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

I saw something in Ian’s eyes, affection maybe, and I wished for a moment that I was a different person. “Too bad. It would be nice if it did. Go away, that is.” I finished the rest of my wine. “What about you? You haven’t told me about your past.”

“I dated someone for eight years. She said she didn’t believe in marriage. But I thought she’d change her mind.” He shrugged. “Well, she didn’t change her mind. She broke up with me.” Ian spoke quickly, in an upbeat manner. I thought he was making an effort to sound casual.

“I’m sorry.”

“I can’t be mad,” he said. “She never pretended to be someone she wasn’t.”

Was he challenging me? I studied his face. No, he wasn’t. He trusted me.

After we had sex, I lay on top of Ian’s body. My face was right next to Ian’s on his pillow, the tip of my nose touching his cheek. His hair was wet from perspiration, as was the pillow underneath us. “Cheap Thrills” by Sia played on the bedroom speaker.

“Natalie loves this song.” I paused for several seconds. “Have you seen her lately?” I hadn’t seen Natalie for two weeks. I hadn’t told Ian about the strain in my relationship with the Straubs, and I hoped they hadn’t mentioned it to him.

“No,” he said, “but I saw Fritz at work yesterday. Did you hear about their birth mother?”

“No.”

“She got back together with her boyfriend. He reappeared.”

A hard knot inside my abdomen released, and a pleasurable tingling feeling traveled from my organs to my extremities. My body felt buoyant, like I might float up to the ceiling. My photography had brought them together. I knew that. I knew it for a fact. No one could do what I could do.

“Amelia is scared that Lucia’s going to change her mind,” he said.

I needed to see Amelia and Fritz. I needed them to understand that I could help them.

“I feel awful for her,” I said.

“Fritz says she’s a wreck,” he said. “It’s almost like she thinks that’s the only baby she can possibly have.”

“She’s wrong.”

“They’ve been trying for a while.”

My body still on top of his, I allowed my fingers to trail over the side of his hips. I shifted so that my legs were staggered with his—one of my legs over one of his. “There are alternatives.”

“I guess.”

“Like surrogacy.”

He shifted his body underneath me. “Seems complicated.”

“Not always. It’s exhilarating to create a life. And for some women, it’s the best thing they’ve ever done.” I kissed his neck. “I would enjoy doing it.”

“What?” he said.

I breathed into his neck. “I would enjoy doing it.”

“No!” He laughed and pulled on a strand of my hair.

“Why not?” I found it hard to swallow, as if my throat were swollen.

“No way, José.” He pulled away from me so he could look at my face. Maybe he was trying to assess whether I was joking.

I didn’t have enough saliva in my mouth. “I loved being pregnant.”

He seemed to recognize that I was serious; the smile on his face vanished. “What if I want you for myself?”

Ian had grown too attached to me. I hadn’t judged the situation accurately. He didn’t want to lose my body to the Straubs and the Straubs’ baby. I was angry with myself for my shortsightedness. Still, he was my primary connection to the Straubs, and I needed him.

I had a chance to reestablish myself in the Straubs’ lives and a possibility of claiming a permanent place. In the last two weeks, I’d grown to understand how crucial it was for me to cement my relationship with them. I had a vision of myself as the central source of power in their home and family, without which nothing could function—essential to their well-being and indispensable.

In the morning, I sent Amelia a text. Hope you’re feeling OK.

She didn’t respond.

The following day, I sent another one: Thinking of you.

She didn’t respond.

The day after, I wrote: I would love to visit you and see Natalie. Picking up the dry cleaning. If OK, I’ll swing by and drop it off.

This time, she wrote back: Sure.

In less than a minute, my coat and boots were on and I was out the door—on my way to see Amelia again.

I rang the doorbell, dry cleaning in hand. Amelia answered the door. My joy in seeing her was swiftly undercut by the silhouette of a pregnant Lucia behind her and down the hallway. Why was Lucia in the house? I took it as a bad sign. The chorus of “London Bridge Is Falling Down” (which I’d heard at a recent birthday party) was stuck in my head. I once read that the lyrics had to do with burying children alive in the foundation of the bridge as a sacrifice.

Lucia looked much more pregnant than she had two weeks earlier, but she also appeared more sophisticated and poised. She was wearing a subtle brown eye shadow as opposed to bright purple. The new and improved Lucia likely posed a greater threat to me.

I feared she might bring up our email exchange.

“Delta, you shouldn’t have.” Amelia took the dry cleaning from my hand and hung it in the hall closet. The colors of her mustard-green blouse and kelly-green pants were disconcertingly off and clashing. Her foundation was not applied evenly and visibly caked on her forehead. She was losing the polish that created distance between her and the rest of the world. I was conflicted, because I’d always wanted to bridge that distance. But I was also mildly disappointed that she looked ordinary. More concerning, however, was her exposure in front of Lucia. I didn’t want her to let down her guard in front of this woman who wasn’t her friend.

Lucia approached closer to the front door. Itzhak trailed behind her, wagging his tail.

“Lucia, do you remember our friend, Delta?”

“Yes.” She looked through me, avoiding eye contact. Fortunately, it appeared that Lucia did not want to acknowledge