Newport Dreams: A Breakwater Bay Novella (9 page)

Chapter 11

“N
OW THAT WE’RE
up here,” Meri said. “Look up at my ceiling.”

Geordie opened her eyes and looked up. She still had to concentrate on breathing slowly, and she still felt a little shaky, but she looked at the dingy ceiling and wondered what Meri was seeing that excited her so much.

“Can you see it?”

“Your ceiling?”

“No. That.”

Geordie couldn’t see anything but ugly paint.

Meri stood up, making the scaffolding vibrate. Geordie clutched at the wood she was sitting on.

“Look,” Meri said pointing to a crack in the paint. “I cheated a little. It wasn’t my fault some of the paint flaked off and there is a small line. Which might be, just might be . . . something important.” She shrugged.

“Don’t mind her, she tends to get carried away.”

Meri did seem a little excitable. What could she possibly expect to see in that less-than-an-inch square of something that looked just as muddy as the first layer of paint?

And then a revelation hit her so forcibly that she almost forgot to be afraid. Whatever Meri was seeing was the same thing Geordie saw when looking through a lens. She squinted at the ceiling, but it still looked dingy and murky eggplant gray.

“Can you tell what’s underneath?” she asked.

“Nope. We can’t afford any X-ray equipment, just like we can’t afford a hydraulic lift, hence the scaffolding.” She gestured to the wooden planks that stretched almost wall-to-wall.

There were two moveable platforms set at opposite ends of the platform. “What are those for?”

Meri grimaced. “For when I can’t reach a place standing and have to lie on my back.”

Geordie wrinkled her nose at the prospect.

“Sort of like Michelangelo at the Sistine Chapel.” Meri grinned.

Geordie cast another upward look. “What if there’s nothing underneath all that paint but more ugly paint?”

“Oh, there will be.”

“Are you sure?”

“Hell, Geordie, no one knows anything for sure,” Carlyn said.

That was true if Geordie’s life up to this point was any indication.

“But Doug has a sixth sense for diamonds in the rough,” Meri said.

“Though this is a little rougher than usual,” Carlyn added.

“Do you always work for Doug?”

“As much as I can,” Meri said. “Sometimes I work on other projects. Actually I’m kind of in demand. But my loyalty is to Doug.”

“What about you, Carlyn?”

“So far just for Doug. It’s the kind of thing where you build a relationship with your colleagues, and with the donors, too. Now, they only run sometimes when they see me coming.”

“And Bruce?”

“He’s come in a few times for consults, but this is the first time he’s been in at the beginning.”

“Kind of wound tight,” Carlyn said.

“He could probably give you some insight into the job thing,” Meri said. “He just went solo so he could spend more time doing restoration work. I think he’s having a little trouble making ends meet.”

Carlyn wagged a finger, Motown style. “But don’t let him bum you out.”

“Big chip on his shoulder,” Meri added.

“Yeah, I got that. Though . . .” Geordie thought about his reaction to her photos the night before, how he’d relaxed and talked about his work and hers as they ate, how he slipped his arm around her when she came to the balcony. A gesture of security, understanding, maybe.

“Though what?” Carlyn asked.

“Nothing. I don’t know.”

“You want me to try and line you up some other jobs? We do most of our own documentation except at the beginning and end of a project. Freelancing is satisfying but it takes some juggling to be working all the time.”

“I know. I’m not sure I can do it.”

Meri shifted her weight. “Well, only you can figure it out, but we’re here to listen. But right now, I have to get to work.” She slid her feet to the rungs.

“You coming?”

Geordie made a face. “Funny.”

B
RUCE STOOD AT
the kitchen counter, feeling like his heart was caught in his throat. He’d seen Geordie sitting up on that scaffolding with a mixture of anxiety, relief, and a little jealousy that she’d managed it with Meri and Carlyn and not him. Which was totally ridiculous.

But he’d imagined himself helping her over her phobia like some knight in slightly tarnished armor. Like he didn’t have enough to worry about. At least his client had finally settled on tile for the bathroom and he’d placed the order before she could change her mind again.

