Then Clay spotted the well-lit artificial Christmas tree near the couch. The dark green tree looked fine, with lots of tinsel and garlands and blinking lights, and around the base was a collection of decorated gifts, complete with ribbons and bows. But it made him stop and take notice, and to know that it was going to be a dreary day.
It was, after all, the second week in June.
Chrissy came over from the kitchen, a big smile on her face, a smile from the customer to the hired help. She had on tight stone-washed jeans, white high-heeled shoes, and a red, sleeveless pullover blouse that was filled out nicely up top. Her arms were quite tanned and the sunlight captured the fine hairs on the back of her arms.
“I see you’ve noticed my props,” she said, giggling. Her teeth were white and perfect, and her blond hair hung back in a simple ponytail. It was the simplest thing in the whole damn house, and when Clay had stepped in, he’d started pricing everything he saw, and knew within ninety seconds there was a million dollars’ worth of home here, on a couple million dollars’ worth of land, and God knew how many gadgets and such. Hell, the damn place had a three-car garage, and that boathouse by the water was the size of some homes in town.
“You’re right, Mrs. Tate, I did notice that,” he said, putting down a box of camera gear and accessories. “Is that what you want, a portrait of you and your husband with the Christmas tree in the background?”
She strolled across the living room with the self-confidence of a woman who knows she’s being watched and doesn’t mind it a bit. She sat down on the couch and picked up a leather-bound volume and gestured Clay to come over.
“Please, you can call me Chrissy,” she said. “And my husband’s name is Jack. He’s upstairs in his office, working. Even on a Saturday, he’s working, checking on his investments, his stocks. Look, this is what we want for your time and trouble.”
He sat down next to her, conscious of his own worn sneakers, his old jeans that had been stained time and time again with darkroom chemicals, and his black long-sleeved turtleneck shirt. It was a warm day but he kept the sleeves down. He always tried to keep the sleeves down.
Chrissy opened the book wide so that one side of it rested on his lap, and Clay was sure that didn’t happen by accident. It was a photo album of sorts, with glassine pages holding in postcards. Actually, he noted, looking closer, they were Christmas cards, the ones that show photos of couples or children or happy homes. He saw Chrissy and a tall man with a thick moustache who he supposed was her husband on one page, and another couple, about the same age, on the other. The other woman had bright red hair and the other man was hefty, a guy who looked like he gained lots of pounds sitting behind a desk. Dueling Christmas cards, side by side.
She tapped the other couple’s photos with a long red fingernail. “This is Blake Emerson and his wife Terry. Blake and my husband Jack were in the same frat at MIT, and they’ve been friends ever since. And very competitive friends as well; Blake never lets Jack forget that he was the first to make a million, and that he had the bank and brokerage statements to prove it.”
Clay, who had a hard time imagining a hundred thousand dollars, just nodded. “And the competition never lets up. Ever. Whether it’s sailing or riding or running, Jack and Blake have to constantly outdo each other.” She laughed, very easily, and Clay wondered if orange juice was all that she had been drinking this morning. “It’s even gotten to our Christmas cards. Here, let me show you.”
She pointed out the first set of cards. “Here, this is when it was easy. Here they are, with a picture in front of the State House. Here we are, a year later, Jack and me, in front of the White House. Here they are, on a Hawaiian beach. Here we are, in the Swiss Alps. There they are, last year, at a base camp below Mount Everest, if you can believe it. Now that one got Jack plenty steamed, I don’t mind telling you.”
Clay wondered, as he looked over the photos, if there was anything she minded telling him. He had lived in northern New England all of his life and had been to Boston exactly seven times and New York City once. The two couples in the exotic pictures looked rich and content and very happy, and even Clay was surprised at how quickly and deeply he now disliked them.
He looked over at the brightly lit tree. “I’m sorry, I still don’t get it. You want me to take a Christmas-card photo, and not a portrait?”
She made a production of closing the photo album while the back of her hand brushed his right thigh. “That’s right, and we want it to be a... um, well, it’ll all sound so silly, but we’re looking for something... unique.”
He nodded. He knew what was coming. About ninety-nine point nine percent of his portrait work was straightforward enough. The happy bride and groom uttering low insults to each other while maintaining their wide smiles for the camera’s benefit. The proud mom and dad with the newborn who either puked or howled during the studio time. And the ever-popular family portrait, trying to line up twenty-three aunts, uncles, cousins, brothers, and sisters, some of whom hated to be in the same time zone as their closest blood relatives.
Then there was the other point-one percent of his work. Glamour photography, some called it. Others called it soft-core or low-rent porn. Whatever. If this young woman wanted a picture of herself and her husband in boots, leather gear, and Christmas ornaments in front of an artificial tree, for the benefit of their rich friends, so be it. He would still make a pretty good bundle today, and would probably get to see this empty and pretty young thing out of her jeans and tight sleeveless blouse. Maybe it wasn’t going to be a dreary day after all.
Then Mrs. Tate surprised him.
“Oh,” she said, smiling widely. “I bet you thought we wanted something naughty, right? Like me in a nightie and Jack in a jockstrap or something.”
“Uh, the thought did occur to me,” he said, feeling slightly embarrassed and not enjoying the sensation at all.
She laughed again and quickly touched his leg. “Oh, nothing as plain or droll as that. It’s just that I wanted to put Blake and Terry in their place. I had this idea, a theme really, of what to put on our Christmas card. You see, I wanted something that said ‘Christmas Was a Killer This Year,’ and have a picture of the two of us on the couch. Dead.”
“Dead?”
An enthusiastic nod. “Dead, yes. The two of us on the couch, next to the tree and the gifts, and quite dead.” She giggled. “Nice and still and dead. Don’t you get it? ‘Christmas Was a Killer This Year.’ Let’s see if they can top that one.”
He literally had no idea what to say next, and was saved when there was a clumping sound from the stairs at the far wall, and Mr. Jack Tate came into view. Clay stood up as the other man strode over. He was a few inches taller than Clay and had on summer clothes that said he was well-off and enjoying himself mightily: light pink polo shirt, khaki shorts with a thin leather belt, gold watch on one wrist and gold chain on the other, and deck shoes that looked a week old. His face was unlined and tanned, and he had a thick moustache. His black hair was cut short and was sprinkled with gray; his wife squealed a greeting and stood up and kissed him on the cheek.