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

running north on the promenade. It was late winter, but still cold, so the walkway was relatively empty. The BQE below us was backed up with traffic and oppressively loud. For the first twenty minutes of our run, Amelia talked nonstop. “They’ll move on to another architect in a heartbeat,” she said. “And Fritz has a lazy confidence. He thinks the clients are loyal. He’s always surprised if we lose them.”

We approached the end of the promenade and continued down the long hill past the playground. In spite of the fact that Amelia was ten years older than me, she was a lot faster and in better shape. I tried to disguise my heavy breathing.

“He’s leaving it to me, largely because he knows that I landed these clients and they’re mostly interested in my ideas. Well, that doesn’t have to be true.” Amelia wasn’t winded in the slightest. If I were just listening to her voice and didn’t see her, I wouldn’t have known she was running. “Fritz is devoting more and more of his time to pro bono jobs. A library for an underserved neighborhood. Fine. A homeless shelter. Fine. And he says he finds that more rewarding. But we have a hell of a lot of overhead. Fritz throws up his hands and he says it’s time to downsize. Downsize, my ass. Twenty years ago he was driven. But he’s lost his competitive edge.” Amelia finished the speech and exhaled like it had taken a lot out of her. She sounded defensive and probably felt guilty about her criticism of Fritz. Even so, she really owned her story, perhaps more than anyone I’d ever met. It was intoxicating.

Once we approached the bridge, I looked below and could see the lights on Jane’s Carousel, the century-old merry-go-round, sparkling inside a glass box, and could make out the carved wooden horses, no two exactly alike, and the chariots.

I’d photographed two birthday parties there. It was the most beautiful merry-go-round I’d ever seen. Up close, each horse has a distinct personality and decorative style. The older children prefer the “jumpers” and the littlest children like the “standers.” The babies ride in the chariots.

I recognized this carousel as an original work of art. It differed from Cinderella’s Golden Carousel and everything at Disney, all of which had an eye toward sales in its DNA.

So much talent and skill had gone into the restoration of Jane’s Carousel and the design of the glass pavilion, situated on the East River between the two bridges. It was divine in its concept and execution. And how ironic that the children, the primary consumers, would never fully appreciate it. And neither would the adults. They would trivialize it as an amusement ride.

Amelia must have seen me looking in that direction. “Beautiful, isn’t it?” She paused. “Do you ever take Jasper to the carousel when he’s in town?”

My throat tightened. “Yes, he loves it.”

“Same with Natalie. I used to take her there.”

“How is Natalie?” I hadn’t seen her for a week. She had gone to a friend’s house Friday night, so Amelia hadn’t needed me to babysit.

She paused. “Well … a couple of days ago, she heard us talking about having a baby. You know, I’m very open. I don’t believe in hiding anything.”

“Right.”

“I worry about her. She’s not tough. She doesn’t have grit.”

I thought it possible that Natalie was tougher than Amelia knew, but I didn’t choose to share my opinion.

We ran across the bridge, then back again, then into the park with the river on our right. At this point, I was sweating profusely, and since I’d made the mistake of wearing cotton, my shirt was wet, cold, and clinging to my skin.

“So I need an update on you and Ian,” Amelia said brightly.

“We’ve grown really close in such a short period of time,” I said. “He has amazing stories from his childhood.” Ian hadn’t told me any amazing stories from his childhood. But it couldn’t hurt for Amelia to believe that Ian and I were serious. “I might be in love.” I whispered the last words, as if I were embarrassed to admit it.

Amelia gasped with delight. She was clearly invested in my relationship with Ian. “If you two get engaged, I’m throwing you a brilliant party!”

I tried to laugh, but didn’t have enough breath, so I had to make do with a smile.

“He’s working on this apartment in Rome and our client adores him. Thanks to Ian, we have five new projects, all from the same client.”

“Wow.”

We ran along the water, past Pier 2, which offered endless choices of recreational activities: roller-skating, handball, bocce, basketball, kayaking. I’ve never been able to appreciate concepts like “recreation” and “fun.” I don’t viscerally understand what those words mean.

The wind was picking up, and my throat and lungs were burning in the cold air. Along with intermittent pain behind my knees, my shins were aching. Unfortunately, in talking to Amelia, I’d implied that I was a regular runner, so I needed to keep pace with her or risk appearing disingenuous.

We approached the Pier 4 Beach and the enormous residential complex up ahead.

“Do you have plans for the afternoon?” Amelia asked.

“Errands, laundry.”

Amelia put her hand on my shoulder while we were running. “Come back to the house with me. I bought a really good chicken soup at the market this morning.” She had an eager expression on her face.

The invitation to join Amelia at her house gave me a powerful surge of energy and strength. In a matter of seconds, the pain in my shins and knees disappeared. My legs felt strong, and I could move forward with freedom. Even my breathing turned effortless.

Back at the Straub house, Amelia showered and changed. She offered me a change of clothes, but I told her I was fine, even though all my things were damp and I would have loved a hot shower. I sensed that she didn’t really want to lend me anything—that she would have considered it an imposition.

Amelia