5
W hen the photo session ended, Dillon followed Olivia back through the station and into the damp wind. Holding the reflectors had granted him an excuse to study her openly. She was the same beautiful woman he had fallen desperately in love with, yet very different. Same dark blond hair, same balanced features, crystal grey eyes, long pianist’s fingers. He wondered if others could see beyond the stain of exhaustion and whatever heartache that had brought her back, and view the lady’s resilient strength. The goodness that had always defined her. Everything that made Olivia so special, then and now.
Olivia popped her trunk, then took his reflectors and refolded them with practiced ease. She unlatched the lens, set it in the padded holder, ditto for the camera body. She shut the camera case, pulled her laptop from a nylon satchel, slammed the trunk, plinked the locks, and headed out. Not running. But close.
Olivia did not invite him along, of course. That would have been asking too much. But at least she didn’t dismiss him with a polite brush-off.
They were just passing Castaways when she murmured something. Dillon asked, “Did you say something?”
“I wonder if it’s still there.”
He remained a half step behind her, partly because the sidewalk was too crowded to walk comfortably side by side. But mostly it was so he could observe her. Olivia’s impatient haste took him straight back. She was different in so many ways than the woman whose heart he had broken. He glanced down and felt foolish pleasure at the absence of a ring. As he hurried to keep up, he recalled some of their good times. And there had been so many.
Back in their day, Olivia had this way she’d become when something captured her attention. Lady on a mission, was how he’d put it. Totally caught up in the task or quest or whatever. Times like this, her effervescent energy touched everyone within reach. Even now, when the grim weather was reflected in most faces. Dillon wondered if she was even aware of how many people stopped and stared. Or if she even realized when it started raining.
“At least the store’s still here.” Olivia pushed open the glass door, and smiled at the old-fashioned bell that pinged its welcome. “Hi, Mr. Gleason!”
The African-American was too tall to be considered fat. More like a well-fleshed, big-boned, aging boxer. Big everything—hands, head, body, frown. “Who’s this, now?”
“You know perfectly well.”
“My stars and stripes, Olivia Greer, is that really you?”
“Nobody says that anymore. Stars and stripes.” She crossed the shop and set her laptop on the counter. “It sounds vaguely profane.”
“Well, I’ll certainly come to you when I’m concerned about profanity.” He squinted at Dillon, declared, “Well, I never.”
“Hi, Mr. Gleason.”
“It never ceases to amaze, what this storm keeps dragging in.” His gaze went back to where Olivia took a flash drive from her pocket and fit it into a holder shaped as a USB memory stick. But Dillon suspected the man continued to address him. “You of all people I’d have thought would have more sense.”
Dillon shrugged. “Nowhere else to go.”
Olivia cast Dillon a glance. One open enough for him to glimpse inside the shadow caves encircling her gaze.
Then Olivia went back to working her mousepad. “What’s the largest size high-quality paper you’ve got in stock?”
“So good to see you looking so well, Mr. Gleason. After all this time, you’re as handsome as ever.”
Olivia looked up. “Print first, dance later. That okay with you?”
“Do I have a choice?”
She went back to her laptop. “No.”
He moved smoothly for such a big man. Two minutes later he returned and said, “We’re out of A0. Haven’t had a delivery in weeks. Sixteen sheets left of A1.”
She leaned in closer to the screen. “Quality?”
Gleason tsked. “You know me better than that.”
She glanced up again and did her best to smile. “Sorry.”
“You want glossy, matte, or raw cotton blend?”
“I’m working in black and white.”
“Glossy it is.”
“Do you have frames? Passe-partouts?”
“Different question, same answer.”
Dillon cleared his throat and asked her, “Can you tell me what you’re doing?”
Somewhere along the line, Olivia had learned how to talk while still working at hyper-speed. “The debate over lenses, digital bodies, and software is endless. I’ve read and studied most of the sites that don’t descend into verbal violence and scathing put-downs.”
He had no idea what she was talking about, and really didn’t care. “Okay, so?”
“I personally think there’s a great deal of truth and value to all sides of the equation. For my money, the Nikon system is tops when it comes to deep-color saturation and finesse. But it also requires a huge amount of time to get right. The choices are basically endless. I love working with my buddy Nikon when time is not a factor.”
“So, not today.”
