Manhattan December 2019
When the waitress came by with the dessert menu and an offer of coffee,
Maggie used the opportunity to catch her breath. She’d related her story throughout their meal, barely noticing as her mostly untouched plate was cleared. Mark ordered a decaf while Maggie declined, still nursing her original glass of wine. There were only a handful of occupied tables left and conversations had dropped to a low murmur.
“Bryce taught you how to take pictures?” Mark exclaimed.
Maggie nodded. “And he introduced me to the rudimentary basics of Photoshop, which was relatively new back then. His mom taught me a lot of darkroom technique—dodging and burning and cropping, the importance of timing in the development process…essentially, the now-lost art of making prints the old-fashioned way. Between the two of them, it was like a crash course. He also predicted that digital photography was going to replace film and that the internet was going to change the world—lessons I took to heart.”
Mark raised an eyebrow. “Impressive.” “He was a smart guy.”
“Did you start taking pictures right away?”
“No. Bryce being Bryce, he wanted me to learn the way he had, so he came by the day after Christmas with a photography book, a thirty-five- millimeter Leica camera, the manual, and a light meter,” she said. “I was still technically on break, so I only had to finish the assignments I hadn’t yet completed. In any case, by then, I had actually begun to pull ahead in my classes, which left more time to learn photography. He showed me how to load film, the way various settings altered the photo, and how to work the light meter. He walked me through the manual, and the book he brought
touched on composition, framing, and what to think about when attempting to take a photograph. It was overwhelming, obviously, but he went through it all step by step. After which he’d quiz me, of course.”
Mark smiled. “When did you take your first real photo?”
“Right before the new year. They were all black and white—it was much easier to develop negatives into contact sheets and make prints ourselves in Bryce’s darkroom. We didn’t need to send film to Raleigh for processing, which was good because I didn’t have a ton of money. Just what my mom had given me at the airport.”
“What did you shoot that first day?”
“Some images of the ocean, a few old fishing boats tied up at the dock. Bryce had me make adjustments to the aperture and shutter speed, and when I got the contact sheets back, I was…” She searched for the right word, remembering. “Awestruck. The differences in effect just floored me, and that was when I first and truly began to understand what Bryce meant when he said photography was all about capturing the light. After that, I was hooked.”
“That fast?”
“You had to be there,” she said. “And the funny thing is, the more I got into photography over the next few months, the easier my schoolwork became and the faster I completed it. Not because I was suddenly smarter, but because finishing early meant more time with the camera. I even started doing extra homework at night, and when he’d show up the next day, I’d hand over two or three assignments first thing. How crazy is that?”
“I don’t think it’s crazy at all. You’d found your passion. Sometimes I wonder if I’ll ever find mine.”
“You’re going to be a pastor. If that doesn’t require passion, I don’t know what does.”
“I suppose. It’s definitely a calling, but it doesn’t seem like the same feeling you had when you saw the contact sheet. There’s never been a ‘Eureka!’ moment for me. The feeling has just always been there, simmering in my bones, ever since I was young.”
“That doesn’t make it less real. How does Abigail feel about it?”
“She’s supportive. Of course, she also pointed out that it means she’ll have to be the principal breadwinner in the family.”
“What? No dreams of being a televangelist or building a megachurch?”
“I think we’re all called in different ways. Neither of those appeals to me.”
Maggie was pleased by his answer, convinced that many television preachers were hypocritical salesmen, more interested in their celebrity lifestyles than in helping others become closer to God. At the same time, she admitted, her knowledge of such people was limited to what she’d read in the newspapers. She’d never actually met a televangelist or a megachurch pastor.
The waitress came by with an offer to refill Mark’s cup and he waved it off. When she left, he leaned over the table. “Can I pick up the dinner tab?”
“Not a chance,” Maggie said. “I invited you. And besides, I know exactly how much you earn, Mr. Have a Slice of Pizza Before You Go to Dinner.”
