35
Olivia served customers in the front room of Gleason’s camera shop while her partner in crime ran off the necessary photographs. Every now and then Gleason emerged with another four or five prints, which she carefully attached with adhesive to a set of lightweight foam backings. Gradually the town’s story and its determination to heal became stacked upon the counter.
There was a slow but steady stream of customers, mostly families doing late Christmas shopping. Olivia relished her role as adviser, which was what almost all of them were after. If these people had known precisely what they wanted, they’d have ordered online. Gleason’s shop had changed with the times, and served a dual role now, selling phones and monthly plans as well as high-end photographic equipment. Two national companies ran competing shops of their own. It used to be four, according to Gleason, but the others recognized his sway within the community and licensed him instead.
Olivia loved her unexpected role. Especially when the customers included young people harboring an early passion. They were here because they wanted to move beyond selfies. They intended to shape art of their own. In an idle moment, Olivia found herself wondering if the old man might be interested in her taking on a more formal role. Here. Inside Gleason’s solitary domain. The place which had played such a vital role in her own escape. All those many seasons ago.
Elena entered as Olivia concluded another sale. Bailey’s daughter held a double-armful of manila folders and stood by the front window as the customers departed. When it was just the two of them, she remained frozen in place.
“Elena?”
Her only response was to tremble, tight little motions that rattled the pages in her arms.
Olivia rushed around the counter. “Honey, what’s the matter?”
She showed Olivia frantic, wide-eyed gaze. “I just discovered what a panic attack feels like.”
Olivia returned behind the counter, then rolled Gleason’s chair over. “Here. Sit. Give me those files.”
“These can’t wait.”
“Yes they can. Two minutes one way or the other won’t matter. Relax your grip, Elena.” She took hold of the folders and started toward the counter, only to discover Gleason standing in the rear doorway. Olivia shoved the files into his arms and said, “We need a minute.”
Olivia went back and squatted beside the young woman’s chair. That was exactly how Elena seemed to her. A woman whose body had not yet caught up with the rest of her. Olivia asked, “Will you tell me what’s wrong?”
“I’m so happy,” she whispered. “And I’m so scared.”
It seemed the most natural thing in the world to gather Elena in a heartfelt embrace. Then, “Don’t wipe your nose on your sleeve, dear.” She rose and pulled tissues from the box Gleason used for cleaning lenses. “Here.”
“You sound like Mom.” She sniffed, pulled a thumb drive from her pocket, said, “Gleason needs this too.”
Olivia rose once more and entered the rear room. Gleason stood by the printer, watching, silent. Olivia told him, “Don’t ask.”
“Wasn’t planning to.” He accepted the drive, and handed her another half-dozen large prints. “This is the last of them. I never thought I’d say this to an artist. But you’ll need to go hang them yourself.” He started toward his desk. “Tell Dillon I’ll have the booklets done on time. How, I have no idea. But I will.”
Olivia started back, then stopped and said, “I’ve always wanted to ask. Is Gleason your first or last name?”
“It’s the only name that matters.”
“Oookay.”
He scowled fiercely, an expression he had often used during Olivia’s growing-up years. So potent it had silenced any number of teenage tirades. “My first name is Ramone.”
“Get out of town.”
“Named after a grandfather I never met.”
“Gleason works just fine, thank you very much.”
“Our secret, okay?”
“Absolutely. No problem at all. My lips are permanently sealed.”
* * *
Helping Olivia apply the adhesive and position the final prints on their white backing steadied the young woman. The fiddling work required precision. Each photograph needed to be placed in the exact same position, so together they formed a unified flow. Elena measured, Olivia applied the adhesive-stick and placed each print, then Elena used the rubber-sided ruler to flatten each photograph. They could hear Gleason working in the back room. Neither woman spoke again until they gathered up the thirty-three prints, bid the old man farewell, and set off.
Once they were on the street, Olivia asked, “Is this about Dillon?”
