Manhattan December 2019
Mark was sitting with his fingertips pressed together when Maggie
finally trailed off, his expression unreadable. He said nothing right away but finally shook his head, as though suddenly realizing it was his turn to speak. “I’m sorry,” he said. “I guess I’m still trying to absorb what you just
told me.”
“My story so far isn’t quite what you expected, is it?”
“I’m not sure what I expected,” he admitted. “What happened next?” “I’m a bit too tired to go into the rest of it just now.”
Mark raised a hand. “I get it. But still…wow. When I was sixteen, I doubt I could have handled a crisis like that.”
“I didn’t have a choice in the matter.”
“Still…” He absently scratched an ear. “Your aunt Linda seems interesting.”
Maggie couldn’t help smiling. “For sure.” “Do you still keep in touch?”
“We used to. She and Gwen visited me in New York a few times and I saw her in Ocracoke once, but mainly we wrote letters and chatted on the phone. She passed away six years ago.”
“I’m sorry to hear that.” “I still miss her.”
“Did you keep the letters?” “Every single one.”
He gazed off to the side before coming back to Maggie. “Why did your aunt stop being a nun? Did you ever ask?”
“Not back then. I would have been uncomfortable asking her, and besides, I was too wrapped up in my own problems for the question to have
even crossed my mind. It took me years to broach the subject, but when I did, I didn’t get an answer that I really understood. I think I was hoping for more of a smoking gun or something.”
“What did she say?”
“She said that life was about seasons, and that the season had changed.” “Huh. That is a bit mysterious.”
“I’m guessing she got tired of dealing with all those pregnant teens.
Speaking from experience, we can be a moody bunch.”
He chuckled before growing contemplative. “Do convents still take in pregnant teenagers?”
“I have no idea, but I sort of doubt it. Times change. A few years ago, when I caught the ‘I wonder’ bug, I searched for the Sisters of Mercy on the internet and learned that they’d closed more than a decade earlier.”
“Where was her convent? Before she left, I mean.”
“Illinois, I think. Or maybe it was Ohio. Somewhere in the Midwest, anyway. And don’t ask me how she ended up there in the first place. Like my dad, she was from the West Coast.”
“How long was she a nun?”
“Twenty-five years or so? Maybe a little less or more, I’m not really sure. Gwen too. I think Gwen took her orders even before my aunt did.”
“Do you think they were…?”
When he paused, Maggie lifted an eyebrow. “Lovers? I honestly don’t know that either. As I got older, I sort of thought they might be, since they were always together, but I never saw them kiss or hold hands or anything like that. One thing I know for certain, though: they loved each other deeply. Gwen was at my aunt Linda’s bedside when she passed away.”
“Do you keep in touch with her, too?”
“I was closer to my aunt, of course, but after she passed, I made sure to call Gwen a few times a year. But not so much lately. She has Alzheimer’s and I’m not sure she even remembers who I am anymore. She does remember my aunt, though, and that makes me happy.”
“It’s hard to believe that you’ve never told Luanne any of this.”
“It’s a habit. Even my parents still pretend that it never happened.
Morgan too.”
“Have you heard from Luanne? Since she left for Hawaii?”
“I haven’t told her what the doctor said, if that’s what you’re asking.”
He swallowed. “I hate that this is happening to you,” he said. “I really do.”
“You and me both. Do yourself a favor and never get cancer, especially when you’re supposed to be in the prime of life.”
He bowed his head and she knew he was at a loss for words. If joking about death helped her keep other, darker feelings at bay, the downside was that no one ever knew exactly how to respond. Finally, he looked up.
“I got a text from Luanne today. She said she’d texted you but that you didn’t get back to her.”
“I haven’t checked my phone today. What did it say?”
“It said to remind you to open your card if you haven’t already.”
Oh yeah. Because there’s a gift inside. “It’s probably still on the desk somewhere if you want to help me find it.”
He got up and started going through her inbox while Maggie rummaged in the top drawer of the desk. As she sorted, Mark pulled an envelope from a stack of invoices and handed it over.
“Is this it?”
“It is,” she said, taking a second to examine it. “I hope she’s not giving me a s*xy Polaroid of herself.”
Mark’s eyes widened. “That doesn’t sound like her…”
She laughed. “I’m teasing. I just wanted to see how you’d react.” She opened the envelope; inside was an elegant card with a standard greeting, along with a short note from Luanne thanking Maggie for being a “pleasure with whom to work.” Luanne was always a stickler when it came to correct grammar and verbiage. Enclosed were two tickets to the New York City Ballet’s Nutcracker at Lincoln Center. The show was on Friday evening, two nights away.
