13
O livia entered the station to find Dillon seated at the desk directly in front of Maud’s. He was heads down, so intent on his work the rest of the world might as well just float away. The desk was blanketed with forms and handwritten pages and smudged slips of paper. The sight took her straight back. The young kid who escaped from his awful home long before she fashioned her own getaway. So involved in whatever challenge he set for himself, the young Dillon did not even pay attention to the school’s bullies. A handsome kid in hand-me-down clothes, clean because his grandmother insisted on doing their laundry. Nor did he care. He remained focused on doing well, honing his gifts, finding identity in whatever job was cast his way. Just like now.
Olivia spoke a few words, just to reconnect and make sure he was okay. But she doubted he was fully aware of her standing there. Then she went back outside and settled her gear in the trunk. The rain had diminished to a mist only slightly finer than fog. A gentle breeze blew salt-laden spray. She zipped up her rain gear and set off walking.
Miramar’s main street was less crowded than on the afternoon of her arrival. The parking areas were much less full, and fewer families walked aimlessly along the sidewalks. But tattered Christmas decorations still dangled from wires and poles and storefronts. Most streetlights remained off, and few of the shopfront windows were illuminated.
In a way, she shared Dillon’s attitude. Working on the photographs had left her shielded from the gray afternoon. As she descended Ocean Avenue’s gentle slope, Olivia decided she had been wrong to call herself happy. The season was too fractured for such a word. It was only when she stood in front of the camera store and saw her framed portrait of the jail-cell family there in the shop window that a different word came to mind. One that suited her like a tailored suit.
She was content .
Olivia could see Gleason dealing with another customer, so she remained where she was, standing in the rainswept shopping street, admiring her work. Rain streaking the glass made by the family come alive, especially the children. It was good work. She had done this. Despite everything the world had thrown at her. The longer she stood there, the more certain she became that this was, without doubt, a true Christmas gift. One that would help her through the seasons yet to come.
Gleason greeted her with a look that took Olivia straight back. The rumpled overweight bear of a man with a scowl to match. “I suppose you’ll be wanting your money.”
For a long moment she had no idea what he was talking about. Then, “The photograph in your window. You sold it.”
“Not the print. That’s mine. But two magazines have bought rights to publish it. I had to push like crazy. Those editors wouldn’t know art if it bit them.”
She realized Gleason was angling for a commission. The fact that he wouldn’t come straight out was oddly touching. “I’ve never had an agent before. I’d be honored if you’d work with me.”
The older man seemed momentarily at a loss. Then, “How did you find jobs in LA?”
“I became known to some producers and directors. They booked me on a pretty regular basis. Then a couple of older stars started calling me for casual-style PR shots. Not many. But some.”
“And you grew up in the process.” He banged open the old-fashioned cash register, passed over a check. “I’ve sold your photo to California Styles . Mother Jones is using it for their next cover. Your work bumped the governor to next month.”
The check was for two and a half thousand dollars. Olivia breathed around the enormity of what she held. “Gleason . . .”
“The Santa Cruz paper wants it but they haven’t said how much. I haven’t heard back from LA yet. I’ve been told they take forever.”
“You’ve done this in a day .”
He pretended at unconcern, but Olivia could see he was very proud. “Just so happened both journals are giving the storms a lot of coverage.”
“This is enormous.” She looked up. “Is this minus your commission?”
“Glad you asked. And the answer is no, since we haven’t reached an agreement. Ten percent sound about right?”
“Absolutely.” She tried to hand it back.
“No, no, I’ll just take it out of whatever else comes in.”
She pocketed the check. The paper felt warm as a live coal to her fingers. “Speaking of which, I have the results of a new shoot. I need some prints.”
He was already moving. He locked the front door, put the sign in place telling customers to ring the bell, then said, “Come on around back.”
* * *
Entering Gleason’s secret domain took Olivia straight back. She had been borderline terrified the first time this gruff old man had invited her. The back room was huge, far larger than the shop itself. She walked slowly down the central aisle, surrounded by shelves reaching up to the ceiling, many of them glass fronted, all of them carefully dusted and polished. They held a treasure trove of camera history. The apparatus dated back to photography’s earliest days, when several mules were required to carry the bulky cameras and their glass plates.
