12
Ten minutes after entering Porter’s home, Olivia knew any decent portrait was going to require a struggle. Carol, his wife, and their daughter Celia were dressed in a countrified version of formal wear, stiff and uncomfortable and sad. Overhead Porter thumped around the bedroom, putting on the clothes Carol had laid out for him. The Christmas tree’s lights were off, which she thought reflected the family’s mood.
The kitchen was filled with fragrances from the roast in the oven, pots on the stove. Plates and utensils were stacked on the counter. Six of Celia’s friends tossed a football in the damp yard between the main house and the barn. Two were local boys who also studied at UC Santa Cruz. The others had come down from university, here to celebrate a Miramar Christmas.
Ha.
Four dogs raced about, playing catch with strangers. Two SUVs were packed and ready to hit the road. Olivia watched them through the kitchen window, and thought they all shared the same unspoken sentiment.
When Porter came back downstairs, the three clustered together by the kitchen counter, stiff and formal and tired and stressed and sad. Their Christmas plans were in tatters. Their daughter was going away. The town was a mess. And it looked like the rain was going to start falling again, any minute now.
The only solution that came to Olivia was, take control.
“We have two choices.” She did her best to sound both calm and matter-of-fact. “If you like, we can shoot a remembrance of what you’re all feeling right now.”
“Which is exactly what Idon’twant,” Celia said.
“And you’re worried that’s all you’re going to get,” Olivia said. “One question. If this was a normal late morning, what would you be doing right now? Eleven fifteen on a good day.”
Celia replied, “Feeding the horses. Trying to keep Daddy home long enough so we could go for a ride.”
Carol added, “The vet has us feeding the colt a bottle with extra nutrients.”
“Which we should be doing anyway,” Porter said.
“I was saving that for after they eat and Celia leaves,” Carol said. “Help me fill the empty hours.”
Celia reached for her mom. Hugged her tight. “I’m so sorry.”
“As if you’re responsible for the weather.”
“Maybe I could send them on. Stay and hope the roads—”
“No.” Carol’s voice held the iron-hard determination of a woman in control. Despite everything. “Don’t let’s start. Again.”
Porter watched his two ladies and sighed.
Olivia said, “Why don’t we move over to the barn and try a few pictures there?”
“I can’t leave the stove untended,” Carol replied. “I’m in the middle of preparing our final meal together as a family.”
Celia said, “Let my friends take over.”
“In my kitchen? Not on your bippy.”
Their daughter pointed out the window. “Mom, three of those people are trained chefs.”
“Correction. They’re short-order cooks.”
“At Santa Cruz’s oceanfront diner. They’re studying business to start their own premier restaurant.”
“That’s as may be. Right now they’re still fry-up lads.”
“Daddy, tell her.”
“I’m not dancing to that tune,” her father replied. “Remember, I have to live here after you’re gone.”
Olivia said, “What I’m hoping is, if we do something that’s a normal part of a normal day, we can get something that you’d be happy with.”