He laughed. “Thank you,” he said. “This was fun. What a terrific evening, especially at this time of year.”
She couldn’t help flashing on her long-ago Christmas in Ocracoke, knowing there had been beauty in its simplicity, in spending time with people she cared about rather than being alone.
She didn’t want to be alone on her last Christmas, and taking a few seconds to study Mark, she knew she suddenly didn’t want him to be alone, either. The next words came almost automatically.
“I think we need more to get into the spirit of the season.” “What did you have in mind?”
“What the gallery needs this year is a Christmas tree, don’t you think? How about I make arrangements to have a tree and decorations delivered? And then we’ll trim it together after we close tomorrow?”
“That sounds like a fantastic idea.”
* * *
The late dinner left Maggie feeling both exhilarated and exhausted, and she didn’t wake until almost noon the next day. Her pain level was tolerable, but she swallowed the pills anyway, washing them down with a cup of tea. She forced herself to have a piece of toast, puzzled that even with butter and gobs of jelly, it still tasted salty.
She took a bath and dressed, then spent some time on the computer. She ordered a tree, paying triple for expedited delivery so it would arrive at the gallery by five. For the decorations, she went with a complete set called Winter Wonderland, which included white lights, silver silk strands, and
white and silver ornaments. Again, to have it expedited cost a small fortune, but what did the cost really matter at this point? She wanted a memorable Christmas, and that was that. She then texted Mark, letting him know to take delivery and that she’d be there later.
Once that was done, she settled into the couch and wrapped herself in a blanket. She thought about calling her parents but decided to wait until tomorrow. On Sundays, she knew they’d both be around the house. She knew she should probably call Morgan, too, but she put that off as well. Morgan wasn’t the easiest person to talk to lately; really, when Maggie was being honest with herself, aside from a few rare exceptions, talking to her sister had never been all that easy.
Why was that the case, though, she wondered again, even aside from their obvious differences? Maggie supposed that when she’d returned from Ocracoke, it had been even more evident that Morgan was the preferred daughter. She had maintained her 4.0 average, was homecoming queen, and eventually went off to Gonzaga University, where she joined just the right sorority. Their parents couldn’t have been prouder and made sure Maggie always knew it. After graduating from college, Morgan began teaching music at a local school and dated guys who worked in banks or for insurance companies, the kind who wore suits to work every day. She eventually met Jim, who worked for Merrill Lynch, and after they’d dated for two years, he proposed. They’d had a smallish—but perfectly orchestrated—wedding, immediately moving into the house Jim and Morgan bought, complete with a grill in the backyard. A few years later, Morgan gave birth to Tia. Three years after that, Bella came along, giving rise to family photos so perfect they could have been used to sell frames.
Meanwhile, Maggie had abandoned the family and spent those years struggling to launch her career and living the wild life, which meant their relative positions as siblings hadn’t changed. Both Maggie and Morgan knew their familiar roles—the star and the struggler—which informed their regular, if not frequent, phone conversations.
But then Maggie got her break and slowly earned a reputation that allowed her to regularly travel the world; after that her stewardship of the gallery. Over time even her social life stabilized. Morgan seemed discomfited by these developments, and there’d been times when Maggie had even sensed a bit of jealousy. It was never overt while Maggie was in her twenties; most often, it took the form of passive-aggressive digs. I’m
sure the new guy you’re dating is a big step up from the last one, or Can you believe your luck?, or Have you seen the photographs in National Geographic this month? They’re really incredible.
The more successful Maggie became, the harder Morgan tried to keep the focus on herself. Usually, she’d describe one challenge after another— with the kids, with the house, with her job—before proceeding to explain how she’d solved the problems using both intelligence and perseverance. In those conversations, Morgan was simultaneously a victim and a hero, while Maggie was always just lucky.
