Chapter 26
“Oh. Pictures I took. I used to think I was a brilliant photographer.” She laughed nervously, closed the book and glanced at her watch. “We should probably go to the supermarket if we want to—”
“Oh, no, you’re not getting off that easily.”
He took the album gently from her, flipped halfway and started looking, turning pages, concentrating on each shot. She watched, trying to see the pictures through his eyes, fidgeting, painfully aware she was being judged. At the same time she was interested to see her own work again after such a long time. Gran and Grandad kept this album here. It was old fashioned, but she was glad they did. She watched critically, page after page, seeing both the promise and the limitations. Looking at the pictures now was like seeing an old friend and regretting having lost touch.
“Wow.” He stopped on a shot she’d taken of the city just before dawn on a ridiculously cold winter morning from the Beach, which jutted out into the lake north of the city. In the sky above, a half-moon pierced the blackness. Her flash caught mist rising from the lake, and the first suggestion of dawn had turned the downtown buildings into glowing orange-pink rectangles. “This is stunning.”
“It was very, very cold. Minus ten or so. I was completely crazy to be out in it. But, yeah, I love the shot.”
“Candace, this is incredible.” He flipped a few more pages, then turned to face her, his features serious and thoughtful. “You are talented. A real artist.”
The flood of pleasure at his praise surprised her. “Thank you. I haven’t taken any pictures in years.”
“Why not?”
Candace shrugged, trying to remember when her passion had started cooling. “It wasn’t like one defining moment when I gave it up. More like a gradual waning. There was no money in the type of photos I wanted to take. I had a busy job—I don’t know. Seems if I were really cut out for it, I wouldn’t have been able to stop. Maybe I should start again, just for fun.”
“You should.” He touched her knee, which made her want him to touch her again. And again. “I’ll tell you why I’m so sure you should, since you’re sitting there thinking it’s easy for me to say.”
She lifted an eyebrow.
“I liked making cabinets in high school, but in our family it was understood you’d get a high-paying, high-status job. I took a fairly wimpy stand, then folded.”
Candace held her breath, thinking of how often she’d had the urge to take her camera out and how often she’d come up with reasons why she couldn’t. All of which seemed so crazy now.
“Then when I had to quit my job six months ago, I took it up as a hobby again. Now I have no idea how or why I chose to stop doing it completely. It feeds my soul, I guess. Without some form of creative self-expression, life is pretty barren.”
His words jolted her. She knew exactly what he meant, and an odd sense of joy bloomed in her chest. She did miss the sometimes frustrating hunt for the perfect shot, the rare excitement in capturing precisely what she wanted in a frame, those precious times when she hit it—color, light, composition, all perfect.
“That’s it exactly. Yes.”
“I’m guessing your soul is hungry these days?”
She nodded, holding his gaze, feeling the tension between them, not sexual this time but something deeper, some connection through absolute understanding. “I hadn’t even noticed.”
“That’s my story, too. It’s probably pretty common. You don’t feel the emptiness until you slow down and take stock, whether someone or something forces you to or whether you’re a rare wise being who knows to do it yourself.” He traced the line of the horizon on her frozen winterscape near the Lake. “I’m not making that mistake again.”
“What happened to make you quit your job? If it’s okay to ask.”
“Sure.” He settled his hand at the back of his neck, and as closely involved as she was with what he was saying, she couldn’t help observing him with sheer pleasure, the stubble speckling his cheeks and jaw, the vibrantly alive eyes, the well-developed muscles in his arms and chest—and how intimate his immediate acceptance of her personal question felt. “Let’s see, I was sitting in a late-afternoon meeting, reviewing a case that wasn’t going well, and I suddenly couldn’t breathe, had pains from chest to shoulder and could barely move my right arm.”
“Oh my God.” She gripped the couch arm to keep from flinging herself at him in retroactive fear. “You had a heart attack? So young?”
“Nah, my heart’s fine. I had an attack brought on by overwork, stress and anxiety. My body’s way of saying, ‘Hey, dope, I don’t want to be here and neither do you, but since you’re too stupid to figure it out I’m getting your attention the only way I know how.’”
“So you’re okay.”
“You worried about me?” He flashed her a sexy look that made her catch her breath. “Don’t be. I’ve never been better.”
“And you’ve turned back to woodworking.”
“I’m in the middle of making a bedside table.” He stood suddenly; she felt the loss of him beside her. “Do you have your camera here?”
“It’s in a box on the way to Rosehill.”
“Ooh, not good.” He reached down, pulled her off the couch. “We’ll have to buy you one. Or I’ll lend you mine while you’re here. Then we’ll go all over the city for the next couple of days and feed your soul.”
She shook her head bemusedly, heart speeding with excitement at the idea of holding a camera again, yes, but mostly at the idea of spending all that time with Nolan, that he wanted to spend it with her. “You certainly take charge.”
“Only when I’m sure I’m right.” He backed toward the living room door, pulling her along, not that she resisted. “C’mon, let’s get dinner supplies. What are you in the mood for?”
You. “Oh, I guess a big salad with—”
“Steak.” He made a sound of derision. “Salad. Girly eater.”
“Caveman.”
He turned at the back door, stopping abruptly so she nearly ran into his chest. She rebounded, half wishing she hadn’t been able to stop her own momentum. He caught her elbows, brought her up nearly against him, not quite. “Caveman, yes.”
She pushed back, but not very hard. “You promised.”