Chapter 17
The light was perfect, and Clint was trying too hard.
“Stop holding your jaw like that,” Melissa said from behind the camera. “You look like a police lineup.”
“I’m not holding my jaw like anything.”
“You are. You’re clenching. Relax your mouth.”
“My mouth is relaxed.”
“Clint. You look like you’re biting down on a lemon.”
He exhaled and dropped his shoulders half an inch. She pressed the shutter. Better, but still guarded. She’d photographed warlords who gave more away than this.
They were on the beach behind the lighthouse property, late afternoon sun angling in low across the water and throwing warm gold over everything it touched.
She’d picked this spot for the quality of the backlight and because Clint was always easier near the water.
Something in him loosened when he could hear the Gulf.
She’d noticed that weeks ago and filed it away the way she filed everything, one more detail in the growing collection of things she knew about him that he hadn’t exactly offered.
He’d resisted the portrait session for days. She’d asked twice and he’d said no both times, flatly, the way he said no to everything that required him to hold still and be looked at.
The third time she didn’t ask. She told him she needed him for the series because she’d photographed every other person on the property and the gap was conspicuous. He’d stared at her for a long moment and said fine, but he got veto power over every shot.
She’d agreed. Kind of. Because she was afraid he’d veto every single one, but she’d agreed.
“Look out at the water,” she said. “Pretend I’m not here.”
“If you weren’t here I’d be replacing that loose deck board on Cassidy’s cottage.”
“Then think about replacing deck boards.”
He turned his head toward the Gulf and the tension in his face shifted. His eyes narrowed against the glare, and he reached down and picked up a piece of driftwood. The scar on his left hand caught the light.
She’d never asked about it. It was old, a pale ridge running from the base of his index finger across the back of his hand to his wrist. A rope burn, maybe, or something worse. She focused tight on that hand against the weathered wood and took four frames in quick succession.
Through the viewfinder, Clint looked like someone she’d only caught glimpses of before. The gruffness was still there in the set of his shoulders, but underneath it he was quieter, steadier. She adjusted the aperture and waited.
He said something she didn’t catch, and when she lowered the camera to ask him to repeat it, he was already half-smiling at the water. She lifted the camera fast and got the shot. The smile disappeared when he realized what she’d done.
“That doesn’t count.”
“Every shot counts. That’s the deal.”
“The deal is I get veto power.”
“And you will. Later. When I show you the selects.”
He shook his head, but the corner of his mouth stayed lifted. She pressed the shutter again.
This was the part of portrait work she’d forgotten she loved. The negotiation between photographer and subject, the slow erosion of performance until the real person surfaced.
With Winnie it had happened through storytelling, Winnie’s memories pulling her so deep into the past that she forgot the camera was there.
With Jan it had happened through routine, wiping down the espresso machine replacing self-consciousness with familiar rhythm.
With Clint it was happening through argument.
Every time he pushed back at her, he forgot to pose.
And every time he forgot to pose, she got closer to the man underneath.
She moved around him, shooting from different angles. She took a frame of his profile against the sky, then another as he reached down to pick up a shell.
“Tell me something,” she said, still shooting.
“What.”
“Anything. Tell me what you’re going to fix tomorrow.”
“Gazebo railing. Third post is loose.”
“And after that?”
“Depends on what breaks.” He glanced at her, then away. “That’s how it works around here. Something’s always breaking.”
“Must be nice. Knowing there’s always a next thing.”
“It’s not nice. It’s just what it is.”
She caught the moment his expression shifted, the brief flash of something unguarded before he pulled it back. She’d seen that look in him more often lately. The wall would drop for a second, and she’d see through to the exhaustion underneath. He was tired of holding everything so tight.
She lowered the camera and scrolled through the last twenty frames on the display.
Some were stiff, Clint performing a version of himself he thought she wanted.
But a handful were extraordinary. Clint looking out at the water with his guard completely down.
Clint mid-laugh with his eyes creased and his whole face open.
He would never approve those shots. She knew it with the same certainty that she knew they were the best portraits she’d taken since Winnie’s session. The vulnerability in them was precise and unmistakable. She turned the display away from him. “We should head back.”