Originally this room had been sectioned into four. But the development machines that had once created a lab-like atmosphere were all replaced now by computer-driven efficiency. The walls had been torn out, and this mini-museum to California’s photographic history was created. Olivia paused by the line of enlargers and development tanks and drying cabinets, remembering what it was like to make her very first adult friend.
When she looked up, Gleason showed her a surprisingly gentle smile. “You always were my finest unpaid assistant.”
She was tempted to reply, And look where it brought me . But remained silent.
He eased himself down into a wooden swivel chair dating from the same era as his former darkroom. It creaked in protest as he pulled in close. “Grab a chair.” Olivia had heard those very same words any number of times. They no longer carried the thrill of earlier days, when the young teen was enthralled with her newfound abilities, and heard in Gleason’s invitation a chance to enter the professional ranks. Someday. Perhaps.
Gleason’s computerized system was superb, three giant monitors, the left one poised vertically, while others held to the standard horizontal position. Only now the taller screen showed Olivia’s jail-cell portrait beneath the cover of the Los Angeles Times Sunday magazine. “You can’t be serious.”
“Don’t get your hopes up. This is a mockup. I wanted to show them where I thought they should put it. Nothing more.” He erased the image and held out his hand. “Let’s have your drive.” He inserted the mini-card into the reader, then picked up a pair of reading glasses from the desk. When her stream of photos filled the taller screen, he asked, “Which of these do you want?”
He used the same software as Olivia, which would help enormously if she had something useable. “I came straight from the shoot and haven’t inspected them yet. Why not scroll through in order, and I’ll make note of any that work.”
Gleason slid a pad and pen, brought up the first photo, grunted in surprise, said, “You’ve been working with Porter’s family.”
“Their daughter leaves today for college. Grad school issues. She couldn’t risk . . .” Olivia stopped because Gleason was watching her, not the screen. “What?”
He examined her a moment longer. The dark eyes peered with gentle intensity over the top of his reading glasses. Then he turned back and began running through the photographs. Slowly, slowly.
Mother and daughter and colt merged into a happy-sad collage. The light was a gentle hand, a stroke of loving illumination. The two ladies seemed to glow with all the emotions of a fractured season.
“Olivia . . .”
Porter entered the scene. As she had hoped, Celia’s father remained an almost-hidden figure. Shadows were draped over his solid form, with only his face fully illuminated. He was an incredibly strong man, capable of defying the gloom, sheltering his family with all he was, everything he had to give.
Olivia decided, “The black-and-white structure works best here. The old-fashioned silver-backed application, I like the way it sets the family. It gives them timeless appeal.” Olivia liked the clinical tone she heard in her voice. The ability to study, assess, improve, grow. Even now, when she was so engaged with this new work. “But when I think back on my early years here, what I remember most are the colors. Our region is filled with some of the most vividly beautiful light on earth.” She tapped the screen. “This is real, and this is now. But one day soon, I want to start doing portraits where color is as real a character as the people.”
Gleason slipped the spectacles from his face. His fingers were a bit unsteady as he tapped the desk top. Silent. Thinking.
Olivia was more than willing to wait with him. The moment offered her an uncommon chance to inspect this gruff old man. It was tempting to think there was nothing beneath his scowling exterior. But seated here in this openhearted state, drawn together by the work she had accomplished with her talents and her camera, she saw how Gleason carried the same shadows as everyone else in Miramar. And there too was a singular joy. The same paradox of impossible emotions that she herself felt.
“My wife is senior nurse at what passes for the Miramar hospital.” Gleason’s voice had dropped a full octave. “She has a hundred reasons to be grateful for Porter serving as our chief of police. A thousand.” Unsteady hands used the mouse to scroll back to what was undoubtedly Olivia’s own favorite photo of the three. “She’s going to take one look at this and bawl.”
She wiped her own cheeks, then patted the man’s shoulder. Determined to thank him just as soon as her voice returned.
* * *
When Olivia left the shop, clouds and rain dominated their world. The hour of dusk was a trivial matter. The sky was blanketed, the light very dim. Somewhere in the distance the ocean roared a constant warning of stronger storms to come.
In the gloom and damp the streets and sidewalks were almost empty. As she passed the shuttered Castaways restaurant, Olivia realized she was very hungry. But there was a line filling the diner’s front space and crowding the register, so she took the side alley, went around back, and knocked on the open door. “Any chance I can sneak in for more rat stew?”
