“Why would he want to be rid of us?” Justine asked. “He’s been waiting for us, haven’t you?”
“I guess I have.”
Justine passed out the shots. Clara raised hers. “I’m a little tipsy. Did you tell us your name?”
“I didn’t.” I wanted to stay unknown to them. Someone other than who I was. “I’m Mark.”
They were beautiful, both of them. Justine had dark cropped hair, the wide bridge of her nose jutting, eyes black and deep set. Clara’s face was placid, almost plain. Lovely and still.
“Where are you in from?” I asked.
“New York,” Clara said.
Justine laughed. “Have you noticed how nobody in Chicago cares about New York?”
“That young girl tonight—”
“What did she say?I went to New York once. It was okay.”
“It’s kind of refreshing,” Clara said. “What about you?”
“Ohio,” I said. “But I used to live in New York, does that count for something?”
“Ohio,” Clara said. “That must be interesting. Which part?”
I told them Sawyer and Justine’s face lit up. “Do you teach at the college?” I nodded. “My sister went there. She’s the smart one.”
“What brought you to Chicago?” I asked.
“This woman,” Justine said—and she rested a hand on Clara’s arm; for all her bravado, she was gentle, and affection for Clara rolled off her—“just had a solo show open at the Art Institute.”
“Amazing. What do you make?”
“She’s a photographer. But that doesn’t really do it justice. What did the review say?”
“Stop,” Clara said, but she was smiling. She enjoyed it, basking in Justine’s adoration.
Justine cleared her throat and glanced up, recalling. “The play of light almost extends from the frame, dissolving the barrier between the photograph and the world it does not so much capture as… Wait, what does it do?”
“Shut up.”
“Expose?”
“Reveal.” Clara shook her head. “Now stop.”
“The world it reveals!” Justine grinned, triumphant.
“Enough of that,” Clara said. “What are you doing in Chicago?”
“My parents are in town, for a friend’s seventieth. I came to meet them.”
“Look who’s a good son,” Justine said.
And then it clicked it into place. “I just realized who you look a little like,” I said to Clara.
“Who’s that?” she asked.
“My sister Cassie.”