She removed the tickets, showing them to Mark. “It’s a good thing you reminded me. They’re about to expire.”
“What a great gift. Have you seen it?”
“I’ve always talked about going but never quite made it. How about you?”
“Can’t say that I have.”
“Would you like to join me?” “Me?”
“Why not? It can be a reward since you’ve had to work late.” “I’d like that.”
“Great.”
“I also enjoyed your story, even if you left it with a cliff-hanger.” “What cliff-hanger?”
“About you, the rest of your pregnancy. The fact that you were beginning to forge a relationship with your aunt. Bryce. I know you agreed that he could be your tutor, but how did it go? Did he help? Or did he let you down?”
As soon as Mark said the name, she felt a stab of disbelief that nearly a quarter century had passed since the months she’d spent in Ocracoke.
“Are you really interested in the rest of it?” “I am,” he admitted.
“Why?”
“Because it helps me understand a bit more about you.”
She took another drink of her melting smoothie, and suddenly flashed on her most recent discussion with Dr. Brodigan. One moment, she observed cynically, you’re having a pleasant conversation with someone, and the next, all you can think about is the fact that you’re dying. She tried and failed to push the realization away before suddenly wondering if Mark was mirroring her thoughts. “I know you speak with Abigail every day. You’re welcome to tell her about my prognosis.”
“I wouldn’t do that. That’s…your business.” “Does she watch the videos?”
“Yes.”
“Then she’ll find out anyway. I was planning on posting about this latest development after I tell my parents and my sister.”
“You haven’t told them yet?”
“I’ve decided to wait until after Christmas.” “Why?”
“If I told them now, they’d probably either want me to immediately fly back to Seattle—which I don’t want to do—or they’d insist on coming out here, and I don’t want that, either. They’d stress and need to wrestle with their grief, and it would be harder for all of us. As an added bonus, it would ruin all their future Christmases. I’d rather not do that.”
“It’s going to be hard no matter when you tell them.”
“I know. But my family and I have a…unique relationship.” “How so?”
“I haven’t exactly lived the kind of life my parents anticipated. I always had the feeling that I was born into the wrong family somehow, and I learned a long time ago that our relationship works best when we maintain some distance between us. They haven’t understood my choices. As for my sister, she’s more like my parents. She did the whole marriage, kids, suburbs thing, and she’s still as beautiful as ever. It’s hard to compete with someone like that.”
“But look at all you’ve done.”
“In my family, I’m not sure that matters.”
“I’m sorry to hear that.” In the silence that followed, Maggie suddenly yawned and Mark cleared his throat. “Why don’t you go ahead and take off if you’re tired,” he said. “I’ll make sure everything is logged properly and handle all the shipments.”
In the past, she would have insisted on staying. Now she knew it wouldn’t serve any purpose. “Are you sure?”
“You’re taking me to the ballet. It’s the least I can do.”
After she bundled up, Mark followed her to the door and pulled it open, ready to lock up behind her. The wind was harsh, biting her cheeks.
“Thanks again for the smoothie.”
“Do you want me to get you an Uber or a cab? It’s cold out there.” “It’s not that far. I’ll be fine.”
“See you tomorrow?”
She didn’t want to lie; who knew how she would feel? “Maybe,” she said.
When he nodded, his lips a grim line, she could see he understood.
* * *
By the time she reached the corner, Maggie knew she’d made a mistake. It wasn’t just biting outside; it felt arctic, and she was shivering hard even after entering her apartment. Feeling as if a block of ice were lodged in her chest, she huddled on the couch beneath a blanket for nearly half an hour before she summoned the energy to move again.
In the kitchen, she made chamomile tea. She thought about taking a warm bath as well, but it was too much effort. Instead, she went to her bedroom, slipped into a pair of thick flannel pajamas, a sweatshirt, two pairs of socks, and a nightcap to keep her head warm, and crawled under the covers. After finishing half a cup of the tea, she dozed off and slept for sixteen hours.
* * *
She woke feeling awful, as though she’d just pulled an all-nighter. Worse, pain seemed to radiate from various organs, sharpening with every beat of her heart. Steeling herself, she was somehow able to rise from bed and make it to the bathroom, where she kept the painkillers Dr. Brodigan had prescribed.
She washed two of the pills down with water, then sat on the edge of the bed, still and concentrating, until she was sure she would keep them down. Only then was she ready to start her day.
Drawing a bath because showering now felt like being stabbed, she soaked in the warm, soapy water for nearly an hour. Afterward she texted Mark, letting him know that she wouldn’t make it to the gallery today but would touch base tomorrow regarding the time and place to meet for the ballet.
