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

certain things poorly. Maybe Amelia felt that I hadn’t been helpful in facilitating the adoption. Amelia and I were very close, as long as the ground rules were understood: We were both working on making her life better. Her life was the one we were focusing on. I didn’t mind that aspect of our relationship. In fact, the ground rules usually served me well, since scrutiny of my own life wasn’t an option.

On Friday morning I sent Amelia another text asking if she’d like me to babysit Natalie. I received no response. That evening, I turned on my computer and clicked through some photos of the Straubs. I went back to the day that I first met them at Natalie’s birthday party. I remembered feeling Amelia’s attention like the sun. Her gaze could warm, brighten, and heal me. I craved it. I felt a physical need for her presence, and without it, my body was responding with symptoms of withdrawal. I’d had headaches off and on all week, along with shaky hands, a significant handicap in my profession. I’d canceled two jobs, and the quality of my work was clearly suffering.

I turned toward photoshopping as a means of relief from the vast emptiness in front of me. I opened the folder labeled Straub, Alternates. By now it held more images than all my other private folders combined. I started with a captivating photo of Amelia in profile, wearing dark glasses and a leather jacket. She was holding her arm up in the air, waving to someone. I layered that image onto an exterior shot of Court Street in Cobble Hill, as well as an image of myself coming from the opposite direction. We were meeting up for a shopping excursion.

I focused on the image of Amelia waving to me, allowing my eyes to rest on the picture while breathing deeply. In a few minutes, I felt better.

I created another photo of us drinking cocktails at Buttermilk Channel. Amelia was touching my hand. Her welcoming expression in each image mirrored the way she looked the first time I’d met her. I would never forget that day. No one had ever recognized me so fully.

Lastly I created a photo of the two of us running across the Brooklyn Bridge. I felt it was a shame that the event hadn’t been recorded at all. But it was easy to layer each of us onto the bridge. From a distance, the shot had more to do with the backdrop than seeing our faces, but our body language suggested an animated conversation.

I returned to the photo of us on Court Street. I replaced my own image with a version of myself looking seven months pregnant. Amelia was beside herself with joy.

In these photos, I could see Amelia’s affection right in front of my eyes. Not only could I see it, I could feel my body respond, a gradual relaxing of my muscles, a sensation of expansion. The hollow part of my stomach was filled in. The sharp pain in my gut gave way to a feeling of warmth and ease.

When I arrived at Ian’s apartment on Saturday evening, the beef Bourguignon was on the stove and the salad was in the fridge. The candles were lit. “Bohemian Rhapsody” by Queen was playing. Ian’s faded jeans and long-sleeve T-shirt were a departure from his usual wardrobe. His hair had grown out a little longer. Overall, the more relaxed appearance suited him.

“Your mom sent me another present,” I said. “A silk scarf.” It was the third present Paula had sent me since we’d met. This time, the card read: To my future daughter-in-law (shhh!) with a smiley face drawn on the side. I didn’t mention the card to Ian.

“You’re kidding,” he said. “She’s the cheapest person I know.”

“She has good taste.” I smiled.

Laughter and chatter made its way from the street to Ian’s second-floor window, which was barely open.

Halfway through dinner, he refilled my glass of cabernet. I was pleased to see he was pouring a fifty-dollar bottle.

“Tell me more about Jasper,” he said.

My throat tightened. I wondered why he was asking.

“He’s so smart,” I said. “And adorable.”

Ian served me more beef Bourguignon. “You said he’d be away for a few months?”

“He’ll definitely return by September. He’ll start kindergarten here.” I wiped my mouth with a dark green linen napkin. Such details are unusual for a straight bachelor.

“I don’t want to pry, but…”

“I don’t have secrets.” I smiled again.

“What happened to your marriage?”

“Robert had an affair.” I sipped the cabernet. “He fell in love with another woman.”

“I’m sorry.”

“It’s OK now. We’re friends. Sort of.”

“Does Robert have a place in LA?” The voices outside were louder. Ian walked to the window and lowered it, then returned to the table.

“In Santa Monica, close to his office.”

“Who stays with Jasper when he’s working?”

I could still hear a man laughing outside. “He’s in daycare.”

“What about the woman?”

The wine had dulled my brain. “Which woman?”

“The other woman.”

“Oh.” I looked down at my hands in my lap while I collected my thoughts. I wasn’t usually sloppy with my details.

“Where is she?” he asked.

“She lives in New York.”

He looked confused. “He’s single now?”

“Yes.”

“What’s Robert’s last name?”

Fuck you. “Why do you ask?” I said politely.

“You mentioned that he works in film. I have some friends in entertainment.”

I paused. “I’d rather not talk about Robert anymore. It’s a painful subject.”

Ian looked at the ground, his index finger to his mouth, like he was trying to remember something. “Where does your sister live?” he asked.

He was sharper than I’d realized. “We’re not in touch.”

“Is she married?”

“I know she was with a guy.”

He thought I was lying to him.

“I don’t think you trust me.” He frowned.

“I don’t trust anyone.” I laughed. That was true, but I didn’t exactly mean to say it. It wasn’t a good look. People think there’s something wrong with a woman who doesn’t trust.

“I don’t care about your sister or your ex,” he mumbled. “But I’ve got to start with something. Whatever was