Kyndal watched the parental expressions turn fretful when they realized they had to choose.
“They’re all so precious. Can we get all three, Danny?” The young mother’s voice held little hope, but the blue of her eyes shone intensely like the stone in the ring around her neck.
The young man’s head dropped, and he lowered his voice. “We can’t afford ’em, Lisa. We can only get the free one.”
Kyndal remembered the glow on her own mom’s face when friends admired the free 8x10 of Kyndal at twenty-eight months. She would go on and on about Kyndal’s smile looking “just like her daddy’s.”
Mason Rawlings had walked out of their lives a month after that portrait was taken, but her mom still talked about his smile to this day.
I might have his smile, but that’s the only thing I ever got from him. She couldn’t help wondering if he had any regrets.
Life wasn’t easy for teen parents—nor was growing up as the child of one as Kyndal knew firsthand.
She sighed in resignation, aware she was about to give these kids a break and forfeit her last three hours’ commission in the process. “Which one would you like? I’ll print it for you.” She allowed her mouth to droop into a pout of feigned preoccupation, tried to sound bored, glanced at her watch to let them know it was closing time.
The girl chewed her bottom lip until the young man prodded her with his elbow. “Number three.”
Kyndal pressed a key and pretended to be busy as she fumbled with some order forms. She turned back as the paper slipped from the printer. “Oh, shoot! I’ve printed billfolds of the wrong one. Here, you can have these.” She held the prints out to the young man, but he hesitated. “No charge,” she assured him. “I’ll just have to throw them away.”
“Now.” She hit another key, queuing up number two to print as two 4x6’s. “You said number two, right?”
“No, we said number three.” The young man gave her a look that could have indicated she’d sprouted an extra nose.
“Crap. I’ve done it again.” She watched their guarded looks of amusement as she thrust the second sheet toward them and sighed dramatically. “Third time’s a charm, right?”
Another keystroke sent the correct command, and the 8x10 slid from the printer. “She really is a doll.” Kyndal checked the finished product before handing it over. “Sorry for the inconvenience.”
The lights blinked, indicating five minutes until closing time. The couple moved toward the exit, the young mother clutching the photographs to her chest.
Kyndal watched until they were out of earshot. “And that’s why I have to get back to a job where I can shoot golden eagles instead of golden-haired toddlers.” The hope that tomorrow would bring that dream job back was never far from the surface. She let it rise to the top as she disassembled the gear and lugged everything to her car.
Tomorrow will bring the perfect shot that will make me somebody. Tomorrow will bring the perfect shot that will make me somebody. The mantra couldn’t block out the sluggish start of the old Jeep’s engine, but if she said it often enough, it had to come true. That’s what affirmations were for.
When she reached her apartment, fatigue convinced her to leave everything in the car except her laptop. Dover, Tennessee, wasn’t a hot spot for crime. In fact, Dover, Tennessee, wasn’t a hot spot for anything. But it was centrally located between the other two towns where she took family portraits on Wednesdays and Thursdays, and the apartment she rented was clean. And cheap.
She’d tossed a package of ramen noodles into some water before she saw the message light blinking on the phone.
The light always brought the same thought to her mind. This could be the big one. Her hand shook as she pressed the voice mail button.
“Kyn. It’s Mom. Going on a little road trip with Lloyd for a few days. Talk to you later.”
Lloyd who? When did a Lloyd come into the picture? And “a few days” meant she’d quit her job at the dog kennel. Or gotten fired. Kyndal swallowed her frustration and sent a mental warning to the little girl she had photographed at closing time: Being a parent to your forty-four-year-old mother is not an easy row to hoe.
She deleted the message, but the light blinked again, indicating a second message.
“Hey, Kyndal.” Mike Sloan’s southern drawl oozed from the handset. “Heard about a tourism magazine startin’ up in your hometown.