12
T en minutes after entering Porter’s home, Olivia knew any decent portrait was going to require a struggle. Carol, his wife, and their daughter Celia were dressed in a countrified version of formal wear, stiff and uncomfortable and sad. Overhead Porter thumped around the bedroom, putting on the clothes Carol had laid out for him. The Christmas tree’s lights were off, which she thought reflected the family’s mood.
The kitchen was filled with fragrances from the roast in the oven, pots on the stove. Plates and utensils were stacked on the counter. Six of Celia’s friends tossed a football in the damp yard between the main house and the barn. Two were local boys who also studied at UC Santa Cruz. The others had come down from university, here to celebrate a Miramar Christmas.
Ha.
Four dogs raced about, playing catch with strangers. Two SUVs were packed and ready to hit the road. Olivia watched them through the kitchen window, and thought they all shared the same unspoken sentiment.
When Porter came back downstairs, the three clustered together by the kitchen counter, stiff and formal and tired and stressed and sad. Their Christmas plans were in tatters. Their daughter was going away. The town was a mess. And it looked like the rain was going to start falling again, any minute now.
The only solution that came to Olivia was, take control.
“We have two choices.” She did her best to sound both calm and matter-of-fact. “If you like, we can shoot a remembrance of what you’re all feeling right now.”
“Which is exactly what I don’t want,” Celia said.
“And you’re worried that’s all you’re going to get,” Olivia said. “One question. If this was a normal late morning, what would you be doing right now? Eleven fifteen on a good day.”
Celia replied, “Feeding the horses. Trying to keep Daddy home long enough so we could go for a ride.”
Carol added, “The vet has us feeding the colt a bottle with extra nutrients.”
“Which we should be doing anyway,” Porter said.
“I was saving that for after they eat and Celia leaves,” Carol said. “Help me fill the empty hours.”
Celia reached for her mom. Hugged her tight. “I’m so sorry.”
“As if you’re responsible for the weather.”
“Maybe I could send them on. Stay and hope the roads—”
“No.” Carol’s voice held the iron-hard determination of a woman in control. Despite everything. “Don’t let’s start. Again.”
Porter watched his two ladies and sighed.
Olivia said, “Why don’t we move over to the barn and try a few pictures there?”
“I can’t leave the stove untended,” Carol replied. “I’m in the middle of preparing our final meal together as a family.”
Celia said, “Let my friends take over.”
“In my kitchen? Not on your bippy.”
Their daughter pointed out the window. “Mom, three of those people are trained chefs.”
“Correction. They’re short-order cooks.”
“At Santa Cruz’s oceanfront diner. They’re studying business to start their own premier restaurant.”
“That’s as may be. Right now they’re still fry-up lads.”
“Daddy, tell her.”
“I’m not dancing to that tune,” her father replied. “Remember, I have to live here after you’re gone.”
Olivia said, “What I’m hoping is, if we do something that’s a normal part of a normal day, we can get something that you’d be happy with.”
“Mom, please. She’s right and you know it.”
“I’ll never find anything in here ever again.”
“And dress like you would normally,” Olivia added. “Clean and comfortable barn clothes. Happy clothes.”
“Now you’re talking.” Porter stripped off his tie, shrugged out of his jacket. “I can breathe again.”
“I thought you looked nice,” Carol complained.
“We can go for the formal look on another day,” Olivia said. “Hurry before the sky goes dark again.”
Olivia scouted the barn while Porter ushered their guests indoors and the ladies changed. At her request, Porter opened the barn’s two skylights that had been shut against the storm. The resulting light, she decided, was almost perfect.
When the ladies arrived, she was ready. “Porter, I’m sorry but you need to take off that Stetson.”
“Celia won’t let me have my picture taken wearing the police cap.”
“You need to have your head bare for the pictures. In this gray light your face would be completely masked, and I want to shoot without flash.”
He reluctantly hung his hat from a nail. “Now I’m almost naked.”
Celia and her mom wore jeans, checked shirts, and high-heeled boots. Carol tied a kerchief around her daughter’s neck and said, “I’d pay good money to have a picture of Porter in his altogether.”
“Don’t you even start,” Porter said. “Else I’ll think you’ve been out here with my daughter and her pals, smoking the evil weed.”
“I never,” Celia said. “Mom, that scarf is too tight.”
“It’s perfect. Now hold still while I fix your hair.”
The passion was filling Olivis now. The flame she feared had gone out forever, snuffed from existence by all the hard nights. Instead, here she was in a live action situation, her favorite venue. It did not matter that Porter almost danced in place with nervousness, or how his wife’s face remained shadowed by the storm and her daughter’s pre-Christmas departure. All that was secondary, if Olivia were able to make this work. Which she would. Despite everything.
“Why don’t I start with your daughter and the colt. We can shoot the family portrait when things calm down.”
She actually saw the two parents take an easy breath. Porter said, “Shame the light’s so gloomy.”
