A Book of Spirits and Thieves - Morgan Rhodes Page 0,28
say?”
“I have plenty to say,” she managed. “Just trying to find my voice.”
“Texting is easier, isn’t it?”
“Texting is always easier.”
He wasn’t wearing his usual glasses (she’d inherited her bad eyesight from him). Maybe light eyes were naturally weaker than darker ones, she’d often wondered. Her contacts had pissed her off that morning, and she’d thrown them across her bedroom after several unsuccessful attempts at putting them in, then had stepped on them during her search. So glasses it was today. But she didn’t blame the contacts. She blamed being close to the edge of Anxiety Cliff all week.
“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.”