21
Olivia and Gleason decided on one black-and-white photograph of Porter with his family, and a color print of their daughter. Both were to be printed on the textured cotton sheets of paper, which hopefully would add to the portrait feel. The previous evening they had debated the choices, then fiddled with shading and color and illumination. That morning they continued the good-natured debate for another hour or so. Neither of them were in any hurry. Now and then Gleason left her alone in the back while he tended to a customer’s needs. The solitary moments granted her a chance to release the occasional shiver of pure joy.
She was late for her meeting with the mayor before both were printed and approved and rolled into separate tubes. Olivia hugged the older man, thanked him profusely, smiled over his grouchy embarrassment, kissed his cheek, and fled. She rushed up the main street, flying really. She loved the feel of cool rain falling on her face. She relished the sensation of being surrounded by a town that had welcomed her back, despite everything. She was moved nearly to tears by the stoic determination she found on so many faces, the California spirit coming out strong as summer sunlight. They would endure, rebuild, move on. Her feet scarcely touched the damp sidewalk, or so it felt.
Not even her certainty over why Bailey had requested this meeting could dampen her mood. The mayor’s note had been waiting when Olivia emerged from her cell that morning. It had simply requested they meet with Berto Acosta, and had given a time.
That had been enough.
Berto Acosta was Miramar’s builder of choice. At least, he was for those who could afford him. And who put up with Berto’s rigid stance on design. He refused to build what he classed as LA-style tin-pot palaces. Berto used the finest materials, constructed to the highest codes, and charged accordingly.
Berto’s wife Emelia was also head of the town council.
The builder had twice made the journey south, meeting with Olivia in LA. This after numerous letters and phone calls, both to Olivia and her mother, asking to buy their home. The reason was simple. Their cottage sat on a three-acre plot of land, with a grand view over the town and the coast beyond. Second in size only to Dillon’s property. Who also refused to give Costa the time of day.
But things were different now. The cottage where she had grown up was no longer habitable. And Olivia needed the money.
Which was why she had begged Dillon to come to her rescue. Because this was one conversation she could not handle by herself.
Soon as Olivia opened the station door, the mayor rounded on her. Bailey possessed a remarkable bark for such a slender waif. “Finally! Hasn’t anybody ever told you it’s a fineable offence, keeping your elected officials pacing the floor?”
Maud did not look up from her computer. “Bailey only got here two minutes ago.”
“Two long minutes! And that’s not important. Everybody should be here and ready to stand and salute when the mayor . . .” Bailey was halted mid-sentence by how Olivia ignored her. “Are you even listening?”
“Porter, could you step over here?” She set her two cardboard tubes on Dillon’s orderly desk, popped the top off one, then hesitated.
The moment deserved some fine words, a mention of how grateful she was for all this group had done for her, whatever. But her mind remained an excited blank. So she simply unfurled the print and held it with both arms extended.
The silence that greeted her portrait was perhaps the nicest response she had ever received. Oh, there had been some lovely moments with stars as well. They started out cautious, cynical, playing the role, fearful of what she might do with their off-stage image. Gradually, with extreme caution, they had come to trust her. Olivia had loved her ability to surprise.
But this was something else entirely.
Porter finally declared, “That’s not me.”
“Oh, it’s you, all right,” Maud said.
“It’s who you don’t like to think the world can see,” Bailey agreed. “But we know it’s there.”
“Hidden deep,” Maud agreed. “Miles down, most of the time.”
“But it’s there.” Bailey smiled at Olivia. “This is amazing.”
Suddenly they were all talking at once. Asking how she managed to get the light just so. And weren’t the women incredible, how mother and daughter were mirror images a generation apart. And wanting her to do them, their families, friends, whatever. Olivia let them gabble on for a time, then said, “There’s one more.”
She anchored the first print on Dillon’s desk, using his closed laptop and a stapler and pen-holder to keep the print flat. Then she opened the second tube and unfurled the print.
Celia shone with a sad luminescence, the joy of youth balanced by the sorrow of coming departure.
The colt’s head formed a perfect counterpoint to the young woman’s beauty. One hand stroked the forelock, but her attention was captured by something beyond the camera’s reach. Her smile was timeless.
The look on Porter’s face said it all.
Olivia said softly, “Merry Christmas.”
* * *
Porter went through the motions of a shift change, assigning duties in a subdued voice, initialing documents Maud held for him, having a quiet word with the mayor. All the while, he kept circling back to Dillon’s desk. Studying the two portraits spread over the surface. Olivia remained by the side wall, feeling isolated even when others spoke to her. There was a timeless quality to the moment. As if she had managed to step outside the flow of hours and chatter and people. And could stand there in this wonderful solitude, filled with an inner glow over a job well done.