If he had Geordie’s money, he’d never work on another kitchen newer than the nineteenth century. He didn’t understand why she didn’t see what talent she had. Why she didn’t just tell her parents that she was going to be a photographer. Surely they’d be proud of her.

If he’d had parents . . .

G
OING DOWN TOOK
a little longer than the going up, but Geordie did it and when she stepped onto terra firma her knees held her up and she didn’t feel sick. That was a start.

“Well, I’ve got to suit up and get back to work. See you girls later.” Meri took off down the hall to the equipment room.

“Yeah, I know,” Carlyn said. “Just being around her kind of keeps you going.”

“I’ll say. So can I help with anything this afternoon?”

“Nope, I’m off on an info-gathering trip to the archives. Doug should be back in an hour or so. You could see if Bruce needs anything.”

“Right.” Geordie followed Carlyn back to her office, picked up her camera bag and went to find Bruce. She was ambivalent about seeing him. He’d seen her at her most stupid, stuck on the scaffolding rails. He’d seen her at her most vulnerable, not when she was paralyzed with fear, but when he’d taken the time to look at her photographs. She knew then that he got what she was about. Because suddenly she could see her work through someone else’s eyes. Someone whose judgment she could trust.

She hardly knew him, but she knew in that moment that he saw it, too. Still she wasn’t ready to meet him face-to-face. It had been an interesting evening. One that could have turned out much differently, and she would have enjoyed it, probably, but she was glad it had turned out the way it had.

Now at least there wouldn’t be that “next day” awkwardness. And if there was something that could develop between them, it would develop in its own time, in its own way.

He was standing at the sink, looking out the window.

“Hey,” she said as she entered the kitchen.

“Hey.” He turned but didn’t meet her eyes. “You want coffee?”

“No . . . thanks. I need to apologize. I was trying to fake my way through this job instead of asking for help. And I screwed up.”

He shrugged. He wasn’t giving her much help. Maybe he was still angry, though last night he’d seemed anything but.

“Look I’m a spoiled rich kid. No, I was a spoiled rich kid. I’m an adult and I know it’s about time I started acting like one.”

“Like climbing up scaffolding when there’s no one around if you fell?”

“It was stupid. I just wanted to—I had to prove something to myself and failed miserably. Anyway, thanks, for saving my butt. I would’ve still been up there if you hadn’t come to the rescue.” She sighed. “Seems like someone is always rescuing me.”

“You’re lucky.”

“I know, and I’m appreciative. But when there is always someone to take care of you, send you money, bail you out when you get in over your head, it’s not very conducive to standing on your own two feet and taking the consequences of your actions.” She bit her lip. “And to have the courage of your convictions. Hell, I don’t even have convictions. Or know what I want to do in life.”

He quirked an eyebrow. A strange expression, and one that she couldn’t read.

“I know, you think I’m an airhead. I am. It’s just that I keep trying things and none of them last. I lose interest. And then I flake out.” She lowered her eyes. “It’s what I do.”

He didn’t say anything. She didn’t know why she expected him too, but she could only look at her toes for so long. She looked up.

His head was cocked, his eyes crinkled as if he was amused. “Maybe you just never found the right thing for you.”

She groaned. “I’ve tried. I tried journalism, I tried fashion photography, I tried gallery work, I tried . . .”

“Doesn’t it occur to you that you’ve found the right thing but have been looking at the wrong part?”

“Huh?”

He crossed his arms and leaned back against the counter.

The wrong part. What wrong part? And then she got it. In a moment of glorious epiphany. Hell, she wouldn’t be surprised if a chorus of voices with full orchestra started singing like something from the karaoke bar.

Her camera. She was always looking outward, but seeing inward. That’s what made her a good photographer. That’s also what made her flit around like a total ass. Always looking out there for the perfect opportunity, when she’d been carrying it around with her all the time.

“What a dope I’ve been. I’ve just been dancing around on the fringes, afraid to make a real decision. One that would last my whole life, and get my family off my case. But I was looking for a quick fix. Dragging my camera around to all these different venues, when it wasn’t out there, it was in the lens, in me.