After dressing in comfy clothing, she made breakfast, even though it was already afternoon. She forced down an egg and half a piece of toast, both of which tasted like salted cardboard, and then—as had become a habit in the last week and a half—she settled onto the couch to watch the world outside her window.
There were snow flurries, the tiny flakes flickering against the glass, the movements hypnotic. Catching a glimpse of poinsettias in an apartment window across the street, she recalled her first Christmas back in Seattle after she’d returned from Ocracoke. Though she’d wanted to be excited for the holiday, she’d spent much of December simply going through the motions. Even on Christmas morning, she remembered opening her gifts with feigned enthusiasm.
She knew that part of that had to do with getting older. Gone were the beliefs from her childhood, and she’d reached the stage where even smelling a cookie meant calculating calories. But it was more than that. Her months in Ocracoke had turned her into someone she no longer recognized, and there were times when Seattle no longer felt like home. In retrospect, she understood that even back then, she’d been counting the days until she could finally leave for good.
Then again, she’d been feeling that way for months by that point. Not long after returning to Seattle, once she began to feel vaguely back to normal, Madison and Jodie had been eager to pick up where they had left off. On the surface, not much had changed. Yet the more time she spent
with them, the more she felt like she’d grown up while they’d stayed exactly the same. They had the same interests and insecurities they’d always had, the same sorts of crushes on boys, felt the same thrill at hanging out in the food court at the mall on Saturday afternoons. They were familiar and comfortable, and yet, little by little, Maggie began to understand they would eventually drift from her life entirely, in the same way Maggie sometimes felt as though she were drifting through her own.
She’d also spent much of those first few months back at home thinking about Ocracoke and missing it more than she’d imagined. She’d thought about her aunt and the desolate, windswept beach, the ferry rides and garage sales. It amazed her when she reflected on all that had happened while she was there, so much so that even now it sometimes took her breath away.
* * *
Maggie watched a drama on Netflix—something starring Nicole Kidman, though she couldn’t remember the title—took a late-afternoon nap, and then ordered two smoothies for delivery. She knew she wouldn’t be able to finish both, but she felt bad ordering only one, since the check was so small. And really, what did it matter if she threw one away?
She also debated whether to have a glass of wine. Not now, but later, maybe before bedtime. She hadn’t had a drink in months, even counting the little get-together at the gallery in late November, when she’d pretty much simply held the glass for show. While she was undergoing chemotherapy, the thought of alcohol had been nauseating, and after that, she simply hadn’t been in the mood. She knew there was a bottle in the refrigerator, something from Napa Valley she’d purchased on a whim, and though it sounded like a good idea now, she suspected that later, the desire would fade and all she’d want to do would be to sleep. Which might, she admitted, be for the best. Who knew how the wine would affect her? She was taking painkillers and ate so little that even a couple of sips might leave her either passed out or rushing to the bathroom to make an offering to the porcelain gods.
Call it a quirk, but Maggie never wanted anyone to see or hear her vomit, including the nurses who’d watched over her during chemotherapy. They would help her to the bathroom, where she’d shut the door and try to be as quiet as possible. Aside from the morning her mom had found her in the bathroom, as far as she could remember, there’d only been one other instance when someone had seen her throw up. That had been when she’d
gotten seasick while photographing from a catamaran off Martinique. The nausea had come on fast, like a tidal wave; she’d felt her stomach immediately beginning to turn, and she barely made it to the railing in time. She retched nonstop for the next two hours. It was the most miserable experience she’d ever had while working, so over-the-top that she hadn’t cared in the slightest whether anyone was watching. It had been all she could do to take any photographs that evening—only three out of more than a hundred were any good at all—and in between shots, she’d done her best to remain as still as possible. Morning sickness—hell, even chemotherapy sickness—couldn’t compare, and she’d wondered why she’d whined so much back when she was sixteen.
Who had she really been back then? She’d tried to re-create the story for Mark, especially how terrible those first weeks in Ocracoke had been for a lonely, pregnant sixteen-year-old. At the time, her exile had seemed eternal; in retrospect, all she could think was that her months there had passed too quickly.
Though she’d never said as much to her parents, she’d longed to return to Ocracoke. The feeling was especially strong in those first two months she was back in Seattle; in certain moments, the desire was almost overwhelming. While the passage of time diminished her longing, it never completely went away. Years ago, in the travel section of the New York Times, someone had written an account of their journeys in the Outer Banks. The writer had been hoping to see the islands’ wild horses and had finally spotted them near Corolla, but it was her description of the austere beauty of those low-slung barrier islands that struck a chord in Maggie. The article summoned the smell of Aunt Linda and Gwen making biscuits for fishermen early in the mornings, and the quiet solitude of the village on blustery winter days. She remembered clipping the article and sending it to her aunt, along with a few prints of some recent photographs she’d taken. As always, Aunt Linda had responded by mail, thanking Maggie for the article and raving about the photographs. She ended the letter by telling Maggie how proud she was of her and how much she loved her.
