my eyes threaten to spill over. Frustrated with myself for my weakness, I savagely stab a bite of squirrel pie with the fork I grab out of Luke’s hand. The chewing gives me something to do while I get hold of myself and blink the tears away.
Luke gets up from the overturned plastic crate he had been sitting on, and opens his tiny refrigerator. He puts down a bottle of water in front of me, twisting off the top first.
“Thanks,” I mumble and drink deeply. Actually, I have never liked squirrel pie. “I don’t usually cry this much.” I am trying to sound apologetic but it comes out sounding defensive.
“No problem, it’s hardly the first time I’ve made a pretty girl cry.” He speaks lightly.
Pretty? I straighten my over-alls that have bunched up in front. I look again at the photos in front of me. I don’t see anything else that could give me a clue to finding Rose. The tree she leans against could be any tree. Luke had said she was at the fair, but that only means she was there that particular night – not that she lives there. No one lives in a fairground. I don’t know what I thought I’d find. Maybe I just wanted to look at her again, feel some connection.
“Can I have them?” I ask. “I can pay you for them if they’re for sale.”
He waves away my offer. “I can’t sell them anyway; I didn’t have her permission to photograph her. Really, I was just trying out a new camera that night and wasn’t paying too much attention to what I was capturing. I’ll end up throwing the other ones from that night away. You can keep them as long as I can keep the ones of you singing last night.”
Was it only last night?
“Why?” I laugh. “I’m not going to be a star someday if that’s what you’re hoping.” I won’t be around long enough to be a star, I thought.
“You photograph well,” he answers, reaching behind him to the counter and handing me more prints. They are of me on stage at the coffee shop, singing with my eyes closed. My guitar partially covers the horses on my shirt and my legs are crossed Indian-style the way I always sit when I am singing. It must have been mere seconds before I opened my eyes and saw Rose sitting in the chair that Luke had been in when I began my song. Had he gotten up and moved closer to photograph me, while she sank down in his vacated chair? Seconds before. Before Rose’s Appearance. Before everything changed. I look peaceful, even with my mouth open, singing. I’m surprised how pretty the girl in the photo looks. I don’t think I look like much in real life, but the camera seemed to bring something out in me; shadows that shaded my face in the right way, light that reflected and made my skin look luminescent.
“The camera loves you, Gray. If your barista talents and singing career don’t take off, you can come model for me. Hey, all this could be yours!” He gestures grandly at his sad little shop. I can’t help laughing. I like the way he makes me forget to finish crying.
Chapter Five
By the time I leave the little dingy photography shop, I think it may be late enough in the morning to stop and see Emme. I let myself in the way I always do and find her in her favorite spot on her couch, reading yet another novel. I see her pretty pink toenails as they swing over the end of the couch. Her strawberry red hair is piled haphazardly atop her head in a messy bun that looks ravishing on her and would make me look like a homeless lady.
“Hang on, luv, just let me finish this chapter. “
Instead I pull her romance novel out of her slim fingers and replace it with the photos Luke took of Rose. She scowls at me but then glances over them.
“Alright, I’ll bite; what am I supposed to be looking at?” she sighs dramatically. Everything about Emme is dramatic, but in a good way, not in a tiring or ridiculous way. She is British for the most part, though she’s traveled as much as I have, and she plays up her British accent especially for her line of work. It adds to her charm and overall cuteness. She is petite and curvy, a few years older than