Page 35 of Double Exposure

I clear my throat. “What do you mean ‘that was that’?”

“I had an incredible childhood. He and I traveled all over the world. I didn’t expect him to hold open the door for my photography career—I don’t want the use the nepotism card, but Jesus.” She pauses and tucks a strand of hair behind her ear. “I just never expected him to try to hijack my career and snuff it out.”

“That can’t be what he’s doing.”

“Oh, he’s already doing it. That thing in Japan happened when I was twenty. At the time, I was on the rise. I was homeschooled so we could all travel. I went all over with both of them actually. I think my mother was a little jealous sometimes because I went with her less. “ She pauses. “And, I can’t stand opera. I traveled more with him and I was set to be—it was understood by everyone around me—that I was being groomed to step into his shoes. And then this thing happened.” She sets down her wine glass for a moment and rubs her eyes. “And it was like it just, I don't know. The alarm bells went off and he was done with mentoring me and ever since I was twenty, I’ve sort-of been trying to claw my way back into his good graces.”

I have to interrupt her. “I don't think it's good graces. He's probably really proud of you and your accomplishments.”

“That's what makes it complicated. I'm very good at what I do. And what I really want to do is photograph climbers and work with and in nature, you know, with biologists, archeologists, botanists, entomologists—that’s insects—”

“I know—”

“That's how he got started. And I don't want to ride his coat tails. I actually have thought about changing my last name legally.”

She makes a fist with one hand and strikes her chest. “I’m good at this. I want a chance.”

“I get it. He worries.”

“Exactly,” she says. “He worries. I can’t work if I know he’s worrying about me all the time.” Suddenly she sits up straight. “This went right to my head,” she says and smiles. “Dang. What’s the alcohol level here.”

I pick up the bottle and peer at the label. “Fourteen percent.”

“Is that high?”

“A little. But not for a Cotes du Rhone.”

“Hmm.” She folds her arms.

“Hmm, what?”

“Hmm, as in you are more sophisticated than you think.”

“Or you thought.”

“Touché.” Placing a hand to her forehead, her glance to me is apologetic. “I think I need to just stay here. I’m pretty tubed.”

“Tubed?” I lift her hair from her shoulders and lay it behind her, a move that seems totally natural. “You drank a glass of wine on a really empty stomach.” Standing up, I offer her my hand. “You need food.”

“I do? I do,” she says and gives me the sweetest, sloppy smile.

She takes my outreached hand and I pull her to her feet. My reserves are flagging. She is one smile short of being taken up in my arms. Then my father’s cautionary words come to me.

Don’t take advantage of a moment you want to remember.

I make no move.

I want to remember this moment: the light on her skin, how her hair shines, her lips closing on words in perfect symmetry, her eyes content, without worry, her hand in mine.