She’d told Mark that she and Aunt Linda had grown closer over the years, but she hadn’t elaborated fully. With her endless letters, Aunt Linda became a more constant presence in Maggie’s life than the rest of Maggie’s family combined. There was something comforting in the knowledge that someone out there loved and accepted her for the person she was; to
Maggie it was the months they’d spent together that taught her the meaning of unconditional love.
A few months before Aunt Linda died, Maggie had confessed to her that she had always wanted to be more like her. It was on her first and only visit to Ocracoke since the day she’d departed as a teenager. The village hadn’t changed much and her aunt’s house triggered a flood of bittersweet memories. The furniture was the same, the smells were the same, but the passage of time had slowly taken its toll. Everything was a bit more worn, faded, and tired, including Aunt Linda. By then, the lines on her face had deepened into wrinkles and her white hair had thinned to reveal her scalp in places. Only her eyes had remained the same, with that forever recognizable gleam. At the time, the two women were seated at the same kitchen table where Maggie had once done her homework.
“Why would you want to be more like me?” Aunt Linda had asked, taken aback.
“Because you’re…wonderful.”
“Oh, honey.” Aunt Linda had reached over with a hand so birdlike and frail that it nearly broke Maggie’s heart. She gently squeezed Maggie’s fingers. “Don’t you realize that I could say exactly the same thing about you?”
* * *
On Friday, after waking from her coma-like sleep and puttering around the apartment, Maggie swallowed some flavorless instant oatmeal while texting Mark her plans to meet him later at the gallery. She also made a reservation at the Atlantic Grill and arranged for a car pickup after dinner, since finding an Uber or cab in that neighborhood in the evening was often impossible. With all that accomplished, she went back to bed. Since a later- than-usual night was on tap, Maggie needed to be rested enough not to fall face-first into her dinner plate. She didn’t set the alarm and slept another three hours. Only then did she start getting ready.
The thing is, Maggie thought, when a face is as gaunt as a skeleton’s, with skin as fragile as tissue paper, there’s only so much you can do to appear presentable. One glimpse of her baby-fuzz hair and anyone would know she was knocking at death’s door. But she had to make an attempt, and after her bath, she took her time with her makeup, trying to add color (life) to her cheeks; next, she applied three different shades of lipstick before she found one that seemed remotely natural.
She had a choice about the hair—scarf or hat—and finally decided on a red wool beret. She thought about wearing a dress but knew she’d freeze, so she opted for pants with a thick, nubbly sweater that added substance to her frame. As always, her necklace was in place, and she donned a lovely bright cashmere scarf to keep her neck warm. When she stepped back to appraise herself in the mirror, she felt she looked almost as good as she had before chemotherapy started.
Collecting her purse, she took a couple more pills—the pain wasn’t as bad as yesterday, but no reason to risk it—and called an Uber. Pulling up to the gallery a few minutes after closing time, she saw Mark through the window, discussing one of her photographs with a couple in their fifties. Mark offered the slightest of waves when Maggie stepped inside and hurried to her office. On her desk was a small stack of mail; she was quickly sorting through it when Mark suddenly tapped on her open door.
“Hey, sorry. I thought they’d make a decision before you arrived, but they had a lot of questions.”
“And?”
“They bought two of your prints.”
Amazing, she thought. Early in the life of the gallery, weeks could go by without the sale of even a single print of hers. And while the sales did increase with the growth of her career, the real renown came with her Cancer Videos. Fame did indeed change everything, even if the fame was for a reason she wouldn’t wish upon anyone. Mark walked into the office before suddenly pulling up short. “Wow,” he said. “You look fantastic.”
“I’m trying.”
“How do you feel?”
“I’ve been more tired than usual, so I’ve been sleeping a lot.” “Are you sure you’re still up for this?”
She could see the worry in his expression. “It’s Luanne’s gift, so I have to go. And besides, it’ll help me get into the Christmas spirit.”
“I’ve been looking forward to it ever since you invited me. Are you ready? Traffic is going to be terrible tonight, especially in this weather.”
“I’m ready.”
After turning out the lights and locking the door, they stepped into the frigid night. Mark raised a hand, flagging down a cab, and held Maggie’s elbow as she crawled in.
