The Photographer, Mary Carter [the best novels to read .TXT] 📗

deficits and had worked hard to shore them up. To be frank, I resembled the proverbial English butler who learns all the rules, who lives and breathes the rules, without necessarily internalizing what is underneath them. I learned the rules for the sole purpose of serving the ruling class, making them comfortable, and fitting in. (The idea of a “ruling class” had never bothered me. It was only if you acknowledged the existing hierarchy that you could use it to your advantage.) I paid attention to every intonation in people’s sentences. How they tied their shoes or didn’t tie them. I paid attention to the minutiae until it became second nature. I didn’t want to appear to be striving for something that I wasn’t inherently given at birth. Yes, I’d been born into white trash. But I, myself, had a drastically superior mind and sensibilities.

My clients felt relaxed enough to discuss their finances in front of me. They couldn’t talk about money with someone who was poor. They could only talk about money with someone who understood money. I considered that my job—to convey to them that I understood their world. And that I understood their children’s worlds. And because I understood their children’s worlds so well, I was the artist who could translate all of that into a photograph.

As I approached the entrance to the Straubs’ home, I took a slight detour to glance down the exterior stone steps that led to the garden apartment. The shades were down. The lights were out. It appeared no one was there.

I returned to the main steps of the front entrance, noting the lanterns on either side, which looked to be original nineteenth century. Amelia greeted me at the door in slacks and bare feet with a fresh pedicure. Her glossy brown hair was pulled up loosely in a clip. She wore gold Aztec coin earrings and a matching necklace. It was expensive jewelry, but unconventional and effortless. If you didn’t know anything about jewelry, it might seem understated.

She shone her smile on me, and I experienced the same sensation of warmth and light that I’d experienced upon meeting her. It was as though she saw something extraordinary in me.

“Natalie thinks she’s too old to have a babysitter.” Amelia spoke in a hushed, conspiratorial tone. “But she feels like you’re her friend.” She led me into the kitchen and offered me a blue reactive-glaze mug filled with hot lemon water. She sank down onto one of the counter stools, and as she did, her smile faded. “All our evenings out. It’s the nature of our work. Relationships.

“Most of our clients are lovely people,” she said, “but once in a while we end up in a relationship with someone who can’t be pleased. And then we’ve got to work through the project and get to the other side. I’m probably preaching to the choir, right?” She took a sip of her lemon water.

I felt flattered that she was comparing her work to mine. I hesitated, however, not wanting to criticize a client. “Are you struggling with a particular person right now?”

She blossomed when the attention was on her. “Not exactly. But it’s been a hard year.”

“Yes?”

“Just … a lot of disappointments.” She frowned. “I count my blessings, though.” Her face had a worn appearance, but regardless, I found her arresting. Even the prior week, when she’d come home drunk and messy, she’d still glowed like a beacon. She lit the room up when she walked in.

“If you ever want to discuss it…”

“I wouldn’t want to burden you.” Her fingers trailed down her neck.

I sensed that she did want to talk about it. “I admire you, Amelia. Your family, your professional success. If you only knew how impressive you are—to an outsider.”

“You’re not an outsider, Delta!”

“I’m honored to be included in your life.”

“When will you see your son again?” she asked.

“I try to FaceTime every day.”

“It must be hard,” she said.

My hand was too hot. I set the cup down.

“Where did you grow up?” she asked, as if the idea had only just occurred to her. I was sorry that it had. My roots—that wasn’t a subject I enjoyed and I usually chose to deflect the conversation away from that territory.

“Florida.”

“Where in Florida? My parents live in Florida.”

Amelia felt it was her prerogative to have the information she wanted, and ignored the social cues that might have led someone else to drop a subject. She wasn’t oblivious to the cues. She simply disregarded them. I was usually adept at pivoting away from my own story after providing only the most rudimentary information, but not in this case.

“Orlando.”

“And your family?” she asked.

“I have an older sister.” I’d always wanted an older sister. “My parents both died a few years ago. Several months apart. They were very close.” My mother had died in a car accident right after I’d graduated from high school, and my father might be dead. I hadn’t seen him for fifteen years and had no desire to. So he was dead, in a sense. “I love Brooklyn. I have a family of friends. We celebrate Thanksgiving, Christmas, New Year’s. Now that I’m divorced.”

Amelia nodded sympathetically. “Two of our employees have stuck around for a long time. Ian Walker, he’s an associate at the firm and holds the place together. Maybe you saw him at Natalie’s birthday?” Amelia’s eyes shone when she spoke of Ian. “He’s like a member of the family, which is great since it’s just the three of us and Natalie doesn’t have any siblings. So far.”

I found myself envious of Ian. “So far?” I asked. “Is there a sibling on the way?”

Amelia looked down at her lap and shook her head. “I want another baby more than I can tell you.” Her eyes filled with tears. I took her hand and held it in mine. As I did so, I feared I’d overstepped, but she pulled my hand firmly toward her, as if she was drawing comfort from me.