail’s question. As if from a long distance, she remembered the deep unhappiness and depression that she’d been battling on the night of the party, so recently. “Why, I think I’m fine,” she said slowly and with some surprise. It was true. The familiar ache in the middle of her chest was gone. She could think about Neil without any pain. “Yes, I think I’m really happy. Everything is just great.”
Gail smiled, relieved. She asked, “Problem over, then?”
“What? Oh, that. Non-existent, old pal. Really nothing.”
Chapter Four
Carrie knocked at the door of the large ranch house and waited patiently. It would be good to work in the cool darkness after the searing heat of the noonday sun. She squinted her eyes and looked about her. The front yard was nicely kept, with plush grass that spoke out in the dry climate of an underground sprinkler system and constant care. Flat rocks were laid in a pattern to make up the sidewalk that led to the front door. On either side of the walk, there was a thin border of smaller, more colourful rocks and cacti. The house itself was older and beautifully kept, with a solid and established air about it. It was an attractive sight. The front door opened suddenly and Carrie looked quickly around. A small, birdlike woman peered out and smiled uncertainly. She smiled back.
“I’m Carrie Metcalfe,” she said politely. “Mr. Jackson said you would be expecting me.”
The smile on the other woman’s thin face grew more firm and she threw the door open, beckoning Carrie to come on in. “I’m Mrs. Hastings,” she replied in a soft, pleasant voice. “I keep house for Mr. Jackson.” She looked at Carrie as if she were expecting a reply, and Carrie hastened to respond.
“Er—it’s a very nice house, too,” she said somewhat stupidly. “You must take a great deal of care with it—the front yard is very attractive.”
She had apparently said the right thing, inane though it had sounded to her, for Mrs. Hastings did not merely smile. She beamed.
Murmuring modestly, “I like to keep up the little rock garden along the sidewalk. Whenever I find any pretty rocks, I arrange them in the front so that everybody can see them,” the older woman led Carrie through the house towards the back.
Her attention diverted from looking about her with a great deal of interest, Carrie turned her blue gaze to the woman and resisted the temptation to tell her encouragingly, “Good girl!” However, she did refrain from doing so, and Mrs. Hastings, chattering happily, took her down the stairs that led to the basement floor.
She was pleasantly surprised to see the basement, for instead of using it as a storage area as most people tended to do, the floor was an attractively decorated lounge with a huge fireplace at one end of the room. Cool tile was covered in places with large, patterned throw rugs. There were two comfortable-looking couches near the fireplace and a few soft, huge armchairs. The walls were covered with filled bookshelves all throughout the long sides of the basement. In one little nook, just right of the fireplace, Carrie could see a short counter space that could be used as a bar, with the corner of a small refrigerator within sight from behind. In the middle of a wide open space was a waist-high table that currently had what looked like blueprints scattered over its surface. Off in one corner, when she turned her head, was a little door that led to a tiny room under the staircase.
Mrs. Hastings led the way to the little room and opened the door as she explained to Carrie, “This is Mr. Jackson’s darkroom over here. Everything you need should be here—he checked supplies last night. If you should need anything at all, just let me know and I’ll be happy to help you.”
“Thank you,” she replied. Looking over at the large table where the blueprints lay, she asked, “Do you think that I could use that table for laying out the prints when I finish with them?”
“Certainly.” Mrs. Hastings immediately began to bustle about, busily clearing off the blueprints, rolling them up and stuffing them into cardboard tubes. Carrie turned back to the little door and went in.
It was a beauty of a room and she looked about her with pleasure. Everything was in its place, everything put in such a way to use the available space as efficiently as possible. It was complete with whatever Carrie could possibly want or need, as she found out by exploring various drawers, and all the equipment was of the latest quality.
