Close enough.
There’s another photo of Annie, this one different from the silly one. She’s sitting on a bench in Central Park, and the composition is actually decent—Emma must have been standing back a bit, taking her time with it. Annie’s wearing a denim dress over a white turtleneck, brown boots, and her hair is half-up in one of those claw clip things that women always seem to wear, the ones that look like they’re barely holding on but somehow never falls out. There’s a colorful scarf draped over her shoulders, and she’s smiling at the camera—not a posed smile, but something genuine and unguarded.
She’s pretty. I mean, I knew that objectively, in the same way I know the sky is blue or that coffee is better than tea. But looking at this photo, seeing her like this—relaxed, happy, completely at ease—she’s more than pretty. She’s actually stunning.
Her smile shows rows of perfectly straight teeth that probably cost her parents a fortune in orthodontics. Her lashesare long and dark, framing eyes that I still can’t decide are brown or green. They’re some combination of both, shifting depending on the light. She has this slightly upturned nose, a defined jawline, high cheekbones. And there’s something about the way she holds herself, even sitting on a park bench, that suggests she came from money. It’s in her posture, the way her hands are folded in her lap, the quality of her clothes even if they’re casual.
Which brings me back to the same question I keep having: who is she, and why is she here?
“That’s a good one,” Annie says, and I realize I’ve been staring at this particular photo for longer than is probably appropriate.
I look up and she’s watching me, something unreadable in her expression.
“Emma was practicing her photography skills,” she continues, pointing to the photo with a manicured fingernail—nude polish, short and practical. “She has a good eye.”
“I’m gonna be a photographer when I grow up,” Emma announces, like this is now a settled fact, her entire future career decided at age four based on two days with a disposable camera.
“Is that right?” I ask.
“Yeah! I can’t believe people get to do this stuff with cameras all day and it’s their real job. Like, they just go around taking pictures of things and someone pays them money? That’s the best job ever! I couldtotallydo that!”
Both Annie and I laugh at that, at the pure enthusiasm in her voice, the way she makes it sound like she’s discovered some long lost secret to happiness.
“Wait until you find out about being a food critic,” Annie says. “People pay you to eat food and then write about whether it was good or not.”
Emma’s eyes go wide. “That’s a real job?”
“Absolutely.”
“Okay, I’m doing that instead.”
“You’re four,” I remind her. “You have time to decide.”
“I’ve already decided. Food critic and photographer. I’ll do both.”
“We have an ambitious girl on our hands,” Annie says, and she’s still smiling. “I like it.”
I clear my throat, reaching for my briefcase where I left it by the door. “Em, you want to go to Blockbuster? Rent a movie for tonight?”
Emma squeals—actually squeals—and pumps her fist in the air like she just won something. “Yes! Can we getThe Little Mermaidagain?”
“You can get whatever you want.” I pull out my checkbook from the inner pocket, clicking my pen. “Go get your shoes on and your jacket. It’s still raining out there.”
She’s gone before I finish speaking, a small hurricane of excitement hurtling down the hallway. Her bedroom door slams, then opens, then slams again. Drawers open and close. Something falls over.
I start writing Annie’s check, filling in the date, the amount. Only a couple day’s worth of work, but I told her I would pay her each week. It feels like I should be paying her more, honestly, given how much she’s done, but this is what we agreed on.
“So the last couple days have been okay?” I ask, not looking up from the check. “She hasn’t done anything to scare you off yet?”
Annie laughs a little, and it’s a nice sound. Genuine. “It’s been good. No major meltdowns. Just some minor ones, but those were no biggie.”
I glance up at her, still writing. “Emma talks about you when you’re not here.”
One of her eyebrows goes up. “Does she tell you I’m secretly a witch who makes her eat vegetables?”
I smirk. “No. Quite the opposite, actually. According to her, you’re basically perfect.”
“Well, that’s a dangerous precedent to set.” She’s smiling though, like she’s pleased.
