A Book of Spirits and Thieves

“So let’s talk about photography,” he suggested, crossing his arms and studying the display in front of them. “You know what this is called?” He pointed to a self-portrait of a man staring into the camera. The image had been printed on a shiny surface, very unlike the matte photo paper Crys used in the makeshift darkroom she set up in the house when she needed to develop film.

“It’s a daguerreotype,” she said, pushing her glasses up higher on her nose. She had already known the answer, but there was a descriptive plaque right next to it that explained everything, which she read from. “‘Named for Louis-Jacques-Mandé Daguerre, the daguerreotype is an early photographic process that uses an iodine-sensitized silver plate and mercury vapor.’”

“Sounds like a lot of effort.”

“Too much. I wonder what this guy would have thought of digital.”

“Maybe he would have looked happier about the whole situation.”

“Maybe.” She swallowed hard, barely seeing the impressive image before her, barely caring about being so close to a historical artifact of her favorite subject.

“You’re still wearing your funny T-shirts,” her father observed.

She looked down at herself. Her vast T-shirt collection was simply clothing to her, not a conscious attempt at daily humor through fashion. The one she’d randomly chosen today was a cartoon of an anthropomorphic piece of sushi with the caption: THAT’S HOW I ROLL!

“I’m a fashion plate, what can I say?” She bit her bottom lip. “Can we go somewhere a little more private to talk?”

“Sure.” He nodded. “The café?”

More memories. Lunch and dessert at caféAGO. Coffee for him, Coke for her. She always chose key lime pie if it was available because she believed it was the best pie in the universe—like a vacation on a plate. While they ate, they would discuss what they’d seen so far. What paintings and photos they loved the best, which sculptures were the most inspiring and meaningful. The days they spent at the gallery always flew by.

On the way to the café, they fell into an uncomfortable silence.

Crys had been so determined to focus on whatever she had to do to learn more about Markus King that she hadn’t taken into consideration the emotional impact that seeing her father for the first time in two years would inflict. In the mere minutes she’d spent with him so far, she felt as if she’d regressed in age by at least ten years. She was now seven years old, following her daddy out of the photography exhibition, down the stairs, and around the corner until she could smell the delicious food—sandwiches, salads, pastries.

Scent helped her summon up the past as perfectly as any time machine—or photograph—could.

All she selected for lunch was a chocolate chip muffin and a bottle of water. Daniel got a chicken sandwich and a coffee and paid for everything at the register.

Neither of them even glanced down at the food once they’d chosen a table as far away from the other diners as they could find.

She’d expected to feel only anger at seeing him again. But what she truly felt was . . .

She didn’t actually know what she felt. There was no perfect word for it, she realized. A blend of nostalgia, curiosity, and, oddly, a sharp edge of relief. All mixed together into a messy batter along with only a few tablespoons of anger.

She consciously tried to bottle up all her emotions and shove them into her fuchsia leather bag for safekeeping.

“I know you have questions for me, Crissy,” he said, his fingers curling around the edge of the table.

If it were anyone else, she’d protest the use of that cutesy nickname, but it sounded right coming from him. Just like the good old days.

“I know you must be furious with me,” he said when she didn’t start talking right away. “All I can say is I’m sorry, but I know that’s not nearly good enough.”

“I just . . .” Crys squeezed her bottle of water, the cold condensation sliding between her fingers. “I can’t believe you’ve been in Toronto the whole time. You’ve been so close, and I didn’t know.”

“How did you find out?”

She considered her words. “I overheard Mom and Jackie on the phone. Your name came up.”

She wasn’t going to tell him everything. The book, what had happened to Becca—that was too precious, too fragile. This was an information-gathering mission only—information-giving was not on today’s menu. And as much as her heart was in turmoil over this meeting, her brain was focused on what mattered.

She hoped very much the ratio would remain that way. Hearts and brains didn’t always get along so well.

“Eavesdropping,” he said. “So things at home are the same as always, huh? You’re still a troublemaker.”

It wasn’t said as an insult but rather more with grudging admiration. “It’s one of my talents.”

“What were they saying about me?”

“Something about Mom still believing in you, but Jackie telling her you’re old news.”

She watched closely to see if this would get a reaction, but there was nothing in his expression to give her any clue what he might be thinking. Not even a blink or a twitch.

“Jackie never liked me,” he allowed. “What else?”