The Photographer - Mary Carter (best romance ebooks .txt) 📗

at my apartment, editing, if I didn’t have a shoot. The hours in my apartment were growing difficult, because my body and brain were becoming accustomed to the scale and light in the Straubs’ home, including the design of their windows and glass doors, which allowed the eye to borrow all the space outside their home as well. In the Straubs’ house, I had the freedom to stretch and run, metaphorically speaking, with no constraints, whereas, in my own apartment, I felt myself shrink and compress.

Amelia had told me Natalie was old enough to be in their house alone for a couple of hours in the afternoon, but I didn’t agree, so I made certain to return by four thirty, when Natalie arrived home, and often earlier.

I knew that Gwen, the tenant downstairs, was at work during the day and it was possible to enter the garden apartment without fear of being observed. I felt that someone ought to be keeping tabs on her. I’d noticed several odd patterns of behavior. For instance, at the foot of her bed was a blanket that she always rolled into a tight cylinder—an indication that she was tightly wound and might be a loose cannon.

Sometimes I would arrive as early as 2 P.M. so that I could take a nap in the bed downstairs. I slept so soundly in that bed. It was perfect for me. I’d been repeating the puddle-of-water trick at least once a week, along with rearranging Gwen’s clothing from time to time, just to keep her off-balance.

The garden apartment and the Straubs’ future baby became linked in my thoughts. In my mind, the surrogate or birth mother who carried their baby belonged in the apartment. (It seemed to me that must have been the Straubs’ intention all along.) Gwen was not that person.

Each evening, Natalie and I would do her homework, eat dinner together, and take Itzhak for a walk around the block. When she didn’t have much homework, we stayed up late and played Scrabble. Before she went to sleep, we usually talked about school. Natalie told me various anecdotes about her friends.

“Hailey goes, ‘Piper, remember the doughnuts we had at Madeleine’s house?’ And then she goes, ‘Oh, Natalie, I forgot you weren’t there.’ But she didn’t forget that I wasn’t there. She wanted me to know that I wasn’t invited to something.”

I didn’t offer advice, but I think Natalie felt better because I listened to her. It often took an hour or more for me to quiet her down. I couldn’t have imagined how significant that time would be for me. And how I would long for it to continue.

On the third Friday of February, I was scheduled to babysit yet again, and this time Natalie was having a sleepover with Piper. I remembered her as the girl at Natalie’s party who couldn’t braid hair. I felt mildly hesitant, given what I’d learned of Natalie’s friends. When I arrived, I set my laptop and a small shopping bag on the kitchen counter. Inside was a child’s waterproof camera I’d purchased. It was a present for Jasper. I was hoping that someone would notice it.

I knocked on Natalie’s door and poked my head in. “Hi, you two.” Natalie and Piper were seated on the floor, immersed in painting their fingernails, and barely acknowledged me except for a slight wave. “I’ll be downstairs,” I said.

In the kitchen, I picked up a copy of the Times that was lying on the counter. Amelia and Fritz still subscribed to the paper edition. I sat down to read an article on a gang of counterfeiters from Lima, Peru. I learned that master counterfeiters are artists with a terrific desire for recognition. They’re so hungry for praise that they often give themselves away inadvertently.

When I heard footsteps on the stairs, I refolded the newspaper as I’d found it, and left it on the counter. Fritz appeared in a becoming tuxedo, his face damp with perspiration. “Delta Dawn!” He filled a glass with ice and filtered water and handed it to me, then filled a second glass for himself. “God, I hate this fucking monkey suit.” He sat on the stool opposite me and glanced at the cover of the Times, then at the child’s camera in my shopping bag.

“A little something I picked up for Jasper.” I was pleased that my purchase had paid off.

“Right. I guess the apple doesn’t fall far.” He turned his water glass in a circle on the counter, as if he were inspecting it for a flaw. Then he sighed loudly. “Our clients…” He dropped his head back to look at the ceiling. “They’re buying property in a fucking valley. Trees everywhere and dark as hell. They could buy anything. We told them and told them. They won’t listen. It’s the worst choice they could have made.” He paused. “Man, I should stop talking, right?”

“I love hearing about your work, because it’s all about light and shadow. Mine is too. When I walk into a space, any space, the first thing I see is the light and the shadow. Is that what you see?”

Fritz raised his eyebrows. “Yes!” He assessed me and I felt that his understanding of my abilities was coming into focus.

Backlit by the late-afternoon sun shining through the glass doors, he almost glowed. From behind his tortoiseshell glasses, his green eyes glistened brightly. I stifled a desire to pull out my Canon EOS. He laughed. “Unfortunately, I think that the star-chitects”—he chuckled at his pun—“and we’re not star architects … even they still have to answer to someone. Someone else is paying for everything and making the decisions. Of course, we can walk off a job. But we haven’t ever done that … not yet.

“These days, I come home to have a quick dinner with Natalie,” he continued, “and then I work for another five hours. Amelia’s worse than I am. When Natalie was younger, I was away a lot. Now it’s the reverse. Amelia’s more