For a long time, Maggie did her best to ignore those…quirks. Deep down, she knew Morgan loved her, and that having two young kids and taking care of a house while working a full-time job was stressful for anyone. Morgan’s self-involvement wasn’t unexpected, and besides, Maggie knew that, jealous or not, Morgan was proud of her.
It wasn’t until Maggie got sick that she began to question her most basic assumptions. Not long after the initial diagnosis—back when Maggie still had hope—Morgan’s marriage took a turn for the worse and those troubles became the focus of nearly every conversation. Instead of offering Maggie a chance to vent or express her worries about her cancer, Morgan would listen for only a short while before changing the subject. She’d complain that Jim seemed to regard her as a servant, or that Jim had closed down emotionally and wouldn’t consider counseling because he’d said that Morgan was the one who needed counseling. Or she’d admit that they hadn’t had s*x in months, or that Jim had started working late at the office three or four days a week. It was one thing after another and whenever Maggie tried to clarify something Morgan had said, her sister would grow irritated and accuse Maggie of taking Jim’s side. Even now, Maggie still wasn’t sure exactly what had gone wrong in the marriage other than the old cliché that Morgan and Jim had simply drifted apart.
Because Morgan was so unhappy—the word divorce had begun creeping into the conversations—Maggie was caught off guard by Morgan’s fury when Jim packed his bags and moved out. She was even more taken aback when the anger and bitterness intensified. While Maggie knew that going through a divorce was often a miserable experience, she couldn’t understand why Morgan seemed intent on making things worse. Why couldn’t they figure something out on their own, without adversarial
attorneys throwing gasoline on the fire, all the while running up the bills and slowing the process to a crawl?
Maggie knew she was probably being naive. She’d never gone through a divorce, but even so, Morgan’s sense of betrayal and absolute righteousness reflected her conviction that Jim deserved to be punished. For his part, Jim probably felt victimized as well, all of which meant a long and nasty divorce that took seventeen exhausting months to finally sort out.
But even that wasn’t the end of it. Last summer, whenever they touched base, Morgan had still complained about Jim and his new, younger girlfriend, or she’d wax on about the fact that Jim wasn’t measuring up as a parent. She would tell Maggie that Jim had been late to the parent-teacher conferences, or that he’d tried to take the kids hiking in the Cascades even though it was technically Morgan’s weekend to have them. Or that Jim had forgotten to bring an EpiPen when he’d taken the girls to an apple farm, even though Bella was allergic to bees.
To all of those things, Maggie had wanted to add, Chemotherapy sucks, by the way. My hair is falling out and I’m puking all the time. Thanks for asking.
In all fairness, Morgan did ask how Maggie was feeling; Maggie simply had the sense that no matter how awful she felt, Morgan viewed her own situation as worse.
All of that meant fewer and fewer phone calls, especially in the last month and a half. Their last call had taken place on Maggie’s birthday, before Halloween, and aside from a quick text and an equally quick response, they hadn’t even touched base on Thanksgiving. She hadn’t mentioned those things to Mark when talking about her reasons for wanting to stay quiet about her diagnosis for now. And it was also true that she didn’t want to cast a pall over Morgan’s Christmas, especially because of Tia and Bella. But for Christmas to remain peaceful, Maggie figured she’d be better off without her.
* * *
Maggie caught a cab to the gallery and arrived half an hour after closing. Despite the languid day and another dose of painkillers, she still felt thumped, like she’d been accidentally tossed into the dryer with the rest of the laundry. Her joints and muscles ached as though she’d exercised way too much, and her stomach was churning. When she caught sight of the Christmas tree just to the right of the door, however, her spirits lifted
slightly. It was full and straight; since she hadn’t chosen it, part of her had feared that she’d end up with the kind of tree Charlie Brown had picked in the old cartoon Christmas special. After unlocking the door, she stepped into the gallery just as Mark was emerging from the back offices.
“Hi,” he said, his face brightening. “You made it. For a few minutes there, I wasn’t sure you would.”