“Definitely not. When it comes to auto-tuning and fast turnaround, setting a preliminary standard and trusting the system to make it pop, for my money it’s Canon hands down.” She leaned down so close her nose almost touched the screen. Shifted back and worked the mousepad with one hand, the keyboard with her other. “The Nikon pros treat me like a second-class shooter. Barely above amateur status. Needing the computer and the camera to do most of the work.” She inspected again, nodded, and slapped the computer shut. Pulled out the SSD and holder. Offered it to Gleason. “You know where they can stick it, right?”
He accepted the stick. “Whatever you say.”
“The one I’m after is labeled A1.”
Gleason waggled his finger back and forth between them. “Are you two . . .”
“No,” Dillon said.
Olivia snapped, “Can we please dispense with the ridiculous and get to work here?”
* * *
Soon as Gleason retreated to the back room, the shop was filled with an awkward tension. All the unspoken thoughts and memories, all the regrets, all the arguments they never finished. He had no idea what to say. Or even if it would be better for them both if he just left. So there he stood, midway between the counter and the exit, watching her trace one finger over the laptop’s corner.
Then she said, “After everything fell apart, I kept thinking if I could just hold on to the one thing I had left, it might turn out okay. Someday.”
Her voice was calm, almost matter-of-fact. Dillon’s only response was to take a step to his right, so he could see her face more clearly.
Olivia seemed to approve of his silence. Or maybe she wasn’t speaking to him at all. She wrapped her arms around her middle and gazed at the counter. “When I saw that family in the jail cell, it all came together. Just for a second. There and gone in the space of two breaths. But right then, it felt . . .”
“Tell me. Please.”
“I thought maybe this was it. A step in the right direction. Using my gift, trying to help . . .”
Gleason reentered the shop.
He held an oversized photo sheet in both hands. The big man approached the counter slowly, his expression solemn, his movements almost theatrical. He used two fingers to shift Olivia’s laptop over. Then he settled the sheet on the counter. Swung it around so it faced her. Took a step back.
Olivia just stood there. Dillon could not see if she even breathed. “Can I see?” When neither Olivia or the big man responded, he stepped forward.
The picture arrested him.
Gleason said, “If they ever do a picture book of this Christmas season in Miramar . . .” He used two fingers to shift the print ever so slightly. “I want this on the cover.”
Olivia remained frozen. Unblinking.
“I don’t know how. But you’ve captured what a lot of us are feeling. How we’re there for them.” He tapped the print’s corner. “These people. We care and we do what we can.”
The resolution was crystal sharp. The work held an ethereal quality, too precise to be a painting, and yet that was how it seemed. This was more than just another portrait. The family spoke to him.
The light was dim enough to soften their weary state. They were transformed into a mystical tableau.
The wall behind the family was splashed with the window’s gray illumination. The bars formed a crosshatch pattern above the five people. The love they shared, despite everything, made Dillon want to shout out loud.
Instead, all he could manage was, “Olivia. Wow.”
Gleason said, “I work with photographers and editors serving regional magazines and papers. Santa Barbara to San Jose. Everybody’s looking for something that speaks to the season. Not happy. But, you know . . .”
“Beautiful,” Dillon said. “Despite everything.”
“There you go.” Gleason made another minute adjustment to the print’s angle. “Okay if I share this around?”
Olivia did not respond.
Gleason lifted his gaze. Studied the silent woman on the counter’s other side. “Had to be something pretty awful, bringing you back here now. Despite all the reasons to stay away.”
Olivia did not move, much less speak.
He tapped the print a third time. “The young lady who left here with dreams too big for Miramar to hold, she’s come back an artist, sure enough.”
Dillon saw a single tear escape and trickle down her cheek. It came as close as anything in his own hard season to breaking his heart.
Gleason said, “I’m not sure I believed the legend of the phoenix before now.”
They remained like that, held by the momentary amber. Despite everything.
Olivia sniffed, then said, “Can I please have one more on the raw cotton stock?”
“Thought you’d say that.” Gleason lifted the print from the counter. “Come back and help me frame this while I run off the print. And an additional one for me, okay?”
“If you want.”
“Lady, this is going in my front window.” To Dillon, “Step around the counter, will you? Mind the shop. Come on, darling. Let’s get to work.”