33
Olivia was already up and moving when her phone alarm went off at half-past five. When she left her cell, perhaps for the last time, she saw Dillon had already departed. She dressed and entered the main station, greeted the sleepy deputy, and entered a silent dawn. She collected her camera case from the car and set off.
The sky remained shrouded, but the taste of coming rain was gone. The ocean was a distant rumble, a sound from her childhood. Olivia and her mother had often walked the Pacific pathway in the predawn hour, watching sunlight gradually take hold. Her mother liked to stop and listen to the ocean, calling it a hymn to better days.
Traces of cold Pacific mist began drifting inland as Olivia stood by the diner’s rear door, enjoying a breakfast burrito. She wished Claire and Arnaud a lovely Christmas Eve day, and truly believed it might be so.
Thankfully, the morning mist did not strengthen to where it became impenetrable. Instead, thin veils touched the earth and moved on, leaving liquid jewels in their passage. She arrived at the parking area that marked the end of Ocean Avenue just as the sun rose above the eastern hills. Instantly the early morning mist became a golden veil, draping an ethereal glow over the battered shoreline.
Focus on the healing, Dillon had said. The idea resonated deeply. She thought it formed a wonderful challenge for everyone involved. Her challenge this morning was to photograph a town severely damaged by winter storms, yet determined to face its own new dawn. Just like her.
The question was, how? That was the quandary she and Gleason had discussed at length. Now, as she opened her shoulder-case and drew out the Canon and her adjustable zoom lens, she saw the answer.
Storm surf had chewed away the lot’s leading edge, forming uneven steps in the rubble. Olivia made her way down to the sand, then used the drifting mist to camouflage her movements. When she was in position and the wrecked oceanfront path was turned mystical by the glowing veil, she dropped to one knee and began shooting.
She would not focus on the places. Nor the damage. The people were what made Miramar special. She would share images of people not just rebuilding the town, but restoring hope. After all, that was her gift. Her passion. Seeing the best in people, sharing it with the world.
She photographed three couples, all friends, who laughed as they pulled weathered planks from kelp that had been washed ashore. They stacked the timber by what was left of the ocean walk’s central bridge.
When she had what she needed, she rose and backtracked and walked the beachfront road. She moved softly, trying to drift with the mist, intent upon going unseen. Three hundred yards later, she found her next shot.
An Asian lady of advancing years replanted orchids in the limbs of two live oaks. To her right stood a weathered tea house, the shattered windows sealed with plywood and cardboard and tape. An elderly man cleared rubble from the winding stone pathway.
Olivia captured the moment, then turned back and hurried inland.
Up Ocean Avenue, she photographed two men on ladders, repairing a roof gutter and stringing Christmas tinsel. A woman stood below them, pointing and directing and dodging ornaments they tossed in her direction.
Then the police station, where Maud and Porter sat on a bench turned throne-like by the sunrise, sharing coffee and a weary smile.
Back behind the guesthouse and down a narrow lane, where she spotted her next shot. Olivia gained permission to crouch in one corner of a damaged home and shoot families welcoming neighbors into a warm and overcrowded kitchen.
Her final stop was the fire station. She had already decided to skip the people working around her former home. That would come later. Instead, she photographed the morning volunteers filling two pickups with food and water and presents. And hugs.
As she rushed back down Ocean Avenue, Olivia found herself recalling Bailey’s thoughtful response to Dillon taking center stage. Worrying if Bailey would find peace in such a relationship . . .
Olivia halted in the middle of the empty street, lifted her face to the pale blue sky, and laughed out loud.
Here she was. Fretting over the man who had once occupied her heart’s domain. Anxious about Dillon making a go of it. With another woman. Who, by the way, was perfect for him in so many ways. But still.
She arrived at Gleason’s shop, opened the door, and declared, “I’ve had a very good morning.”