“Time slipped away from me.” It was more like not having enough steam to make the kettle whistle, but why start with the doom and gloom? “How was it today?”
“Moderately busy. There were a lot of groupies, but only a couple of photographs sold. We received a bunch of online orders, though.”
“Anything for Trinity?”
“Just some online inquiries. I’ve already sent the information, so we’ll see how that goes. There was also an email from a gallery in Newport Beach wondering if Trinity would be open to doing a show out there.”
“He won’t,” Maggie said. “But I assume you passed the information along to his publicist?”
“I did. I also got all your online orders shipped.” “You’ve been busy. When did the tree arrive?”
“Around four or so? The decorations actually arrived earlier. I’m guessing they were really expensive.”
“The tree is pretty, too. I’m sort of amazed they had a good one left. I would have thought they’d all be sold by now.”
“Small miracles,” he agreed. “I already added water in the base and I popped over to Duane Reade to get an extension cord in case we need it.”
“Thanks.” She sighed. Even standing, she realized, was taking more effort than she’d imagined it would. “Would you mind bringing my office chair out here? So I can sit?”
“Of course,” he said. He turned and vanished into the back; a moment later, he was rolling the chair across the floor, finally adjusting it to face the tree. When Maggie sat, she winced and Mark frowned with concern.
“Are you feeling all right?”
“No, but I’m pretty sure I’m not supposed to be. What with the cancer eating my insides and all.”
His gaze fell, making her regret that she hadn’t come up with a gentler response, but cancer was anything but gentle.
“Can I get you anything else?”
“I’m all right for now,” she said. “Thank you.”
She studied the tree, thinking that it needed to be rotated slightly. Mark followed her eyes.
“You’re not happy about the gap toward the bottom, right?” “I didn’t notice it when I saw the tree from outside.”
He walked toward the tree. “Hmmm…” He gripped and lifted, rotating it half a turn. “Better?”
“Perfect,” she said.
“I have a surprise,” he added. “I hope you won’t mind.” “I love surprises.”
“Give me a minute, okay?”
He vanished into the back again, returning with a small portable speaker and candles tucked beneath his arm, along with two glasses filled with a creamy liquid. She assumed it was a smoothie, but as he drew near, she realized she was mistaken.
“Eggnog?”
“I thought it seemed appropriate.”
He handed her a glass and she took a sip, hoping her stomach wouldn’t sour. Thankfully, it didn’t, nor was there much of an aftertaste. She took another drink, realizing how hungry she was.
“There’s plenty in the back for refills,” he said. He took a sip as well, then set his glass on a low wooden pedestal. He put the speaker next to the glass and pulled his phone from his pocket. A few seconds later, she was listening to Mariah Carey singing “All I Want for Christmas Is You,” the volume low. He lit the candles, then went over and turned off most of the lights, leaving only the ones near the rear of the gallery illuminated.
He took a seat on the pedestal.
“My story really got to you, huh?” she asked.
“I told Abigail all about it when we FaceTimed last night. She suggested that if we were going to decorate the tree, I might as well try to re-create parts of your Ocracoke Christmas as well. She helped me with the playlist, and I picked up the eggnog and candles when I grabbed the extension cord.”
Maggie smiled as she removed her gloves, but still chilled, she decided to keep her jacket and scarf on. “I’m not sure I’m going to have enough energy to help you with the tree,” she confessed.
“That’s fine. You can direct, like Bryce’s mom did. Unless you’d like to try again tomorrow…”
“Not tomorrow. Let’s do it now.” She swallowed another mouthful of eggnog. “I wonder when people started putting up Christmas trees in the first place.”
“I’m pretty sure it was the mid- to late sixteenth century in what’s now Germany. For a long time, it was regarded as a Protestant custom. The first tree wasn’t displayed at the Vatican until 1982.”
“And you just happened to know that off the top of your head?” “I did a report on it when I was in high school.”