After closing the door and turning on the red light, she took out the rolls of film and started to develop the black and white. While the film was hanging up to dry, she started on the colour. This took longer to do, since colour was more complicated. When that too was done, she checked the black and white. The film was dry, so she began to develop the prints, snapping the wet pictures into a dryer that began to heat up quickly, drying them in a very little while. Finally, after she had all the black and white pictures fully developed and eith
er drying or in the water bath, she switched on the light. Then, taking out all of the finished prints to lay them flat on the large table, Carrie inspected each carefully for flaws in the development. All looked to be clear of scratches and most were properly developed, although there were a few that were underdeveloped, and she patiently went back into the darkroom to make reprints. When these were finished and had met her professional approval, she arranged all the pictures on the table according to her own judgment, from the most marketable to the least.
She was greatly excited with the shots she had taken of Gabe silhouetted as he had been against the angled building with the sun’s bright rays shooting out. All the same, she knew that the pictures had no use outside their artistic value, for all their high quality and power. They were just not advertisement material for what Gabe had in mind. She was glad of the other, more conventional shots that better portrayed the layout of the buildings and their structural beauty. These were more of what he could use.
She returned to the darkroom to clear away the chemicals for the development of the colour film. She spent a great deal of time on the prints, taking care on each one and enlarging those she felt that needed it, and cropping others that had not been centred correctly. The best of these, she felt, was the sunrise picture that showed the entire building site engulfed in a glorious golden blaze. Gabe would like to use it, she was sure.
The afternoon had gone by swiftly. Carrie consulted her watch with some surprise. She was always amazed at how she could become so engrossed in her work that time had no significance. In fact, this was the only type of work in which Carrie could immerse herself so totally. Sketching could hold her interest for a while, but not as long as photography could.
There was a little time left to her before Gabe would be returning home. She found herself going back to the black and white print of him standing, mammoth, powerful, dominating the huge structure behind him. The composition of the picture was very nearly perfect, but not quite. She studied it intently. Gabe needed to be centred slightly over to the left, leaving off about half an inch on that side. She went back to the darkroom to try and redevelop the picture more effectively.
She made several prints off of the negative, enlarging a few to the maximum size possible, which was the size of a sixteen by twenty glossy. These looked the nicest. There was no grainy effect, which sometimes occurs with a poorer quality of paper used. The lines of both man and building were clear and very sharp, the rays of the sun distinct. The different centring lent a more definite power to the composition of the picture. Now all the line positions drew the eyes to the man, who was the focal point. Carrie stared at the scene with a great fascination, knowing from the tingle in her hands, the gut feeling she always got when she knew that a picture was right, that this was something special indeed. She had to ask Gabe if he would mind if she took a print for herself, to use in her exhibit.
She left the darkroom for the last time, studying the prints in her hands as she went. A large object loomed ahead in her short path to the table and Carrie bumped into it before she could stop. Hands shot out and steadied her as Gabe, catching sight of the pictures she held in her hands, drawled, “You really must be fascinated by me.” He watched the expression on her face and grinned rakishly as she couldn’t stop the tide of colour that washed over her cheeks.
She felt furious, both with him and herself for reacting the way she had. It was not so much Gabe’s light jibe as the way that he was closely watching her that made her blush. She said, quietly dignified as she reversed the picture in her hands and thrust it to him, “Why don’t you tell me what you think about it, and see if you’re as fascinated by it as I was?”
He stared at the picture for some time without saying anything. She began to lose her confidence at his prolonged silence until she finally asked, “What do you think? I know you probably can’t use it in any advertisement, but I couldn’t resist enlarging it.”
Gabe said slowly, “I think it’s one of the most powerful pictures that I’ve ever seen you do. You’ve outdone yourself with this one, Carrie. It really is magnificent.”
His words, although full of extravagant praise, were said in a matter-of-fact tone, lending credibility to the compliment. Gabe was not flattering her, she could see by the intent seriousness on his dark face as he studied the photo. He meant every word.
“Oh, do you think so too?” she asked, pleased. “It’s my favourite picture of the lot, even though it isn’t really practical. If you don’t mind, I would like to have a few copies of it. I went ahead and made duplicates, and I could pay you for the paper I used.”
He said quickly, “That won’t be necessary. If you aren’t entitled to some copies, I don’t know who is. Keep as many as you like.” He turned back to the table. “I haven’t had a chance to look at what you’ve got here. Would you like to show me the ones you think are the best?”
