“God, yes.”
Epilogue
One month later
Imogen paused outside the Stonebridge Hotel ballroom and drew a steadying breath. The day had finally arrived; the exhibition had begun. Excited chatter and the dulcet tones of a string quartet spilled through the open doorway. A handsome couple brushed past her, gushing over their favorite pieces. Inside the ballroom, she glimpsed maze-like panels covered in photographs. They beckoned her forward with the promise of profound discovery.
Her lips curved, and her nerves settled.
She’d forgotten, for a little while, the peace to be found in the presence of art. The joy of being on the receiving end of an artist’s most generous gift: a bit of themselves. She touched the recent letter from Tommy in her pocket and his words rang in her ears. It didn’t matter whether everyone enjoyed her photographs or not. It was impossible to please everyone. The most she could do was be true to herself. If these photographs didn’t resonate the way she hoped, it wouldn’t break her. Rejection, as she’d come to realize, was simply an opportunity for redirection. She was resilient and creative, and only she could determine her worth. So why not enjoy the exhibition, come what may?
She entered the crowded ballroom with her head held high.
“That’s it, my sunshine,” said a short, cheerful woman beside her. “Time to see what’s what.”
Imogen smiled down at her chaperone, her indomitable Aunt Judith, who was already waving at acquaintances across the ballroom. “Indeed it is.”
“Would you like some company?”
She shook her head. “This is something I have to do by myself.”
“I understand. I’ll be nearby if you need me.” Judith squeezed her arm, then shooed her away.
Imogen’s pulse fluttered wildly as she ambled through the crowd in search of the section dedicated to the Pacific Northwest. Hundreds of elegantly dressed photography enthusiasts rubbed elbows and fawned over the displayed images. She turned a corner and her lips parted in awe. Before her hung images capturing the spirit of the west: shipyard workers on break, a family at play on Lake Washington, the barren landscape of a defunct logging camp, even one of Edward Curtis’ most recent depictions of a woman of the Duwamish tribe.
There, in the back corner, hung three of her photographs.
A cluster of attendees occupied the space on either side. Imogen glanced quickly at what held their attention and her step faltered. Her images were sandwiched between those of two of the most prominent photographers in Washington. No wonder the space before hers was unoccupied. She couldn’t prevent the swell of sadness, but she could decide what to do next. Either she could let her feelings overwhelm her, or she could raise her chin and stand next to her work with pride.
She filled the empty space.
A blonde woman to her left glanced over her shoulder and let out a dramatic gasp. “Are you the photographer?”
“Yes.” Her voice was thin, so she tried again. “Yes, I am.”
The woman clutched her partner’s arm and pulled him with her. “How marvelous. We were just lamenting our poor luck that we had missed you.”
“Your work is splendid,” the man gushed. “It’s the perfect balance of vulnerability and strength. The man in the images reminds me of Robin Hood.” He turned breathlessly to the woman. “Isn’t that what I was saying earlier? He’s given everything to the people, even the coat off his back, and now he must brave the elements.”
“Thank you very much,” Imogen managed to say over the lump in her throat.
An older gentleman with white hair and wire spectacles stepped up beside them. “The Weary Scoundrel is a triumph. Miss Radford, it is a pleasure to meet you. I am Mr. William Parker, the owner of a gall?—”
“The Parker-Smythe Gallery,” Imogen breathed. “Oh, Mr. Parker, do forgive my interruption. If you only knew how many exhibits I’ve attended at your gallery over the years. It’s a true honor.”
“You’re too kind.” He bowed his head. “I’ll get right to it, as your attention is already in high demand.”
When she gave him a perplexed smile, he gestured behind him. Imogen peeked around his shoulder. A dozen people had lined up behind Mr. Parker, craning their necks and whispering excitedly to one another.
“They’re here for me?”
She didn’t realize she’d spoken aloud until Mr. Parker replied in a gentle voice, “They are indeed. In fact, I have heard many well-deserved compliments regarding your work this evening. Which brings me to my question. Do you have more photographs similar to these?”
“At least a dozen,” she said with as much composure as she could summon. “And I’m certain I could make more.”
“Splendid. Our upcoming showcase has room for one more promising photographer, and I believe I’ve found that artist in you. Might we arrange a meeting to discuss what we’re looking for?”
“Of course.” She took his card with trembling fingers. “Thank you so much, Mr. Parker. I look forward to speaking with you.”