“I can’t remember anything from the reports I did in high school.” “Even Thurgood Marshall?”
“Even him. And just so you know, even though my family was Catholic, we had Christmas trees growing up.”
“Don’t blame the messenger,” he teased. “You ready to do some directing while I get to work?”
“Only if you’re sure you don’t mind.”
“Are you kidding? This is great. I don’t have a tree in my apartment, so this is the only chance I’ll have this year.”
He found the box, freed the lights from their plastic packaging, then plugged in the extension cord. Like Bryce long ago, he moved the tree out from the corner to string the lights, making adjustments as Maggie suggested. The silk ribbons came next, then finally a large matching bow, which he placed on top in lieu of a star. He finished by dispersing the ornaments throughout the tree, following Maggie’s instructions. After scooting it back into place, he retreated to Maggie’s side, the two of them evaluating it.
“Good?” he asked. “It’s perfect,” she said.
Mark continued to stare at the tree before finally reaching for his phone.
He took a series of pictures, then began tapping the screen. “Abigail?”
She watched him actually blush. “She wanted to see the tree as soon as it was finished. I’m not sure she trusted me to do a good job. I’m sending it to my parents, too.”
“Did you hear from your folks today?”
“They texted some photos from Nazareth and the Sea of Galilee. You’ve been to Israel, right?”
“It’s an incredible country. When I visited, I kept thinking to myself that I might be following in Christ’s footsteps. Literally, I mean.”
“What were you photographing?”
“Tel Megiddo, the Qumran cliffs, and a few other archeology digs. I was there for about a week, and I’ve always wanted to go back but there were too many other places to see for the first time.”
Mark leaned forward, his elbows on his knees as he stared up at her. “If I could visit one place in the world, what do you think that should be?” Light flickered in his eyes, making him appear almost childlike.
“A lot of people have asked me that question, but there’s no single answer. It depends on where you are in life.”
“I’m not sure I follow.”
“If you’ve been stressed and working a zillion hours for months, maybe the best place to go would be a tropical beach somewhere. If you’re in search of the meaning of life, maybe go hiking in Bhutan or visit Machu Picchu or attend mass in St. Peter’s Basilica. Or maybe you just want to see animals, so you travel to Botswana or northern Canada. I can say that I see all those places differently—and I photographed them differently—based partly on my own life experiences at the time.”
“I get that,” he said. “Or at least I think I do.”
“Where would you want to go? If you could only see one place?”
He reached for his eggnog and took a sip. “I like your Botswana idea. I’d love to go on safari, see the wild animals. I might even be convinced to bring a camera, though I’d stick with the automatic setting.”
“I can give you a few photography pointers if you’d like. And who knows? Maybe you’ll have your own gallery, too, one day.”
He laughed. “Not a chance.”
“Going on safari is a good choice. Maybe think about it for your honeymoon?”
“I hear it’s kind of expensive. But I’m confident we’ll get there one day.
Where there’s a will, there’s a way and all that.” “Like your parents and their trip to Israel?” “Exactly,” he said.
She leaned back in her chair, finally beginning to feel closer to normal again. She wasn’t yet warm enough to take off her jacket, but the bone-deep
chill had passed. “I know your dad is a pastor, but I don’t think I’ve ever asked about your mom.”
“She’s a child psychologist. She and my dad met when they were both getting their PhDs at Indiana.”
“Does she teach or practice?”
“She’s done a bit of both in the past, but now she mainly practices. She also assists the police when necessary. She’s an on-call specialist if there’s a child in trouble, and because she often serves as an expert witness, she testifies in court quite a bit.”
“She sounds smart. And very busy.” “She is.”
Though it took some effort, Maggie tucked her leg up, trying to get more comfortable. “I’m guessing that in your house, there wasn’t a lot of shouting when emotions were high. Since your dad’s a pastor and your mom is a psychologist?”
