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

“If she checked into her hotel?”

He opened his eyes, but didn’t appear to process what I was saying.

“Do you know the airlines, what flight number?”

I remembered a conversation I’d had with Amelia. She’d described Fritz as fragile and said that he expected her to be the strong one. Now I saw how he broke down in a crisis.

He leaned his elbows onto his knees with his head resting in his hands. “I should have gone. Fuck. Fuck.”

“In a little while, she’ll call us, and we’ll know that everything’s fine,” I said. “Maybe she sprained her ankle. Maybe she lost her cell phone.” Blood was pumping in my head, like there was too much blood and not enough space. I hid my fear, not wanting to add to Fritz’s worry.

He looked up at me. “Do you think I should file a missing person’s report?’

“Not yet,” I said, though I didn’t actually know the answer. I took one of Fritz’s large callused hands and held it in mine. The feeling of his hand in mine calmed my nerves slightly. “I understand how you feel.”

He looked as though he might have a stroke or a heart attack. I gently placed my hand on his cheek. His face reddened slightly, but he didn’t move my hand away. I needed to handle the situation for Amelia’s sake. I needed to comfort Fritz and get him back to thinking straight. “This is so painful right now, but it won’t last long. We’ll find her.” A river of tears poured from his bright green eyes, down his face, and soaked his T-shirt all the way through, as if he’d jumped into a pool. I’d never seen so many tears. He needed my help. I leaned in toward him and kissed his lips very lightly, in an attempt to alter his frame of mind. He didn’t push me away. When I pulled back to look into his eyes and gauge his response, I was relieved to see some animation in his features. I tried to read his expression. It could have been shock, but I tended to think it was excitement. I felt that kissing him was the only way to shake him out of his state. Again I leaned toward him.

“Dad!” Natalie’s voice called from upstairs.

Fritz stood up with a start, his face bright red. I could tell how intensely he wanted me.

“Madeleine’s mom is taking me to chamber music,” Natalie called down. “She’s picking me up in five minutes.”

“OK, honey.”

Fritz motioned for me to stay where I was. He turned and ran down the hall and up the stairs. I said Amelia’s name in my head, then tried to find an image of her in my mind, as if my subconscious might give me information on her whereabouts. But even visualizing her face was difficult and painful.

On their library console table were several of the framed photos from Natalie’s birthday party: the one of Natalie with her balloon unicorn in a sterling silver frame. One of Amelia holding Natalie, kissing her daughter’s forehead. They resembled each other in that both had large eyes spaced far apart. Natalie’s hair was lighter. I remembered the original version of the photo. I’d edited Natalie’s image because it had lacked sufficient lightness and joie de vivre.

My gaze returned to Amelia in the photo. I closed my eyes to see if I could place a background with her face and discern any clues to her location. I felt so connected to her—almost like we were one and the same person—I ought to know where she was. But nothing came to me.

I opened my eyes again and compared Amelia to her daughter in the photo: Amelia was clearly playing to an audience. I doubted that she could identify the line between her performance and her life.

In one revealing photo of Fritz and Amelia, they were saying goodbye to their guests, toward the end of the party. Amelia was resting her head on Fritz’s shoulder. He was gripping her wrist. She wanted him to protect her. He wanted her to protect him. They both wanted to be saved. Amelia described herself as the organized one who always had to take charge. Fritz felt that she expected too much of him—that she was always slightly disappointed in him, and he was probably right.

I’d seen an unpaid tuition bill for Natalie’s school in their office. Such questions of money could bring stress into a relationship. Enough stress to break a marriage. I knew, not because I had any firsthand experience. I knew because I’d seen it in subtle ways whenever I’d photographed a party. Some parents wouldn’t notice whether I charged five hundred or five thousand for a birthday party.

But there were others, maybe bankers, traders, lawyers, or otherwise, who might have had a couple of lucrative years. Then there was an assumption it would continue like that. And maybe their expectations were set in a certain place. Luxuries crept in. And perhaps, they assumed, because they saw their peers, they assumed it could be done. They were wealthy. And they would stay that way.

The families would hire me one year and then they’d hire me back the following year whether or not they could afford me. And the birthday party they’d have for the child—it would be as lavish as it was the prior year. Maybe it was a matter of pride or positive thinking. If we believe we have the money, we will. So it was in those cases where I could see the tension starting to eat away at the family. And I could see it was right under the surface, just like Amelia and Fritz. And the mom was snapping at the dad because she was angry. Because they’d hired a photographer and a magician, and they had a fancy cake, but the kid was screaming his head off. Tension. And on some level, the mom probably knew that they spent the money and it wasn’t