She looks at her cast with the expression of someone reading very bad news they'd already suspected. “I need to be in Costa Rica in two weeks.”
“So you said.”
“I emailed my contact at the retreat this morning. Got up at six.” She pauses. “I know that sounds insane given the circumstances.”
“It sounds like someone who takes their work seriously.” I sip my coffee. “What did the retreat say?”
“Nothing yet. It's early.” She pulls at a loose thread on the duvet. “If they can't reschedule, I lose the placement. There are a hundred other influencers lined up for that spot.”
“If they can't reschedule a trip because their guest broke her ankle in an accident, they're not worth working with.”
She looks at me. “That's a very logical position.”
“It's the only position that makes sense.”
“The world of luxury wellness retreats doesn't always run on logic, Max.”
“Everything runs on logic eventually,” I say, and she grins like she's storing that away to use against me later.
“You could stay here,” I say. “After the wedding. The resort's closed for renovations, but this wing is finished. It would be quiet. You can stay for free. Better than trying to navigate an airport with a cast.”
She tilts her head. “You'd want me here while you're managing contractors?”
“You'd be a considerable improvement over contractors.” I pause. “You could also photograph the place. I've been trying to figure out how to present it properly to prospective buyers, and my sister put up surf photos that look more like Hawaii than Florida. I want something that actually captures what this place is.”
She's quiet for a moment, looking at her coffee. “You know what’s weird? Last night, before I fell asleep, I kept thinking about the spring. Or maybe I was hallucinating. The light through those cypress trees is unreal. Like something from another planet.”
“I know. I think I took it for granted when I was growing up here.”
“Has anyone ever photographed the springs properly? Not the tourist shots — I mean really photographed them.”
“Not that I know of.” I watch her face, where something is shifting. A kind of focus coming into her eyes that wasn't there a moment ago.
“I was a photography major,” she says. “At the Art Institute in Chicago. That's where I met Kate.” She turns the coffee cup in her hands. “Before the influencer gig took over, I used to photograph places that made me feel something. Not for content. Just because something about the light or the geometry of a place would hit me, and I'd have to get it down.”
“I know,” I say.
She looks up. “You do? What?”
“I looked at your Instagram last night. After we got back from the hospital and I couldn't sleep.” I pause. “The photos of you are gorgeous, obviously. You know that. But the other ones — the landscapes, the morning light at the temple in Kyoto, the children on the street in Rome — those are the ones I kept going back to.” I set my coffee down. “You have a real gift, Lauren. The kind that doesn't come from an app or a filter.”
She's very still for a moment.
“No one says that,” she says finally. “Everyone talks about the engagement metrics. Or the brand reach. Or whether the color palette for the feed is cohesive.” She looks down at her coffee. “No one talks about the Rome photos.”
“Well. The Rome photos are the ones that stay with you.”
She doesn't say anything for a moment, and I don't push. Outside, a bird chirps.
“If I stayed here for a while,” she says eventually, “and I photographed the springs. The resort. The river. I'd want to do it properly. With real equipment.”
“That's exactly what I'd want.” I mean it completely. “Do you have equipment, or, I don’t know, can we rent it?”
She studies me for a second as if checking whether I'm serious. I hold her gaze.
“I have some with me. I always travel with my camera gear,” she says. “I'll think about it.”
“Think about it while I get you some breakfast. Would you like a muffin, or a sandwich? I also saw some croissants downstairs.”