“Never,” he agreed. “I don’t think I’ve ever heard either of them raise their voice. Unless they were cheering for me in hockey or baseball, I mean. They prefer talking things out, which sounds great, but it can also be frustrating. It’s no fun to be the only one shouting.”
“I can’t imagine that you ever shouted.”
“I didn’t do it much, but when I did, they’d ask me to lower the volume so we could have a reasonable discussion, or they’d tell me to go to my room until I calmed down, after which we’d have the reasonable discussion anyway. It didn’t take long before I understood that shouting doesn’t work.”
“How long have your parents been married?” “Thirty-one years,” he said.
She did the mental calculation. “They’re a little older, then, right? Since they met when they were getting their PhDs?”
“They’ll both turn sixty next year. My mom and dad sometimes talk about retiring, but I’m not sure that day will ever come. They both love what they do too much.”
She recalled her earlier reflections about Morgan. “Did you ever wish you had siblings?”
“Not until recently,” he said. “Being an only child was all I knew. I think my parents wanted more kids, but it just didn’t work out. And being an only child sometimes has its advantages. It’s not like I had to make compromises when it came to what movie to see, or what to ride first at
Disney World. But now that I’m with Abigail, and I see how close she is to her siblings, I sometimes wonder what it would have been like.”
After Mark trailed off, neither of them said anything for a short spell. She had the sense that he wanted to hear more about her time in Ocracoke, but realized she wasn’t quite ready to start just yet. Instead:
“What was it like growing up in Indiana?” she asked. “It’s one of the states I’ve never visited.”
“Do you know anything about Elkhart?” “Not a single thing.”
“It’s in the northern part of the state, with a population of about fifty thousand, and like a lot of towns in the Midwest, it still has a small-town vibe. Most stores close at six, most of the restaurants are done serving at nine, and agriculture—in our case, dairy—plays a big part in the economy. I do think people there are genuinely kind. They’ll help out a sick neighbor, and churches are central to the community. But when you’re a kid, you don’t really think about any of those things. What was important to me was that there were parks and fields to play on, baseball diamonds, basketball courts, a hockey rink. Growing up, as soon as I’d get home from school, I’d head straight back out to play with my friends. There was always a game going on somewhere. That’s what I remember most about growing up there. Just…playing basketball or baseball or soccer or hockey every afternoon.”
“And here I thought everyone in your generation was glued to their iPads,” she said in mock wonder.
“My parents wouldn’t let me have one. They didn’t even allow me to get an iPhone until I was seventeen, and then they made me buy it. I had to work all summer to afford it.”
“Were they anti-technology?”
“Not at all. I had a computer at home and they had cell phones. I think they wanted me to grow up the same way they had.”
“Old-fashioned values?” “I suppose.”
“I’m beginning to like your parents more and more.”
“They’re good people. Sometimes I don’t know how they do it.” “What do you mean?”
He stared into his eggnog, as though searching for words in the glass. “In her job, my mom can hear some pretty awful things, especially when she works with the police. Physical abuse, s*xual abuse, emotional abuse,
abandonment…And my dad…because he’s a pastor, he does a lot of counseling, too. People come to him for guidance when they’re having marital troubles, or struggling with addiction, or having problems on the job, or their kids are acting up, or even if they’re having a crisis of faith. He also spends a lot of time at the hospital, as hardly a week goes by when someone in the church isn’t sick, or in an accident, or needs comfort in their grief. It’s draining for both of them. When I was growing up, there’d be times when one or the other of them would be really quiet while we were having dinner and I came to recognize the signs of a particularly hard day.”
“But they still love it?”
“They do. And I think part of them feels a real sense of responsibility when it comes to helping others.”
“It’s obviously rubbed off on you. Here you are, staying late yet again.” “This is a pleasure,” he said. “Not a sacrifice in the slightest.”
She liked that. “I’d like to meet your parents one day. If they ever make it to New York, I mean.”
