“Nope.” When she frowned, he explained. “I couldn’t write for beans. I tried, Lord how I tried. I sat for hours and hours with blank paper in front of me, finally scribbling something down, then crossing it out and crumbling the sheet into a ball.” He arched a brow in self-mockery. “I got pretty good at hitting the wastebasket on the first try.”
A small smile touched her lips. “Oh.”
“But—” he held up a finger “—it wasn’t a total waste. Y’see, I’d pictured my articles in something likeNational Geographic,and of course there were going to be gorgeous photographs accompanying the text, and who better to take them than me, since I was there—actually I was in New Mexico at the time, on an archaeological dig.”
“Had you ever used a camera before?”
“No, but that didn’t stop me. It was an adventure in and of itself. I bought a used camera, got a few books, read up on what I had to do, and … click. Literally and figuratively.”
He stopped talking and sat back. Marni felt as though she’d been left dangling. “And…?”
“And what?”
“What happened? Did you sell those first pictures?”
“Not toNational Geographic.”
“But you did sell them?”
“Uh-huh.”
Again she waited. He was smiling, but he made no attempt to go on. She remembered that he’d been that way fourteen years ago, too. When she’d asked him about the things he’d done, there’d been a quiet smugness to him. He’d held things back until she’d specifically asked, and when his stories came out they were like a well-earned prize. In his way he’d manipulated her, forcing her to show her cards. Perhaps he was manipulating her now. But she didn’t care. Hadn’t he been the one to say that they should get to know each other?
“Okay,” she said. “You photographed a dig in New Mexico and sold the pictures to a magazine. But photographing a dig is a far cry from photographing some of the world’s most famous personalities. How did it happen? How did you switch from photographing arrowheads, or whatever, to photographingheadheads?”
He chuckled. “Poetically put, if I don’t say so myself. You should be the writer, Marni. You could write. I could photograph.”
“I’ve already got a full-time job, thank you. Come on, Web. When did you get your first break?”
Just then the wine steward arrived with an ice bucket. He uncorked the wine, poured a taste for Web, then at Web’s nod filled both of their glasses.
Web’s thoughts weren’t on the wine, but on the fact that he was thoroughly enjoying himself. The Marni sitting across from him now was so like the Marni he’d known fourteen years before that he couldn’t help but smile in wonder. She was curious. She’d always been curious. She couldn’t help herself, and he’d been counting on that. Personalities didn’t change. Time and circumstances modified them, perhaps, but they never fully changed.
“Web…?” she prodded. “How did it happen?”
“Actually it was on that same trip. The dig I was working at was being used as the backdrop for a movie. Given the way I always had with people—” he winked, and she should have been angry but instead felt a delicious curling in her stomach “—I got myself into the middle of the movie set and started snapping away.”
“Don’t tell me that those first shots sold?”
“I won’t. They were awful. I mean, they had potential. I liked the expressions I caught, the emotions, and I found photographing people much more exciting than photographing arrowheads or whatever. Technically I had a lot to learn, though, so I signed on with a photographer in L.A. After six months, I went out on my own.”
“Six months? That’s all? It takes years for most photographers to develop sufficient skill to do what you do and do it right.”
“I didn’t have years. I felt I’d already wasted too many, and I needed to earn money. There’s that small matter of having a roof over your head and food enough to keep your body going, not to mention the larger matter of equipment and a studio. I started modestly, shooting outside mostly, working my buns off, turning every cent I could back into better equipment. I used what I’d learned apprenticing as a base, and picked up more as I went along. I read. I talked with other photographers. I studied the work of the masters and pored through magazine after magazine to see what the market wanted and needed. I did portfolios for models and actors and actresses, and things seemed to mushroom from there.”
“Did you have a long-range goal?”
“New York. Cover work. Independence, within limits.”
“Then you’ve made it,” she declared, unaware of the pride that lit her eyes. Web wasn’t unaware of it though, and it gave him unbelievable pleasure.
“I suppose you could say that,” he returned softly. “There’s always more I want to do, and the field keeps pace with changes in fashion. The real challenge is in making my work different from the others. I want my pictures to have a unique look and feel. I guess I need that more than anything—knowing I’ll have left an indelible mark behind.”
“Are you going somewhere?” she teased.
There was sadness in his smile. “We’re all mortal. I think about that a lot. At the rate I’m going, my work will be just about all I do leave behind.”
“You never married.” It was a statement, offered softly, with a hint of timidness.