She headed back toward the lighthouse and Clint peeked over her shoulder.
“How are they?” he asked.
“Good. Really good.”
“Let me see.”
“When they’re edited. I promised you selects, not raw files.”
He gave her a look that said he knew exactly what she was doing. She gave him one back that said she didn’t care.
The crunch of gravel made them both turn.
A dark blue SUV had pulled onto the property and was rolling slowly toward the main parking area near the courtyard. Melissa didn’t recognize the vehicle or the man who stepped out.
Clint did. She watched it happen in real time. His whole body went rigid. The open, tired, almost-gentle man she’d been photographing thirty seconds ago sealed shut. The change was so complete it was physical. He looked like he’d gained ten pounds of armor just standing there.
The man was mid-thirties with short brown hair and an easy grin. He reached back into the car for a cane and used it as he came around the front of the SUV, the limp subtle but distinct.
“No way,” the man said, his grin widening as he crossed the gravel. “You actually live here? This is the place?”
Clint hadn’t moved an inch.
The man reached Clint and pulled him into a hard hug, one arm tight around his shoulders while the other hand still gripped the cane. “Brother, you look good. Florida agrees with you.”
“Sean.” Clint’s voice was flat. He returned the hug stiffly, one hand barely touching Sean’s back before dropping. “What are you doing here?”
“Work thing in Tampa. Got finished early. Couldn’t be this close and not stop by. Tried calling, but you’re terrible at answering your phone.” Sean pulled back and took in the property with obvious delight. “This is unreal. The lighthouse is right there. You live at a lighthouse.”
“I work here.”
“You live here and you work here. Winnie’s your aunt, right? Is she around? I want to thank the woman who finally got you to slow down.”
Clint’s face was a closed door. Melissa could almost hear the lock turning.
“Sean, this is Melissa. She rents Captain’s Watch.” Clint gestured without looking at her. “Melissa, Sean Brewer.”
Sean turned his warm focus on her and extended his hand. “Good to meet you. This guy giving you any trouble?”
“Constantly,” Melissa said.
Clint said nothing.
They ended up on Clint’s porch at Driftwood Cottage with cold beers, because Sean made that happen without anyone quite deciding to let him.
He settled into one of the Adirondack chairs and stretched his left leg out with the unselfconscious ease of someone who’d long since made peace with the accommodation.
The cane leaned against the porch railing.
Melissa sat across from them, nursing her beer and watching Clint not drink his. He held the bottle but hadn’t taken a sip. His thumb worked at the label’s edge, peeling it in a slow strip.
Sean talked the way some people breathe, naturally and without apparent effort. He told Melissa about his job in maritime safety consulting, his fiancée, Laura, the house they’d just closed on outside Annapolis.
He talked about the Coast Guard with the fond exasperation of someone who’d loved a hard thing and moved on from it. He was kind, she decided. Genuinely kind, in a way that made other people’s kindness look like a performance.
“This guy,” Sean said, tipping his beer toward Clint. “This guy is the reason I’m sitting here. You know that, right?”
“Sean.” A warning.
“I’m serious. Twenty-foot swells, middle of the night, family of four stranded on a fishing boat that had no business being out there.
Command said wait for conditions to improve.
Clint heard the kids on the radio and said absolutely not.
” Sean looked at Melissa. Clint glared at Sean.
“He made the call. Saved all four of them. Saved me too, though I gave him a scare.”
Clint’s jaw tightened. The bottle label tore away in a long strip. He let it fall to the porch floor.
“Wouldn’t be getting married without this man,” Sean said. “I owe him everything.”
“You don’t owe me anything.” Clint’s voice was quiet, each word placed like a brick.
Sean shook his head with a familiar patience that told Melissa they’d had this conversation before. Many times. “Still stubborn about it. Some things don’t change.”
Sean stood to get another beer from the cooler Clint had brought out, and Melissa watched him rise. The cane came up first, then the weight shift, and a pivot perfected by countless repetitions. It was smooth and unremarkable unless you were watching for it.
Clint was watching for it. His eyes tracked Sean’s left leg, and the guilt in his face was so raw that Melissa looked away to give him the privacy of it.