“I’m sure they’d like to meet you, too. How about you? What are your parents like?”
“They’re just parents.”
“Have they ever come to New York?”
“Twice. Once in my twenties, and once when I was in my thirties.” Then, as if realizing how that sounded, she added, “It’s a long flight and they’re not big fans of the city, so it was usually easier if I saw them in Seattle. Depending on where I was shooting, sometimes I would just route my return flight through Seattle and stay for a weekend. Until recently, that usually happened once or twice a year.”
“Is your dad still working?”
She shook her head. “He retired a few years back. Now he plays with model trains.”
“Seriously?”
“He had them when he was a kid, and after he retired, he got back into it. He built a big layout in the garage—old western town, canyon, hills covered in trees—and he’s continually adding new buildings or shrubbery or signs, or laying a new track. It’s actually pretty impressive. The newspaper did an article on it last year, complete with pictures. And it keeps him busy and out of the house. Otherwise, I think my parents would drive each other crazy.”
“And your mom?”
“She volunteers at the church a few mornings a week, but mainly she helps my sister, Morgan, with the kids. My mom picks them up from school, watches them during the summer, brings them to their events if Morgan is working late, whatever.”
“What does Morgan do?”
“She’s a music teacher, but she’s also in charge of the drama club. There are always after-school rehearsals for concerts or shows.”
“I’ll bet your mom loves having the grandkids around.”
“She does. And without her, I’m not sure what Morgan would do. She got divorced and it’s been hard.”
Mark nodded before lowering his eyes. Both of them were quiet for a moment before Mark finally motioned toward the tree. “I’m glad you decided to put up a tree in here. I’m sure the customers will appreciate it.”
“The tree was for me, honestly.” “Can I ask you something?”
“Sure.”
He turned to face her. “Was that Christmas in Ocracoke your favorite?”
In the background, she could still hear the music Mark had selected drifting from the speaker.
“In Ocracoke, as you know, I was in the middle of a very hard time. And of course all the childhood wonder about the holiday was gone. But… Christmas that year felt so real to me. The flotilla, decorating the tree with Bryce, volunteering on Christmas Eve, and going to midnight mass, and then, of course, Christmas itself. I loved it then, but over time, the memory has become even more special. It’s the one Christmas I wish I could experience again.”
Mark smiled. “I like that you have that memory.”
“Me too. And I still have that print of the lighthouse, by the way. It’s hanging on the wall of the bedroom I use as a studio.”
“Did the two of you ever end up making the biscuits?”
“I suppose that’s your way of asking what comes next in the story. Or am I wrong?”
“I’m dying to know what happened next.”
“I suppose I could tell you a bit more. But only on one condition.” “What’s that?”
“I’m going to need some more eggnog.”
“You got it,” he said. Grabbing both glasses, he went to the back, returning with the eggnog. Remarkably, the thick, sweet concoction was proving to be both easy on her stomach and strangely filling, something she hadn’t felt in weeks. She took another swallow.
“Did I tell you about the storm?”
“You mean the one on Christmas? When it was raining?” “No,” she said. “A different storm. The one in January.”
Mark shook his head. “You told me about the week after Christmas, when you powered through your schoolwork and Bryce began teaching you the basics of photography.”
“Oh, yeah,” she said. “That’s right.” She studied the ceiling as if scanning the exposed pipes for her lost memories. When she returned her gaze to Mark, she commented, “My grades were actually pretty good by the end of that first semester, by the way. For me, anyway. A couple of A’s and the rest were B’s. It ended up being my best semester in high school.”
“Even better than the spring semester?” “Yes,” she said.
“Why? Because photography took over?”
“No,” she said. “It wasn’t that. I think…” She adjusted her scarf, buying time to figure out how best to pick up the thread where she’d left off.
“For Bryce and me, I think everything began to change right around the time that the nor’easter smashed into Ocracoke…”
