Before I knew it, I was standing in front of the house where I grew up. Seems my subconscious had guided me, dropped me off, and then peeled away.
White siding still covered the house. Its pitched roof covered an attic not even I could stand up in, so the pull-down stairs led only to the idea of a second floor. My mother had such plans for that space. Raise the roof! A sewing room. (She’d learn to sew!) A craft room. (She’d take up crafts!) A guest room. (She’d welcome guests!) The shutters were the same ones my parents had replaced before they moved, the first thing they ever did that surprised me, but not the last. The yard was stark but neat. What happened to my father’s flowering bushes? There was no porch (how I had coveted a porch), just a few steps leading to the front door that we’d lined with terracotta pots overflowing with bright pink geraniums by the end of every summer. It had been my job to water the flowers and to deadhead the blooms. One summer Celia sketched the flowers in various stages of blossoming, and I’d photographed them. Since then I’d always photographed things that grew. Babies, kids, flowers, relationships. Those things also died. I realized that too late to change careers.
After a minute or two, or maybe twenty, I nodded once to my house as if not to hurt its feelings, and then ran across the street to the house that would always be Celia’s. The Stillman family house had been my shelter, my family, my fairy tale. The wide steps were swept bare. There was no car in the driveway, no one driving down the quiet, narrow, two-way street, so I sat on the second step, set my camera bag on the first, and wrapped my arms around my myself so that I didn’t budge, so that my memories stayed close after years of my keeping them so far away.
What I loved most was behind me, literally and metaphorically. I longed to feel as much value in the present as I did in the past. It was easier to stay away; it would be easier when I went back.
I’d forgotten what it was like to be with people who knew things about me besides what I’d chosen to tell them. People who looked at me and just knew. I was friends with Annie, but to her, my life began the day I started with Hester Hotels. With Simon, it was the same. I’d always said I didn’t want to talk about my past. He never pressed. Neither did Annie.
It wasn’t that I didn’t know what true friendships and deep relationships meant.
I knew exactly what they meant—letting someone in, maybe letting her down, and possibly, letting her go.
Or him.
I reached into my bag and pulled out my phone. I would text Simon. No, I’d call him. Talk to him. Tell him things I’d never told him before. Simon was kind and considerate. Simon was handsome and interesting. I could convince him to feature some of my landscape photos in hotel rooms, or the lobbies, or the business centers. I’d explain how much taking those kinds of photographs once meant to me, about the little contest that was looming large.
How could he understand that when I didn’t?
Simon hired me six years ago when I had the good fortune to walk into the Hester on Michigan Avenue the day his photographer had come down with food poisoning—three hours before a big wedding. A quick look at my portfolio got me the gig. Praise from the bride’s father got me a full-time job.
But the one time I told Simon my dream—it took four glasses of Beaujolais Nouveau—well, let’s just say he wasn’t impressed by my ambition.
“I want to have my photos hanging in a gallery one day.”
“Your photos hang in homes all over the country.”
“I know.”
Simon hugged me. “That’s not enough?”
“Maybe not. Don’t know. Won’t know until I give it a whirl again. You know. Artistic stuff.”
I stood from the couch and twirled around until I almost threw up, which didn’t take long.
“Do you know how hard it is to make a living as an artist?” Simon asked. “Do you know how hard it is to be valued as an artist and not even make a living at it?”
Why did he have to be so sensible when my head was spinning?
“I think the fact that I’m taking pictures of rich people’s weddings proves that I know very well.”
I sat on the couch again. “I’m sorry. I am happy here. With this work. With you.”
“The best is yet to come,” he’d said.
Deep down, I was choosing to believe that.
“Well, if it isn’t Teddi Lerner.” I jolted and turned around.
“Excuse me?” I stood and stepped back and away. “Do I know you?”
“You did.”
I recognized the voice, but more so, the T-shirt. Cemetery man. He was tall and slim, with hair long enough for him to comb his fingers through to push it back from his forehead, revealing a faint tan line. I hadn’t noticed this morning that his hair was dark blond, but he’d been wearing a hat, which had also made him look older. Maybe cemeteries just made people look old.
He walked down two steps and I stepped back again, then he held out his hand.
“I’m Cameron Davis.”
I put my hands behind my back, and realized I’d left my camera bag on the step. He picked it up and handed it to me. “How did you know my name?”
“You used to live across the street.”
“How do you know that?”
“I lived here too. Over there, I mean.” He pointed to the house next to the one that had been mine. “Until I was eight, that is. Then we moved to California.”
“Oh my God! Cameron Davis! Look at you! All grown up.”
“You are too.”
“Well, Cammy, I took the blame for those muddy footprints you left all over my front steps, you know. My mother made me scrub them off. You were such a brat.” I laughed.
“No one has called me that in a long time. Cammy, that is. Brat I’m kind of used to.”
“I can’t believe you’re back in Chance. Why didn’t you tell me this morning?” I pictured myself as he’d seen me, mumbling, stumbling, ridiculous.
“It didn’t seem like a good time. You seemed a little preoccupied.”
“Yeah, sorry about that. How did you recognize me anyway? I’d never have known who you were if you hadn’t told me.” He opened his mouth but I raised my hand to stop him from talking. “You know about the wedding.”
“Well, it is a small town, and I saw the camera bag, and then you looked up and I just recognized you. You look the same as when you were ten. All eyes and all hair.”
My cheeks warmed. Facts filtered back. He was two years older than Beck and two years younger than me and Celia. We never knew where he belonged.
“You were always really nice to me,” he said.
“I knew what it was like to be an only child. I think I always wished you were my brother.”
“Story of my life.” He sat on the step and I sat next to him. “I had such a crush on you.”
“You were in third grade!”
“Good taste in women knows no age limitations.” He bumped me with his shoulder and it felt like I’d been tapped with a brick. A brick radiating heat. “So, what are you doing here?”
“You know, I’m here because of the wedding.”
“No, I mean here. Sitting on the step, not even knowing who lived here.”
“I was just…”
“Thinking about Celia?”