“With a girl?”
Charlie winks. “With more than one.”
And with that, he turns and walks toward the door. “I’ll see you when you’re done,” he calls over his shoulder.
I stare at the darkroom door, a smile unfolding on my lips.
My first task is to take an inventory of the equipment and orient myself. This darkroom isn’t set up for color developing, but there’s plenty of black-and-white film in the bag Charlie brought. After giving myself a Google refresher, I begin mixing the developer, stopper, and fixer chemicals, pouring them into separate cylinders.
The vinegar smell transports me to a time when my world narrowed to another small room like this one. I used to spend hours upon days to get the perfect print, making contact sheets, testing and retesting the exposure to nail the contrast. Then doing it all over again with a single negative, enlarging it and running test prints, searching for the exact right balance of light and dark.
I turn on the red light so I can get a roll out of its canister. I won’t develop any photos today—the negatives have to be processed first. I steady my hands as best I can and manage to getthe film onto a reel and into the developing tank without scratching it. I triple-check the amount of time it needs in each solution and how often I need to turn it over to agitate the chemicals.
There’s a scientific quality to this work that I find soothing. About ten minutes later, when I’m adding water to the developing tank to rinse off the chemicals, my face is scrunched in concentration, but my soul is singing. I should probably stop at one roll in case I’ve botched it, but I’m enjoying myself too much. I move on to a second.
When I’m ready to leave, there are three strips hanging to dry. I clean up, feeling lighter than I did when I entered the room. I’ve made art for nobody but myself. Even if there’s nothing here deserving of a gallery wall, that’s worth something.
My face is flushed with pleasure when I exit the school. Then I spot Charlie.
He’s leaning against his car, watching a flag flap in the breeze. When he sees me, his face tilts in my direction, and even from this distance, I can see his eyes flash. A smile grows on his lips, mirroring my own.
This, I think.This is worth something, too.
“I’m going to come back tomorrow,” I tell him on the drive to the cottage.
“I’ll give you the key.” He glances at me. “Olive asked if you’d consider coming back to talk to her students in the school year.”
“Tell her I’ll think about it. Would you want to come with me? Make a road trip out of it?”
Charlie stares at the road ahead. He takes a deep breath. “I’d like that,” he says slowly. “If I can make it work, I’ll be there.”
“I’d love to see it here in the winter.”
“It’s beautiful. Sam and I usually try to get a rink going.” He sounds wistful.
I picture us having hot chocolate by a fire. Skating on thelake. Cold pink noses. Bright blue skies and evergreen branches crusted in glittering white. Charlie and me. Sam and Percy and a newborn baby.
“Stay for lunch?” I ask when we turn onto Bare Rock Lane.
“Boat ride after?”
“How about the Jet Ski? Let’s go jump off the rock.”
I know I need to tell Charlie I have feelings for him, even if it ruins everything. Just not yet. I want to wrap my hand around the last strands of summer, to enjoy what we have for a little longer.
But the next day, as I stand in the darkroom looking at the print I’ve spent the morning developing, I realize my time is up.
It’s the second photograph that will change my life.
45
Thursday, August 21
11 Days Left at the Lake
Charlie stares straight at me in the photo. His cheeks are dimpled, his smile lit with wonder. But it’s the look in his eyes that leaves me breathless. It’s one I’ve seen before. It’s how Nan looked at Grandpa. It’s how my parents used to look at each other. It’s how Sam and Percy gaze at one another. I know the expression in my bones.
My heart hasn’t slowed since I examined the negative. I don’t know how I’ve failed to notice it, because the same look appears on Charlie’s face in at least half a dozen of the images. Maybe it was so fleeting I missed it, or maybe the camera kept the truth hidden from me.