Carrie moved over to the table too and picked up two piles of prints that she had already compiled. Glancing over at him, she took in Gabe’s light blue suit that fitted his lean body smoothly and well, obviously tailored.
“You must have just got here, then,” she replied, and put the piles down again. “Wouldn’t you rather go and change out of your business clothes first, so that you’re more comfortable?”
“No, I’ll just take off my jacket and vest, and rid myself of this infernal tie,” he said, suiting his words with action. He unbuttoned the neck of his white shirt several buttons, giving a glimpse of a dark, well-muscled and hairy chest beneath. Carrie looked away and stared at her prints while he took the other clothes and dropped them on the couch casually.
She turned towards him. “I think that these are the ones that will be usable for what you have in mind. The others here look nice, but they’re variations on the one shot of you, and they’re not suitable.”
While Gabe was looking through the two piles, one black and white and the other colour, she walked over to the nearest armchair and sank into it with a sigh. Now that she was allowing herself to relax, she could feel the tension in her shoulder muscles and she became aware of how tightly she had been holding herself.
Gabe noticed her sigh and immediately put down the prints. He came over to stand near her chair and looked down with a smile as he asked, “How does a tall, cold drink sound to you?”
She grinned at him. “Where do I have to go for it?”
“Nowhere. Just stay right there and wait. Would you like something fruity?” He walked over to the counter and reached below, bringing up two glasses.
“Good memory. Please, anything will do, I like just about everything.” Carrie watched him work in smooth, efficient gestures, every movement neat and economical. He held himself with a kind of grace, the sort that is not very common. Most people tended to move and act with a sloppiness that was unconscious; they were so used to their own bodies that they took them for granted. Gabe moved and acted with an awareness of his own body, with a grace that Carrie found aesthetically pleasing. He took care that his body was healthy, and he used it like a finely tuned instrument, controlled to get the maximum benefit of any energy expended.
“You photograph very well,” she commented. He looked up with a quick flash of a smile. “It’s so hard to find someone who has a presence about them—good looks just don’t do it. You have to have a certain air, an attitude of alertness, quickness. You have to be in control of yourself. So many times my models will get exasperated with me when I harp on about ’standing with attention’. It’s hard to find a really arresting personage, and I get tired of the same old thing. The girls are always beautiful, always immaculate—they have to be—but they’re always the same. I suppose for the companies that we shoot for, they’re perfect, but personally I like to photograph something with a little more personality.”
Gabe handed her a glass with grapefruit juice in it, and she thanked him, and inside wondered why in the world the simple compliment she had intended had ended up being a statement o
f dissatisfaction to one whom she would never have dreamed of telling. Gabe asked her, interested, “What would you like to do if you had the time and the funds to do anything you wanted?”
She threw back her head and laughed. “Sleep! No, seriously? That’s a good question. I don’t know. I think I’d like to travel for a while, see things I’ve never seen before. I’d—I’d like to capture life as it is, in all its poverty and pain, its wild beauty and mystery, not always be photographing cosmetic sterility.”
Gabe picked up the paper he had left and walked over to the other armchair and sat down. He looked at them, laying on his lap. He spoke thoughtfully. “You have a talent in that you see artistic, beauty so refreshingly. These pictures are a good example, because you’ve been able to capture the architect’s intention and display it effectively. These aren’t just pictures of a group of buildings, they’re compositions, artistic arrangements. They keep the eye travelling over and over, moving from one line to the next. I wish you could have the time to work on an artistic exhibition. You really have the potential for excellence.”
Carrie felt faintly embarrassed, but contrived to hide it. “Actually, I hope to have an exhibition close to the end of the summer, somewhere around in August,” she told him. “Most of the photographs are ready. All I have to do is prepare this one—and, of course, any later on this summer that might catch my eye. I want to mount this and put in the display.”
“Good idea,” he approved, listening to her with every sign of enthusiasm. “Would you let me know the date of the exhibition? I’d like to be there.”
“Really?” she was astounded. “You’d go all that way just for my exhibition? I’m flattered. I’ll be lucky to get my parents there!”
Damaged Trust Page 7
