Four—Mia
O
ne of my favorite things to do—because I’m just that full of myself—is to take photographs of people checking out my work. That way I can get a sense of the impact I’ve had. I’m pretty sneaky about it, but if I’m caught, I just smile and strike up a conversation. My dad says I’d be a great stalker except for my personal style, which tends to be a little too identifiable . I like loud jewelry and turban wraps and long skirts, and I wouldn’t wear shoes anywhere if I could get away with it—a trait I share with my mother. I looked a little like that tonight. But I was wearing sandals.
They were here somewhere, my ever-so-supportive parents. The last time I’d seen them they were chatting it up with my instructor, who, I was pretty sure, had told them nice things about me. He was an ‘A for sex’ type instructor, so, though he liked me, I was probably getting a B.
At the moment, I was focused and zoomed-in on two old men who were intent on my collection, which I’d entitled simply U’rban . All black-and-white 16 x 20s and 20 x 20s. Currently, they were discussing an image I’d captured of a none-too-clean bearded collie parked next to a rusted fire hydrant. I’d captioned it No Tags. The picture had been taken just before sunset, down in Carmel, and the dog was so forlorn, I’d almost brought him home, which would have literally killed my brother. But I did feed him. He had the most beautiful sad eyes.
My lens was still trained on the old men when they moved out of my shot to make room for another apparent admirer of sad dogs, and I didn’t miss a beat as I focused in on the familiar face. Super- dad, Daniel Proctor, found my name on the collection and proceeded to size up my aptitude—photo by photo—with a critical gaze. I watched him assess my work for a moment then shifted my lens to the girl standing next to him. She was short with an amazing shock of thick dark hair that fell in loose curls past her shoulders. Was that natural? It couldn’t be! I zoomed in more. She had flawless skin and was wearing not a drop of make-up. Mirrored aviators were pushed back in her great hair to reveal wounded eyes, blue. She was swallowed up in a long black sleeveless dress, and she was wearing red Chuck Taylors on what looked like very small feet. I couldn’t help it, I took the shot. This girl was gorgeous in a sad, I-have-a-butt-for-a-dad-and-had-a-tragedy-at-the-altar kind of way.
I moved my lens back to Daniel Proctor, who seemed reluctantly impressed with my work. Then I stowed my camera in my bag beneath the refreshment table and walked over to the attorney and his daughter.
“Hello,” I said on approach. He looked at me, then back at a photograph I’d titled Battu at Sunset . The subject was a deserted pier on the end of which sat a pair of well-worn ballet slippers, the ribbons suspended on a breeze. It was an accidental shot of the restless Pacific against a second-coming sunset. And it had won me an honorable mention last spring.
“My wife would love this,” he said, still taking in my work. “Is it for sale?”
I laughed. “Everything’s for sale.”
He looked over at me, but he did not smile. “You’re very good.”
“Shocking, right?” I said, holding his gaze for a beat, then glancing at his daughter. Daniel Proctor straightened as though he suddenly remembered why he was there. “Ivy,” he said. “This is the girl I was telling you about.”
I flashed him a mock-glare. “That sounds weirdly… ominous , and like he forgot my name,” I said to the girl. “I’m Mia.”
“Ivy Talbot.” The girl smiled, almost involuntarily, it seemed. “My dad said nice things about you. Good to meet you. ”
“I don’t believe that ,” I chuckled, loving her decidedly southern accent. “But he did tell me that you’re looking for a place to stay.”
“I am,” she said, pushing a strand of that great hair behind her ear. “But just 'til I get settled some place permanent, so it shouldn’t be too long.”
At this, Super-dad made a noise that was a cross between a groan and a sigh. He attempted to cover it with, “I especially like this one,” while glancing at another of my photographs, Tilda and Rosalee . “Friends of yours?” he said, eyeing his daughter with annoyance.
I took a step toward him. “Not then, but we’re good friends, now.”
He looked at me like he’d forgotten what he’d asked me.
“They’re 91-year-old identical twins,” I said. From my periphery, I could see Ivy, who seemed upset. Suddenly preoccupied with her, I rambled. “I saw them on Venice Beach and loved that they were dressed like movie stars. They let me snap them, but only if I promised to post the pics to their Facebook page. So I did.” I shrugged, again glancing over at Ivy. “Except for that one.” I indicated my exhibition piece. “Are you all right, Ivy?”
“I’m good. Just not great company, I’m afraid. But I sure like your pictures. These ladies remind me of my grandmother.”
I smiled, worried about her. “They thought I’d finished, so they’d stopped posing. That’s always when the good stuff happens,” I said conspiratorially in a silly attempt to lift her mood. The shot had been taken from behind, and the ladies were as close as their two wheelchairs would allow. I pointed to Tilda, who was reaching as high as she could from her sitting position to retrieve a payphone. Rosalee was assisting by holding up her sister’s arm. They were both laughing.The phone was a non-working relic.
Ivy nodded and took a step to the right. “And this one? Tell me about the Marine.”
I smiled at the photo I’d taken last summer. “That’s my boyfriend and his niece,” I said wistfully. “He’s in Syria, and it is seriously killing me. ”
“I bet…” She sniffed.
“Ivy, please!” Daniel Proctor said, none too kindly. I wanted to kick him.
“Sweetheart, we’re leaving.”My mother thankfully interrupted. She looked like Blythe Danner wearing round-tinted glasses. She leaned in for a kiss, and my dad nodded. “Another great exhibit, Meez,” he said. “Well worth cutting short my golf game.” He was a head taller than my mom, and his silver hair was still thick and a bit unruly.
