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

Most of the children crowded Mack during the knife-juggling segment of his show, causing my stomach to drop more than once, though I’d seen his show at least twenty times, and no one had ever died. Boris’s parents, who were sipping Veuve Clicquot in the kitchen, didn’t notice the knives.

Boris was the only child who derived no pleasure from the performance, or any other aspect of the party. I stayed for three hours, hoping that his frame of mind would shift, but nothing, not even the Avengers cupcakes, could shake him out of his mood. Since the raw material from the party was unusable in its present form, I resigned myself to creating photos out of whole cloth.

I made it a rule not to drink while working, and not unless the hosts specifically offered me a drink. But on my way out, when the hosts were otherwise occupied, I drank half a glass of champagne. My nerves were on fire and I needed it.

As I was waiting for my car, Amelia’s name came up on my phone. I felt a rush of exhilaration until I read the entire text. She explained that they were leaving town for two weeks. It was Natalie’s winter break. She’d forgotten to mention it.

A heaviness settled into my arms and legs.

I spent several minutes composing a response in my mind. I didn’t want to appear too eager, but I needed to hold on to the Straubs. My body craved our connection.

Finally I landed on a solution and wrote: I could look after itzhak and water ur plants. it wouldn’t be trouble. Let me know!

OMG delta ur the best. itzhak is at a doggie hotel, but please water the plants! So amazing if you would.

Her message was an enormous consolation. There was terrific value for me in spending time in their home.

Another text from Amelia: remember I told you about ian walker? he’s a doll. i gave him your number!

I resented Amelia pawning me off on Ian. It was mildly disrespectful. How did she even know whether I was single? After mulling it over, I decided that I’d go out with him anyway. I saw it as an opportunity to garner information on the Straubs.

Back at my apartment, I settled in and turned on my computer. Boris’s party was going to require many hours of editing. Essentially, I would have to create a birthday party that had never happened, in order to showcase a delightful and affectionate child who did not exist. When I needed a break, I turned to the pictures from Natalie’s birthday. In each and every image from her party, I saw opportunities to photoshop—ways for me to spend time with the Straubs. My interactions with them, even if only in photos, were a balm to my spirits.

Two days later Ian and I had dinner at a loud and crowded Italian restaurant in the West Village. When I arrived, I spotted him across the room. I recognized him as the man talking to Fritz at Natalie’s party—early forties, dark brown hair, heavy eyebrows. No one would have called him out for being good-looking or bad-looking. He was wearing a tie, unlike the rest of the men in the restaurant. His hair was extremely short, as if he’d had a haircut earlier that day, and it appeared he’d cut his chin shaving.

Ian seemed surprised by me. Or maybe taken aback by my appearance. I gathered he wasn’t used to dating women who were as pretty as I was.

I started by asking him questions about himself. I always preferred to do the asking. The person asking has more power. The person answering is more vulnerable. Among other things, I learned that he grew up in New Jersey and attended Rice University for his master’s. He spoke of his father, who’d passed away the previous year, and his mother’s subsequent loneliness. I was bored by the subject of other people’s loneliness, but Ian would have had no way of knowing that.

He’d just come from helping his mother clean her apartment, in preparation for trying to sell it, because she had bad arthritis in her hips and it wasn’t easy for her to get around. She was so stingy, he said, she’d photographed the apartment herself, refusing to spend the money on a professional interiors photographer.

Some people consider themselves photographers because they’ve taken a few decent pictures on their iPhones. An infinite number of monkeys with an infinite number of typewriters and an infinite amount of time could write The Complete Works of Shakespeare. That’s called the infinite monkey theorem, and it applies to cameras and photographs too. I didn’t tell Ian about the infinite monkey theorem.

“The photos can make a big difference,” I said.

“I know.” He shook his head in disgust. “Her lousy photos are probably costing her forty percent of the sale price.”

After a couple of martinis, Ian loosened up a bit. “Delta Dawn. Isn’t that a song?”

I smiled. “Mm-hmm.”

“It’s a beautiful name.”

“I’ve never liked it,” I said.

“That’s too bad.”

“It tells people I don’t belong.”

“Don’t belong … where?”

“Anywhere, actually.” The words fell out of my mouth.

I could see that Ian found the comment troubling.

“I’m kidding!” I laughed.

He smiled awkwardly and ordered another martini.

Once the topic of conversation shifted to the Straubs, the evening flew, because it was a subject we both thoroughly enjoyed. He told me stories about residential and commercial projects they’d worked on together over the years. He’d been with the firm for ten years and had been promoted to associate three years earlier. One day he planned to start his own firm, but he said it was too challenging in the current climate.

Ian provided more direct information about the Straubs than I would ever be able to glean from perusing their house. For example, I grew to understand aspects of Amelia and Fritz’s relationship—both personal and business. Fritz had been a wunderkind who’d started his own firm in his late twenties. Early on he offered Amelia a job at his