Gleason’s computerized system was superb, three giant monitors, the left one poised vertically, while others held to the standard horizontal position. Only now the taller screen showed Olivia’s jail-cell portrait beneath the cover of theLos Angeles TimesSunday magazine. “You can’t be serious.”
“Don’t get your hopes up. This is a mockup. I wanted to show them where I thought they should put it. Nothing more.” He erased the image and held out his hand. “Let’s have your drive.” He inserted the mini-card into the reader, then picked up a pair of reading glasses from the desk. When her stream of photos filled the taller screen, he asked, “Which of these do you want?”
He used the same software as Olivia, which would help enormously if she had something useable. “I came straight from the shoot and haven’t inspected them yet. Why not scroll through in order, and I’ll make note of any that work.”
Gleason slid a pad and pen, brought up the first photo, grunted in surprise, said, “You’ve been working with Porter’s family.”
“Their daughter leaves today for college. Grad school issues. She couldn’t risk . . .” Olivia stopped because Gleason was watching her, not the screen. “What?”
He examined her a moment longer. The dark eyes peered with gentle intensity over the top of his reading glasses. Then he turned back and began running through the photographs. Slowly, slowly.
Mother and daughter and colt merged into a happy-sad collage. The light was a gentle hand, a stroke of loving illumination. The two ladies seemed to glow with all the emotions of a fractured season.
“Olivia . . .”
Porter entered the scene. As she had hoped, Celia’s father remained an almost-hidden figure. Shadows were draped over his solid form, with only his face fully illuminated. He was an incredibly strong man, capable of defying the gloom, sheltering his family with all he was, everything he had to give.
Olivia decided, “The black-and-white structure works best here. The old-fashioned silver-backed application, I like the way it sets the family. It gives them timeless appeal.” Olivia liked the clinical tone she heard in her voice. The ability to study, assess, improve, grow. Even now, when she was so engaged with this new work. “But when I think back on my early years here, what I remember most are the colors. Our region is filled with some of the most vividly beautiful light on earth.” She tapped the screen. “This is real, and this is now. But one day soon, I want to start doing portraits where color is as real a character as the people.”
Gleason slipped the spectacles from his face. His fingers were a bit unsteady as he tapped the desk top. Silent. Thinking.
Olivia was more than willing to wait with him. The moment offered her an uncommon chance to inspect this gruff old man. It was tempting to think there was nothing beneath his scowling exterior. But seated here in this openhearted state, drawn together by the work she had accomplished with her talents and her camera, she saw how Gleason carried the same shadows as everyone else in Miramar. And there too was a singular joy. The same paradox of impossible emotions that she herself felt.
“My wife is senior nurse at what passes for the Miramar hospital.” Gleason’s voice had dropped a full octave. “She has a hundred reasons to be grateful for Porter serving as our chief of police. A thousand.” Unsteady hands used the mouse to scroll back to what was undoubtedly Olivia’s own favorite photo of the three. “She’s going to take one look at this and bawl.”
She wiped her own cheeks, then patted the man’s shoulder. Determined to thank him just as soon as her voice returned.
* * *
When Olivia left the shop, clouds and rain dominated their world. The hour of dusk was a trivial matter. The sky was blanketed, the light very dim. Somewhere in the distance the ocean roared a constant warning of stronger storms to come.
In the gloom and damp the streets and sidewalks were almost empty. As she passed the shuttered Castaways restaurant, Olivia realized she was very hungry. But there was a line filling the diner’s front space and crowding the register, so she took the side alley, went around back, and knocked on the open door. “Any chance I can sneak in for more rat stew?”
“We’re all out of rats.” Her oldest friend scurried into view, tired and flushed and happy as usual. “It’s down to snakes and lizards this evening.”
“We ate the last of those hours ago!” Arnaud pointed a spoon at a passing dishwasher. “You! Go find a stray armadillo!”
“Hi, Arnaud.”
“You need to stop by for a real meal once life gets sane. Meet our little boy. Whose name I’ll remember one of these days.” He lifted the lid on a huge stew-pot and his face was lost to a whirl of steam. But not his voice. Or his cheer. “At our home, not our nuthouse of a diner.”
“This nuthouse is about to pay off our bank loan.” Claire pointed Olivia to a stool. “Sit. Relax. I’ll be back.”
Five minutes later Claire returned with two steaming plates. “You reminded me I need to eat.”
“What about Arnaud?”
Her husband replied, “I steal food off everybody’s plate. Perks of the job.”
Tonight’s one-plate special was a sweet-and-sour vegetarian delight, served on a bed of wild rice. “This is amazing.”
“My dear sweet impossible man was made for a crisis like this.” Claire tasted. “Not bad.”
“It’s fabulous, Arnaud.”
“Yeah, I hit it pretty close to decent tonight. If only I wasn’t winging it and could remember what I put in when.”
Olivia asked between bites, “Why is that restaurant down the way shut?”
