5
When the photo session ended, Dillon followed Olivia back through the station and into the damp wind. Holding the reflectors had granted him an excuse to study her openly. She was the same beautiful woman he had fallen desperately in love with, yet very different. Same dark blond hair, same balanced features, crystal grey eyes, long pianist’s fingers. He wondered if others could see beyond the stain of exhaustion and whatever heartache that had brought her back, and view the lady’s resilient strength. The goodness that had always defined her. Everything that made Olivia so special, then and now.
Olivia popped her trunk, then took his reflectors and refolded them with practiced ease. She unlatched the lens, set it in the padded holder, ditto for the camera body. She shut the camera case, pulled her laptop from a nylon satchel, slammed the trunk, plinked the locks, and headed out. Not running. But close.
Olivia did not invite him along, of course. That would have been asking too much. But at least she didn’t dismiss him with a polite brush-off.
They were just passing Castaways when she murmured something. Dillon asked, “Did you say something?”
“I wonder if it’s still there.”
He remained a half step behind her, partly because the sidewalk was too crowded to walk comfortably side by side. But mostly it was so he could observe her. Olivia’s impatient haste took him straight back. She was different in so many ways than the woman whose heart he had broken. He glanced down and felt foolish pleasure at the absence of a ring. As he hurried to keep up, he recalled some of their good times. And there had been so many.
Back in their day, Olivia had this way she’d become when something captured her attention. Lady on a mission, was how he’d put it. Totally caught up in the task or quest or whatever. Times like this, her effervescent energy touched everyone within reach. Even now, when the grim weather was reflected in most faces. Dillon wondered if she was even aware of how many people stopped and stared. Or if she even realized when it started raining.
“At least the store’s still here.” Olivia pushed open the glass door, and smiled at the old-fashioned bell that pinged its welcome. “Hi, Mr. Gleason!”
The African-American was too tall to be considered fat. More like a well-fleshed, big-boned, aging boxer. Big everything—hands, head, body, frown. “Who’s this, now?”
“You know perfectly well.”
“My stars and stripes, Olivia Greer, is that really you?”
“Nobody says that anymore. Stars and stripes.” She crossed the shop and set her laptop on the counter. “It sounds vaguely profane.”
“Well, I’ll certainly come to you when I’m concerned about profanity.” He squinted at Dillon, declared, “Well, I never.”
“Hi, Mr. Gleason.”
“It never ceases to amaze, what this storm keeps dragging in.” His gaze went back to where Olivia took a flash drive from her pocket and fit it into a holder shaped as a USB memory stick. But Dillon suspected the man continued to address him. “You of all people I’d have thought would have more sense.”
Dillon shrugged. “Nowhere else to go.”
Olivia cast Dillon a glance. One open enough for him to glimpse inside the shadow caves encircling her gaze.
Then Olivia went back to working her mousepad. “What’s the largest size high-quality paper you’ve got in stock?”
“So good to see you looking so well, Mr. Gleason. After all this time, you’re as handsome as ever.”
Olivia looked up. “Print first, dance later. That okay with you?”
“Do I have a choice?”
She went back to her laptop. “No.”
He moved smoothly for such a big man. Two minutes later he returned and said, “We’re out of A0. Haven’t had a delivery in weeks. Sixteen sheets left of A1.”
She leaned in closer to the screen. “Quality?”
Gleason tsked. “You know me better than that.”
She glanced up again and did her best to smile. “Sorry.”
“You want glossy, matte, or raw cotton blend?”
“I’m working in black and white.”
“Glossy it is.”