“We’re all out of rats.” Her oldest friend scurried into view, tired and flushed and happy as usual. “It’s down to snakes and lizards this evening.”
“We ate the last of those hours ago!” Arnaud pointed a spoon at a passing dishwasher. “You! Go find a stray armadillo!”
“Hi, Arnaud.”
“You need to stop by for a real meal once life gets sane. Meet our little boy. Whose name I’ll remember one of these days.” He lifted the lid on a huge stew-pot and his face was lost to a whirl of steam. But not his voice. Or his cheer. “At our home, not our nuthouse of a diner.”
“This nuthouse is about to pay off our bank loan.” Claire pointed Olivia to a stool. “Sit. Relax. I’ll be back.”
Five minutes later Claire returned with two steaming plates. “You reminded me I need to eat.”
“What about Arnaud?”
Her husband replied, “I steal food off everybody’s plate. Perks of the job.”
Tonight’s one-plate special was a sweet-and-sour vegetarian delight, served on a bed of wild rice. “This is amazing.”
“My dear sweet impossible man was made for a crisis like this.” Claire tasted. “Not bad.”
“It’s fabulous, Arnaud.”
“Yeah, I hit it pretty close to decent tonight. If only I wasn’t winging it and could remember what I put in when.”
Olivia asked between bites, “Why is that restaurant down the way shut?”
“Castaways. Sylvie Cassick’s place. She arrived after you fled the scene. You’ll love her. And her husband.” Claire pretended to swoon.
“Handsome?”
Arnaud shouted, “He’s not so great.”
“Connor Larkin,” Claire said.
“Wait, the movie star?”
“And he can sing.” Claire rolled her eyes. “One of their twins has a thing. A twist in the intestines, was what Sylvie said. They left for the San Francisco children’s hospital before the big storm and got stuck. Two days later the Castaways assistant manager came down with the never-get-overs and they closed for the holidays.”
“I thought I saw a lot fewer vehicles on the streets tonight.”
Arnaud stopped by for a bite from his wife’s plate. “The morning news claimed they were finally clearing the northern passes.”
Claire swatted his hand. “And the valley highway east to Paso Robles.”
Arnaud tasted, rocked his head side to side. “It’s missing something.”
“Go complain over your own meal!”
“That’s no fun.” To Olivia, “Yes, part of the roads have been cleared. And no, not totally. Some families facing a longer trek are holding back. Especially now that there are rooms at the only inn still open.”
“Steal more of my food and you’ll be cooking with one hand, mister!” When Arnaud returned to his stoves, Claire asked, “So you’ll be moving into the guesthouse?”
“Tell the truth, I’m happy where I am. And it’s not for too long.”
Claire stopped eating. “I heard your cottage isn’t in great shape.”
“Terrible,” Olivia agreed. She hesitated, then decided it would be better if Claire heard it from her. “Dillon’s grandparents’ old place is okay. Soon as the water and power are back, he’s moving in. He’s offered me a room.”
All kitchen noise stopped.
Arnaud popped back into view as Claire said, “So. You and Dillon.”
“Don’t you start.”
“If he and Connor were to run for Miramar’s hottest, it would be a close call.”
“I heard that!” Arnaud drifted closer, asked Olivia, “More?”
“Another half portion would be great.” To Claire, “I’m still scalded by everything I left behind in LA. We’re talking, serious burn victim.”
Claire lost her smile. “It’s really nice to have you back. Sorry about the reasons.”
“Dillon is being a nice, sweet, gentle friend.” Olivia faced the corkboard and its myriad of recipes, bills, notices, Christmas cards, scrawled notes. As if she could find a script that might explain the confusion she felt over hearing his name. “I know what it sounds like. But it doesn’t feel that way.”
To their credit, Arnaud remained silent and Claire did not tease. Her oldest friend asked, “What does it feel like?”
“Like he’s helping me get my feet back on the ground.” Olivia saw the same warm intelligence, the no-nonsense gaze, the inner beauty that had carried them both through so much. “Like he feels the same way I do. Like our romance is part of ancient history. That was then and this is now.”
Claire gave that a moment. “You better be certain Dillon agrees on that point. Because if you’re wrong, moving into his place would be pulling the pin on a live grenade.”