I laughed at his quip about his golf game because he was a terrible golfer. I turned to Super-dad. “These are my parents, Jack and Eileen Sutton. Mom, Dad, this is Daniel Proctor,” I told them. “And this is Ivy. She might rent Lullaby’s pool house for a little while this summer.”
“Well, how lovely,” my mother said, extending her hand. “And how nice to meet you. Look at this beautiful hair!” she said touching it.
“Thank you, ma’am,” Ivy said. “I’m just glad it’s behavin’ tonight.”
Mom laughed. “I love your accent. Alabama?”
“Georgia, ma’am.”
“Even better.” Mom winked.
“Dad, Lullaby owns Mr. Proctor’s building.”
“Which one?” Dad said. “That sister of mine owns half the commercial real estate in Monterey.”
The attorney scratched his temple and looked annoyed. “My practice is Willis, Proctor, and Holmes.”
“Oh, sure up on Telegraph, by Pacific Grove.”
Daniel nodded, then rudely dismissed my dad and turned back to my work.
I rolled my eyes, and Dad winked at me. After my parents walked away, I wished Daniel Proctor would leave as well. “Sorry,” I said to Ivy, “I have to mingle. It’s twenty percent of my grade. Just let me know about the pool— ”
“I’ll take it,” she interrupted.
“What?”
“I’d like to rent your pool house. If that’s okay.”
“Oh…absolutely,” I told her. “But…don’t you want to see it first?”
“I’m sure it will be fine.” She looked at her father, then back at me. “It will be fine. When can I move in?”
“Ummm,” I shrugged. “Day after tomorrow—Wednesday.” I’d need at least a day to peel Bo off the ceiling after I told him. “Day after tomorrow should be fine,” I said again.
The library closed at ten o’clock, and at 9:55 there were still a few die-hards we were herding toward the exit so we could clean up. Straighten, vacuum, and take out the trash—that was the library’s price for hosting an event. A few minutes later, I had just lugged an industrial sized Hefty bag to the dumpster and was walking back when a dark car pulled up next to me. I flashed a look of aggravation in the driver’s direction as down slid the window.
“I wonder if we could talk, Miss Sutton,” said Super-dad.
“Where?”
“Well, here.”
“As in, your car? In the dark? Do I look insane?”
He studied me, then nodded. “Fair point.”
I let him squirm for a second. “There’s a coffee shop up the street, on the east corner—Bruno’s. I could meet you there. Ten minutes?”
“I’ll be there,” he said. Then he drove off without looking the least bit sheepish, which I really thought would have been the decent thing for him to do.
Fifteen minutes later, he was in a corner booth looking deep in thought and like he was there against his better judgment. There was a cup of coffee in front of him and a sweating glass of Coke on my side of the table. I slid in across from him and picked up the soft drink. After a much-needed gulp, I set it down. “Thanks,” I said .
Daniel Proctor looked at me and did not smile, and again he looked very tired, very burdened. With no preamble, he pulled an envelope from his breast pocket and handed it to me.
“What’s this?” I said peering inside. It was an American Express Platinum and a business card. I looked up at him. “I told you, you’re going to have to work out the rent with Lullaby.”
“I will,” he said. “I’ve already emailed her. That’s for Ivy…for incidentals.”
“I don’t understand. Why didn’t you just give it to her?”
“I tried. She wouldn’t take it.”
I sat back and folded my arms, took in the self-important attorney who seemed so full of secrets. “You and your daughter don’t like each other much, do you?”
“It’s complicated,” he said with utter non-reaction. He seemed to catch his callousness and tried to self-correct with, “Of course, we like each other…it’s just…she was raised in Georgia, and we don’t know each other as well as we should.”
His words rang hollow, and he knew it. And he knew that I knew it.
I took another sip and eyed him over the rim.
He stared at me, and I think he was again trying to muster some kind of sneer to put me in my place, but he just couldn’t seem to conjure it. “The American Express can be used for anything Ivy needs—or wants,” he finally said to me. “But I receive notice each time it’s used, so if charges begin to look suspicious, the card will be cancelled.”
I deadpanned him. He was a peach.
“The business card has my cell number, as well as my answering service—they can reach me day or night, in case of an emergency.” He cleared his throat. “My daughter knows not to just show up at my office. I’m far too busy for disruptions like that. But I can generally meet her anywhere with proper notice.”
“Sounds like love to me.”
Now he glared .
I didn’t react.
“I’d appreciate the same consideration from you, Miss Sutton,” he said with authority.
“I can’t imagine that will ever be a problem,” I said, stowing the envelope in my bag. I met his eyes and went for broke. “You mentioned that you have a wife—who presumably has excellent taste in black and white photography—but she doesn’t seem to be part of all this…”
Daniel Proctor narrowed his gaze at me, tried once again to look intimidating. “As I said, it’s complicated and really none of your business.”
“Fair enough,” I said homing in on my own gift for non-reaction. It was actually easy because Daniel Proctor suddenly struck me as the definition of pitiful dressed in a nice suit. “Fair enough,” I said again.
“How can I reach you, Mia?”
I wrote my cell number on a napkin and slid it across the table.
He picked it up but said nothing.
I drained my Coke, stood up, and said, “Have a good night, Mr. Proctor.” Then I walked out.