“Actually, it’s grand. Carol, untie the colt and bring him up here where I’m standing. Good. See how that puts his head directly in the light? Okay, Porter, take this reflector. Come stand where I’m pointing and direct it at the colt’s head.”
“I have no idea how to do what you’re saying. This reflector thing doesn’t have a scope.”
“Hold it with two hands like you would a steering wheel. Now look straight at the colt and aim it where you’re looking.” She shifted back to where she intended to shoot and looked through the camera. “No, that’s too far over. Back up half a pace. Perfect. Now, Celia, step over so you’re on the colt’s other side. Can you make the animal stop bobbing its head?”
“I can groom the mane. He’ll hold still for hours if I do that.”
“Great. Can you please shift ten inches to your left? Good. Now angle your body, no, not your head. Shift your body without moving your feet . . . Right there.” She motioned to Carol. “Come have a look.”
“Oh my sweet heavens above. Porter, honey, you’ve got to see this.”
“He can’t. He’s busy. He’ll see it later.” Olivia shot a dozen images, then, “Carol, why don’t you go take hold of the reins. Good. Now turn slightly to your right, no, keep your feet where they are. Shoulder down. No, your other shoulder.”
“Why do I feel like a storefront mannequin?”
“Hush now, Mom. The lady’s on a roll.”
“Celia, hold that smile. Great. Carol, why don’t you take the brush and curry the mane between his ears. Excellent.” She shot several pictures, then said, “Porter, set down that reflector and go join the ladies. You need to get in closer to your daughter. That’s it. Just lean in to her, otherwise the shadows . . . Perfect.” Ten shots later, Olivia decided to go with a flash. “Carol, take a firm hold on those reins, the colt may be startled.” She angled the flash straight up, so as to minimize the effect while still illuminating the scene. “Okay, Porter, you can take half a step back. A smidgen more.” Three more shots, then, “Now step over so you’re right in close with your wife, good. Celia, can you lean toward your parents, like you want to hug them but can’t?”
“I feel like that almost every day I’m away.”
Carol’s voice caught. “Oh, honey.”
Olivia shot so fast she lost count, then, “I think that does it.”
* * *
Despite the rain and wind and gloom and Porter’s slow progress, Olivia carried a happy vibe back to the station. She didn’t need to wait for a closer inspection of her photographs. She knew in her heart the pictures were first-rate. Once she had made her selection and printed and framed, it might not make up for a daughter missing Christmas. But it would help. Of that she was certain.
Porter’s mind was apparently following a similar path, for he chose that moment to say, “You did us all a world of good back there.”
“I’m glad.” She decided happy wasn’t the proper way to describe this moment. She was still weighed down by everything that had brought her here. Not to mention a cottage that would probably never be her home again. Or how she was traveling back to spend another night in the town jail.
Not to mention that other thing. How, once the roads opened up, she would be playing roomies with the man who broke her heart.
Yes indeed. Definitely a Christmas for the books.
Porter reached over, switched off the police radio, and asked, “So how does a lady from Miramar become a big-time professional down in LA?”
“I was never one of those celebrity photographers. You know, name in lights, chased by the stars, that sort of thing.”
Porter’s smile was weighed down by everything the man carried. But it still warmed the moment. “Oh, go on. Tell me about the stars you met. Name some names.”
“I never do. That was one reason why I became trusted by the producers. See, while a film is being shot, the producers try their best to generate good press. They hire a PR team and a photographer. My job was to make the team look happy while they made a great film.” She leaned her head back, remembering. “My ex gave me my first big break. The photographer he normally used came down with Covid, and he asked me to fill in. He and the director liked my work enough to start using me on a regular basis. Word got around.”
“All of a sudden, your star was on the rise.”
“Something like that. Eventually I had the chance to work with a few older stars. I loved that. They’re constantly worried about being shot when not at their best. You’ve heard the LA adage for female actors? As they age, they’re shunted from playing the hot babe to district attorney to Driving Miss Daisy. It’s during that last phase when my work was most important. These aging actors love their work and want to keep going, which means finding someone they can trust to only share pictures that show them at their very finest.”
Porter waved to someone she couldn’t be bothered to see. “And here you are now, back in little Miramar, photographing a cop and his clan.”
She heard the unspoken question, knew he was offering her a chance to deflect. “My ex ran off with a floozy. I know that word is out of fashion. But that’s exactly what she was. I was certain that was a short-run fling, long before she left him for a stuntman on a steroid diet.”
Porter did his best to keep his laughter inside, and failed. “Sorry. That slipped out.”
“Then the strikes hit the industry, my ex’s company went bankrupt, the film world shut down. I hung on as long as I could, but in the end I lost my home and everything else. And came back just in time to watch where I hoped to live slide off the hillside.”
Porter didn’t speak again until he entered the station parking lot, cut the motor, and shifted in his seat so as to face her. “You’re part of this town. You’ve got friends here. We take care of our own. We’ll help you see your way through this. I don’t know how to say it any plainer than that.”