Weighing the stress factor, he figured it at fifty-fifty, and opted to leave it alone.
She’d tell him when she was ready. Or she wouldn’t.
He helped her haul her equipment up the steps, where she paid more attention to the equipment than what she intended to shoot. She pulled a tripod out of a case, telescoped it, did the same with a light stand.
“I’ve still got that wine you like if you want.”
“Thanks, but not when I’m working.”
As he subscribed to the same rule, he got them both a Coke.
She nodded, ignored it as she pulled out a light meter. “Can I have one of those chairs over here for the laptop?”
“I’ll get it.”
She attached a camera to the tripod, eyes narrowed now on the wall of books.
“That’s an impressive camera.”
“Hasselblad, medium format. Larger media, higher resolution. I’m going to shoot digital first.”
She took a back from her case, attached it to the camera. When he looked in the case, the bag—the lenses, backs, cables, attachments—he understood why everything was so damn heavy.
How the hell did she haul all that stuff around?
He didn’t ask because he recognized focused work mode.
She peered through the viewfinder, used a remote to switch on the light, switch it off. She popped an umbrella out of the bag, screwed it onto the light stand, then shielded that with a screen.
She checked everything again, changed the angle of the tripod, walked it back about an inch.
If she thought about the book, she didn’t show it.
He figured it took her a good thirty minutes to set up and take a couple of test shots. Halfway through it, he decided she didn’t need him, got a book out of his office, and settled down at the table to read while she worked.
“Is there a system to the way you shelve the books?”
He glanced up. “Where they fit, why?”
“You have Jane Austen beside Stephen King.”
“I don’t think either one of them would mind, but if you do, you can move books around.”
“No, that’s part of the point. It’s a wall of stories. Take out any one, go anywhere. It’s . . . Storyland.”
She pulled him into watching her again. Shoot, study, adjust, test, shoot. Curious now, he got up to take a look at the laptop screen.
The colors bloomed deeper, the light a little dreamy. Somehow she made some of the tattered spines appear interesting rather than worn.
Another popped on. He couldn’t see the difference, but apparently she could as she squinted at it, said, “Yeah, yeah.”
She took half a dozen more, making minor adjustments, then crouched down to slideshow through all the shots.
“How come it looks better in the picture than in reality?”
“Magic. This one, yeah, this is the one, I think. It looks great in reality. Light, shadow, angle, that’s just atmosphere.”
“You made art.”
“I captured art,” she corrected. “I want to take some film.” She took the back off the camera and switched it with something out of her bag.
“That camera does both—digital and film?”
“Yeah. Handy.”
He wanted to ask how—wanted to see how. But she had that in-the-zone look about her again.
She went back to work; he went back to reading.
She pulled him out of his book when she switched backs again, changed lenses, and took the camera off the tripod. She moved to the side, took a picture of the books from a sharp angle. Checked the result, adjusted the light, took a few more.
When she lowered the camera, moved to the shelves, he thought for a moment she meant to pull off the book about her father. But she pulled one from a higher shelf, carried it to the table.
“I want you with the Austen. Can you bookmark what you’re reading?”
“I’ve read it before. I can pick it up where I left off if I want.” He felt more than a little foolish. No one would ever term him shy, but the idea of taking pictures of his hands?
Weird.
“You’re serious about the hand thing.”
“Deadly. Tough man’s hand with classic novel written by a woman, one a lot of people consider a woman’s book.”
“A lot of people are stupid.”
“Either way, it should work.” She took out her light meter. “And the light’s good right here for what I want. Good, natural light through that window. Especially if you just . . . scoot your chair to the right, just a couple inches.”
Once he had, she checked the light meter again. Apparently satisfied, she went back for her laptop, set it on the postage-stamp corner of counter.
“Just hold the book open, the way you would if you were reading it. Not the first page—you’ve been reading it awhile. About a third of the way through.”
He felt ridiculous, but he did it. He’d give her five minutes to play around.
She shot over his shoulder so that sultry summer scent spilled over him.
Maybe ten, he considered, while she shifted behind him, leaned in closer.
“Turn a page—or start to, don’t turn it all the way. Just—stop, hold it. Good. It’s good. But . . .”
She straightened, frowned at the laptop image. He had to twist around to check it himself, and what he saw surprised him.
“I thought you were crazy, but it looks like an ad in a high-class magazine or something.”
“It’s good, but it’s not quite there. It needs . . . Of course.”
She pulled open his refrigerator, took out a beer. When she spotted the opener, she popped the top, then to his shock, poured a good third of it down the sink.
“What? Why?”
“Tough hands, a beer, and Pride and Prejudice.” She set the beer on the table, framed it, moved it closer to the top right edge of the book.
“You didn’t have to pour it down the sink.”
“It needs to look like you’re drinking a beer and reading Austen.”
“I have a mouth, and a throat. We could have poured it in there.”
“Sorry, didn’t think of that. Left thumb under the page, turning it, right hand on the beer. I need you to cover the label—I’m not looking for product placement. Hand on the beer like you’re about to pick it up, maybe even lift it a half inch off the table.”
Since there was no use crying over spilled beer, he followed instructions. Picking up the beer, setting it down, turning a page, not turning a page, until she lowered the camera again.
“Perfect. Just exactly right.”
He turned to see for himself, saw the beer had been inspired. It gave the shot a cheerful edge, and added balance.
“Real men read books,” Naomi said. “I’m going to offer poster size.”
He felt weird all over again. “Posters.”
“Brick-and-mortar bookstores, adult learning centers, college dorms, even some libraries. You’ve given me some damn good work today, Xander. I’m going to tell Kevin it’s a go on the steam shower.”
“You’re putting in a steam shower.”
“I am now.” Nodding, nodding, she scrolled through the shots on her computer. “Yes, I am now. I’d talked myself out of it, but when I get this much good work on a Sunday? I’m steaming.”
He pointed at her. “I earned time in that.”
“You definitely did.”
She didn’t resist when he pulled her onto his lap, but did hesitate when he started to take the camera.
“I’m not going to bounce it off the floor. It’s got weight,” he commented.
“Just over nine pounds. I’m mostly going to use the tripod with it, and it’s worth the weight. It’s tough and reliable, and you can see just how sharp.”
“And this deal on the back makes it shoot digital?”
Nodding, she removed it. “Excellent system—no pins to catch on anything, and it has its own integrated software. It’s not something I’m going to take on a hike, but for what I wanted here, and for what you want with the band, it’s the machine.”
He had to admit he’d like to play with it himself, just to see how the mechanics worked. But he didn’t see that happening, any more than he’d let her under the hood of his GTO.
“I use my phone if I take a picture.”
“Very decent cameras on phones today. I’ve taken some nice shots I’ve been able to manipulate and sell. And now, I wouldn’t mind a half a glass of that wine while I break this down and we set up in the garage.”