It was meant as a compliment, of course, but his words reminded me of Arlis’s exaggerations, which that rough old man considered a smooth way of flirting. It also caused me to once again recall what Mrs. Whitney had said about a young, handsome boy like Nathan being a fool to trust a celebrated homosexual photographer.
I took the magazine, which was folded open. After several seconds, I pulled out the barstool that separated the two men, straddled it, then placed the magazine on the counter.
“A cowgirl?” I said, perplexed by what I saw, which might have sounded sharp, so I added in a rush, “She’s real pretty, of course. Long-legged, and I like her boots. She’s… well, handsome, I guess.”
“I’ll be damned,” Darren said. He was chuckling in a way that told me I’d noticed something he’d missed, which apparently pleased him. “Let me see that.”
Instead of giving me time to slide the magazine over, the photographer leaned his shoulder against mine so he could see better. Just as unexpectedly, Nathan, on my right, did the same thing. For an instant, I stiffened, a claustrophobic reaction… but then I took a breath and stopped trying to shrink myself. It was pleasant, I realized, to be sandwiched between two nice men. I could feel the warmth of their shoulders clear through to my ribs, something I’d seldom experienced, which was enjoyable in a mild way and made me feel more at ease.
“Actress Barbara Stanwyck, in costume, on the set of The Big Valley.” Nathan read the caption aloud as if he’d never seen the picture before. Which made no sense until Darren said, “My God, she’s a classic example of female masculinity. Of course… Barbara Stanwyck-perfect. This isn’t the image I wanted you to see, Hannah pet, but it has a wonderful duality that fits. How in hell did I miss it?”
Darren leaned in front of me to say to Nathan, “Didn’t I tell you? Serendipity-if your heart’s open, if it’s free of meanness, destiny takes us by the hand and leads us to wonderful places. We’ll compare the two shots in a minute, but”-he took the magazine, flipped it over, and squared it in front of me-“here’s the image I wanted you to see. It’s the image that told me I must get you in front of the lens.”
I said, “Her?”
Darren’s expression read Don’t be so surprised. Whatever success he had earned could have had something to do with the look He was giving me, a private signal that connected his eyes with mine. It offered reassurance and told me what happened next was safe no matter what I decided.
Then he explained the picture, saying, “This image was taken in nineteen forty-two by Otto Schmidt, a master of black-and-white. A true craftsman with the old large format Leica cameras. A near genius, of course, when it came to lighting, as you can see.”
Now, instead of looking at a handsome woman wearing jeans, boots, and a cowboy hat, I was looking at a woman the caption said was Marlissa Dorn, Hollywood Siren. The actress was standing, eyes tilted upward at the camera, hip canted against a concert piano, wearing a black gown, low-cut, and balancing a freshly lit cigarette between her fingers at ear level.
“Beautiful,” I said softly. “I’ve never seen any of her films, but the name’s familiar. And I love old movies. She reminds me of Rita Hayworth.”
Darren waited for Nathan to tell me that Marlissa Dorn’s family had once owned a vacation home on Sanibel Island before agreeing, “Rita Hayworth, another one. The camera loved them both. They had a sensuality that was visceral… subliminal, very, very private. But they couldn’t hide it from the lens. My God, they practically melted the lens. And a physical fluidness, perfectly at ease with their bodies.”
I felt my ears warm, recalling what Darren had said about me-physically at ease… no wastedeffort. But it was silly to think I looked anything like this glamorous woman who’d been about my age eighty years ago.
Darren was on his feet. I watched him cross the room, slim and elegant in the way he moved, then my eyes returned to the magazine.
Nate said in a low voice, “He’s dying to have you sit for him.” Then, about Marlissa Dorn, “She has a smoky look. Sort of smolders and she’s not even trying. That’s what Darre likes about the shot.”
The woman was staring at the camera through a luminous frame of cigarette smoke. Her hair was combed full and glossy to her shoulders, head tilted in a way that had an attitude but was attractive, not superior-acting or off-putting. For an instant, Mrs. Whitney came into my mind and I found myself hoping that she, too, had once looked as glamorous and confident. A pleasant memory might help the poor woman finally get some sleep-that, plus the soup I’d reheated and forced her to eat before leaving.
“Thanks to Nate, I’ve been reading about your family,” Darren called from across the room. He was returning, carrying a newer version of the Florida history book that was still in the old briefcase stored on my boat. “I’ll be honest. I love the historical connection. It gives the project… fabric. Makes shooting you part of a larger canvas.”
I’ve heard my family’s stories so many times, I only pretended to be interested when Darren opened the book, still talking about photography, then switched to the subject of history. My great-great-grandmother Hannah Smith was called Big Six by early Floridians. She was well known because of her height and unusual strength, which was required of a woman who chopped wood and hunted hogs for a living. Not hogs natural to Florida but feral hogs that had escaped the Spaniards and still ran wild on the islands. The first Hannah Smith-like my late aunt, Hannah Three-had fallen in with rough men, and both Hannahs had died violent deaths due to their bad judgment. It was an error that I have probably been overly careful not to repeat.
Hannah One’s sister, Sarah Smith, was called Ox Woman because Sarah was the first person-maybe the only person-to drive an oxcart across the Everglades before roads were built. Having hiked part of the Glades with my Uncle Jake, who was a crack shot and expert hunter, I knew better than most what my relative, Sarah, had done was near impossible by my own weaker standards. I admired her for that more than I’ve ever admitted publicly, but the last remaining photo of Sarah-which Darren and Nate were looking at now-still makes me wince. Sarah was anything but a handsome woman, unlike Hannah One. And certainly not beautiful like Hannah Three. Secretly, I feared early Floridians had nicknamed Sarah for her looks, not her gift for driving oxen through swamps and sawgrass.
Out of politeness, though, Darren was disagreeing with the thoughts in my head, telling Nathan, “See the high cheekbones? Might be a touch of American Indian in the family. And an incredibly strong jaw… those piercing eyes, Sarah Smith is still alive on this page, see what I mean? It’s a woman’s inner strength, her physical presence, that makes for a timeless image. Like this.” Darren tapped the picture of Marlissa Dorn I was still studying, which was easier for me than suffering yet another look at my great-great-aunt, the Ox Woman.
“Hannah?”
Darren’s friend wanted my attention again, but I was becoming uncomfortable. Plus, I was still thinking about Mrs. Whitney and what Ricky Meeks had done to her-and what at this very moment he might be doing to Olivia Seasons, who was a younger woman and not nearly so toughened by life as Elka, who had survived four husbands, three of them wealthy.
Returning to the chair where I’d been sitting, I said, “While we’re on the subject of pictures, you mind taking a quick look at this?” I opened the grocery bag I’d placed on the floor beside me.
Nate said quickly, “I don’t think Darre would be interested,” sounding nervous, and then waited through several seconds of silence before asking me, “Where’d you get that?” The bag, he meant.