I shook my head.
“I told her forgiveness is for women who don’t have the balls for revenge. I haven’t shown any balls for a while, but that shit’s about to change.” Mrs. Whitney glanced at the photo, which she’d crumpled, then had tried to smooth out so I wouldn’t know. “You’re sure Mickey’s with this girl you mentioned. Somebody’s niece?”
“The family thinks so.”
The woman smoked, disappearing inside her thoughts for a while. Finally, a bitter smile appeared on her face. “I guess I don’t have to ask if you can keep a secret, do I?… Uhh-”
“Hannah Smith,” I told her for the fourth time. Then, because it was the professional thing to do, I added, “We can sign a contract of confidentiality, if you want. I’ve got some forms on my boat. But first, eat some of that soup… Elka. Please.”
SIX
DARREN, THE FAMOUS PHOTOGRAPHER, WAS HOLDING open an old Life magazine he’d taken from a stack and was saying to Nathan, “You don’t see the resemblance? Tell me you don’t see a resemblance.”
Darren was smiling, having fun, eyes moving from the magazine to me, then to Nate, whose shaved head looked flushed like he’d worked out, gone for a swim, and maybe had a shower during the five hours I’d spent with Mrs. Whitney. We were in the photographer’s studio, floors of blond wood, high white walls that were silken with sunlight from windows spaced along a beamed ceiling. The room, furniture, pastel colors meshed so cleanly, it was hard not to be jealous of the man’s good taste. On the other hand, the thought that places such as Darren’s cost more than my mother, Loretta, made in her lifetime didn’t enter my head-but only because I’d reflected on that fact so many times while idling my boat along the back side of Captiva Island, or fishing with clients off the beach. On the west coast of Florida, it’s something you get used to.
“Hannah… Hannah, at least have a look.” Darren was feeling talkative after a few whiskeys. Not drunk, not disrespectful-the man was always so sweet and caring, it was sometimes hard to believe he was who he was. I knew he was working hard to make Nathan’s friend his friend, too, so I let him see me smile and showed some interest in what he said next.
“I’ve obsessed about shooting you ever since you refused to sit… two weeks ago? No, three, because I’d just gotten back from L.A. But that’s not the reason, dear. Ask Nate. Nate… tell her! I see you as a gawky American colt who’s turning into a swan but doesn’t realize it. You’re heart’s too… something… Solid? Yes, too solid to know or even care. Said it from the start, didn’t I?” Smiling wider as Nathan nodded shyly, Darren held up the magazine as if it were a prize. “Then I find this!”
Before I knew what I was saying, I replied, “A colt’s a male horse, Darren. And shooting swans has nothing to do with taking pictures, in my experience. But I am flattered you think I look like a woman in an old magazine.”
Nate turned to me, his expression stricken, and said, “Hannah,” which I felt in my chest because I realized I’d been rude and I hadn’t intended to be rude. Truth was, I still felt numb from some of the things Mrs. Whitney had told me regarding Ricky Meeks. Most especially were the embarrassing acts Meeks had forced upon the woman and other bad things he’d manipulated her into doing. Never in my life had I heard such stories and I’m not a naïve person. Like everyone else, I spend more time on the Internet than I should, sometimes peeking at videos and reading about subjects I know I shouldn’t.
There was something else bothering me, too, which is probably why I’d snapped at the man without thinking. It was something nasty that Mrs. Whitney had said about Darren an hour or so after I’d made the mistake of mentioning his name to Nathan. The woman had been in one of her mean moods at the time. I wasn’t ready to accept the meanness of what she’d said about Darren-and Nathan’s stupidity-as truth, but I was feeling tense and on my guard more than usual.
I stared at my hands, which were folded on my knees, and said, “Darren, that didn’t come out right. I don’t know why but I’m still nervous around you. It’s not you, and please don’t fault Nate. It’s my problem. You’re always so kind to me, but then I end up opening my mouth and saying something stupid.”
“The camera will see that quality in her-that exact quality,” Darren said to Nate, which confused me but didn’t stump my friend for a moment.
“Hannah’s always had a gift for pissing off people,” Nate agreed yet sounded defensive. “Especially when it comes to putting men in their place. But I’ll always take her side, Darre. It’s the way it’s always been with us and that’s not going to change.”
Nathan’s warning tone startled me, but Darren appeared to like it. “Her honesty, that’s what I meant, you goose. Match the right camera, the right glass and light, and the lens doesn’t lie. A person’s soul is a robe worn on the outside. Like skin… or an aura.”
“The outside,” Nathan echoed, thinking it over while trying to hide his relief.
“A camera in the right hands, of course,” Darren added, reaching for ice tongs, then a bottle with a label that read Laphroaig, which was scotch whiskey. “The soul on the other side of the camera has to commit total energy to the moment. All of his… well, it’s a childlike quality. Spontaneous. An openhearted love of whatever the lens discovers. I don’t let myself explore why or how it all works, it just does. Photography-art, not Photoshop tripe-has more in common with sorcery than engineering. Spirituality… passion…”
The man paused, looking toward the hall gallery where photos of actors and rock stars were hung, individually lighted, one of the most famous, an AC/DC guitarist, shirtless, mouth open wide in the spotlight, his long hair dark with sweat. Then Darren said, “No! Sensuality-that’s the real key. Never underestimate the power of raw sensuality and sexuality. Those two elements, they fire every passion in us. Love, devotion, courage. And also all that’s evil and ugly and weak. Scratch the surface of either, and those two elements come pouring out like blood.”
Darren had clanked cubes into a rocks glass, poured it half full, now lifted the glass in salute. “The sun’s almost below the yardarm, mateys. Sure neither of you will join me?”
He and Nathan were on barstools, a lead-sheathed counter supporting an ice bucket, crystal ashtray, plus Nate’s elbow along with a quart of grape Gatorade, most of it gone. Opposite them was a restaurant-quality kitchen, stainless gas burners, a butcher’s block, pans and pots suspended above, polished and orderly as church bells. I’d been sitting off in a corner by myself on one of the sleekest Manhattan-looking chairs I’d ever seen, drinking a bottle of water and texting an update to Lawrence Seasons on what I had learned. I still regretted my stupid words to Darren, but my brain immediately locked onto what he had just said, aware that it might be important. Sex, passion, weakness, and evil. I didn’t understand his meaning-not in my head, anyway-but it did offer some hope that I might yet understand why Mrs. Whitney had behaved as she had with a man half her age who had no solid job or education. I knew I’d have to spend time on the water, or in my bed, to think it through, but the connection alone was enough to give me faith.
“I’d like to see that magazine,” I said, storing my cell phone and getting to my feet. “Sorry about my rudeness. I should be thanking you instead of interrupting your cocktail hour.”
Darren sat straighter, watching me cross the room, then said, “Sensuous,” as if the word had reappeared inside his head. As an aside to Nathan, he added, “Pure motion… physically at ease… no wasted effort. I can see why they called your great-aunt ‘Big Six.’”