“I don’t have to find one thing and stick with it forever, because I have access to whatever I want, through the lens. I am such a dope.”

“I wouldn’t say that. Just stubborn.”

“Carlyn said you all put piecemeal work together to keep doing this.”

“It’s the only way we get to do what we want to do.”

“I can do that. Can’t I?”

He shrugged.

She thought about it. She could photograph houses, people, landscapes, while she developed her own signature look, maybe have a gallery show—or two or ten. Open her own studio someday. For the first time ever, she could see a future, not all in one piece but developing sometimes quickly, sometimes slowly. Good times and bad times, hard and easy. But it could be hers. If she only had the courage to take the chance.

It was so obvious and so hokey that she almost laughed out loud.

Well, she’d start right now. She’d tell Carlyn that she’d like to rent the room in her apartment. And then she’d tell her dad.

“Bruce, you’re amazing.” She walked straight across the room and kissed him on the mouth. And that was pretty amazing, too. Then she turned and strode out the door.

“Me?” Bruce said, sounding stunned. “I didn’t do anything.”

She just waved and went to find Carlyn.

Geordie went straight home after work and spent the evening online, researching local photography businesses. She knew better than to strike out on her own right off the bat. Just look at Bruce. He at least had built a bit of a reputation so that he could supplement his restoration work with regular renovation.

She needed a steady job, one with a salary so she could budget and begin to save, so she could get her own place, and gradually build up a repertoire of gallery work. But not just any job. One that would challenge her, feed her creativity. It would be out there somewhere.

She typed in
photographic studios
and was surprised at how many there were in the area. She clicked on one at random, and the photos were just what she expected: weddings, anniversaries, family portraits. Most were nice, what most people wanted. A shot of bride and groom cutting cake, standing on the lawn with the sea in the background. Groups of posed shots, perfect for sending to relatives on Facebook and Pinterest, or framing on the office wall or over the piano. The kinds of photos that found their way to family albums, and recorded the day’s events.

Perfectly respectable, perfect for what they were. But they were not for Geordie.

The old familiar flutter began in her stomach, turning to a knot. The renegade thoughts. This isn’t going to work. Another dead end. I have to find something, have to start again. Have to . . . She wrote down the name and number, clicked on another and added it to the list.

She picked out a few and wrote down their e-mail addresses and phone numbers. She’d just get something for the present then try again later. Then she thought about standing behind a tripod, moving people closer together, standing and kneeling, so that everyone’s face could be seen. Telling them to smile, counting to three. Never veering from the tried and true.

She tore off the list from her notepad and threw it in the trash.

She wouldn’t settle for a job out of desperation, just to stop her parents from worrying about her, from pressuring her to settle down. She would find a happy medium, something that would be satisfying and would keep her solvent. Something that would give her time to work on her own photography but not sacrificing hours a day to work by the numbers or constantly scrambling for freelance work.

Her stomach growled. She went into the kitchen and got down the jar of peanut butter. Reached in the drawer for a spoon and touched the envelope she’d hidden the night before. it would be so easy just to take it, deposit it, and go on to the next chapter. Who was she kidding? Her life didn’t have chapters, just thirty-second commercial spots.

She went back to her computer, kept at it. Found one studio that thought a little outside of the box. Used interesting filters, unusual backgrounds, an undirected moment. She could work like that.

The next one was a large studio but too traditional. The next more inventive, but just didn’t speak to her. She skipped over some and lingered on others, rejected some and added others to her list, and by midnight she had a handful of A-list studios that spoke to her. Now if only her photographs spoke to them. And each was in need of a staff photographer.

She started to close the window, decided to look at just a few more. And found a real winner. Wedding portraits, anniversaries, head shots, they were all there. They were inventive, but they were more than that. They caught that internal spark of the people being photographed. They drew her in. She clicked through photo after photo, and thought,
Yeah, I could do that.

She added the name and address to the top of the list. Glanced at the time. Eleven o’clock. Looked over to the photos lined up against the wall. She would have time to arrange a hard-copy portfolio as well as a digital one.