On the ride to Midtown, Mark filled her in on the customers and let her know that Jackie Bernstein had returned to purchase the Trinity sculpture she’d been admiring. It was an expensive piece—and worth it, in Maggie’s opinion, if only as an investment. In the past five years, the value of Trinity’s art had skyrocketed. Nine of Maggie’s photos had sold as well— including those last two—and Mark assured her that he had been able to get all the shipments out before she’d arrived.
“I was ducking into the back whenever I had a spare minute, but I wanted to make sure to get them out today. A lot of them are intended as gifts.”
“What would I ever do without you?” “Probably hire someone else.”
“You don’t give yourself enough credit. You forget that a lot of people applied for—and didn’t get—the position.”
“Did they?”
“You didn’t know that?” “How would I?”
He had a point, she realized. “I also want to thank you for shouldering the whole load without Luanne, especially over the holidays.”
“You’re welcome. I enjoy talking with people about your work.” “And Trinity’s work.”
“Of course,” he added. “But his are a little intimidating. I’ve learned that with them, it’s usually better to listen more and speak less. People who are interested in his work generally know more than I do.”
“You have a knack for it, though. Did you ever think about being a curator or running your own gallery? Maybe getting a master’s degree in art history instead of divinity?”
“No,” he said. His tone was good-natured but determined. “I know the path I’m supposed to take in life.”
I’m sure you do, she thought. “When does that start? Your path, I mean?”
“Classes begin next September.”
“Have you already been accepted?”
“Yes,” he said. “I’ll be attending the University of Chicago.” “With Abigail?”
“Of course.”
“Good for you,” she said. “Sometimes I wonder what the college experience would have been like.”
“You went to community college.”
“I mean a four-year school, with dorm life and parties and listening to music while playing Frisbee in the quad.”
He lifted an eyebrow. “And going to classes and studying and writing papers.”
“Oh yeah. That too.” She grinned. “Did you tell Abigail we were going to the ballet tonight?”
“Yeah, and she’s a little jealous about it. She made me promise to bring her one day.”
“How’s the family reunion going?”
“The house is chaotic and noisy all the time. But she loves it. One of her brothers is in the air force and he came in from Italy. She hasn’t seen him since last year.”
“I’ll bet her parents are thrilled to have everyone around.”
“They are. I guess they’ve been building a gingerbread house. A massive one. They do it every year.”
“And had your boss not needed you, you could have helped them.”
“It would definitely be a learning experience. I’m not very handy in the kitchen.”
“And your parents? I heard you mention to Trinity that they’re abroad now?”
“They’re in Jerusalem today and tomorrow. They’ll be in Bethlehem on Christmas Eve. They texted some pictures from the Church of the Holy Sepulchre.” He pulled out his phone to show her. “This trip is something my parents have wanted to do for years, but they waited until I finished college. So that I’d be able to come home during school breaks.” Mark put his phone back into his pocket. “Where did you go? The first time you left the country, I mean?”
“Vancouver, Canada,” Maggie answered. “Mainly because it was driving distance. I spent a weekend taking photos in Whistler after a major ice storm had rolled through.”
“I still haven’t ever been out of the country.”
“You have to experience it,” she said. “Visiting other places changes your perspective. It helps you understand that no matter where you are, or what country you’re in, people are pretty much the same everywhere.”
Traffic began to slow as they exited the West Side Highway, then slowed even more as they made their way east on the cross streets. Despite the cold, the sidewalks were jammed; she saw people carrying shopping bags and lining up near corner food vendors; others hurried home from work. Eventually they reached the point where they could see the lighted windows of Lincoln Center, which left them with the option of either sitting in an idling cab for another ten or fifteen minutes or getting out and walking.
They decided to walk and slowly made their way through a throng that extended beyond the front doors. Maggie kept her arms crossed and shifted from one foot to the other in hopes of staying warm, but thankfully the line moved quickly, and they entered the lobby after only a few minutes. Directed by the ushers, they found their seats in the first tier of the balcony of the David H. Koch Theater.
They continued to chat quietly before the show, taking in their surroundings and watching the seats fill with a mix of adults and children. In time, the lights dimmed, the music came up, and the audience was introduced to Christmas Eve at the Stahlbaum house.
As the tale unfolded, Maggie was transfixed by the dancers’ grace and beauty, their soaring, delicate movements animating the dreamlike notes of Tchaikovsky’s score. Occasionally Maggie peeked over at Mark, noting his rapt attention. He couldn’t seem to tear his eyes from the stage, reminding her that he was a midwestern boy who’d probably never seen anything like it.
When the ballet was over, they joined the festive crowds as they poured onto Broadway. She was grateful that the Atlantic Grill was just across the street. Feeling cold and wobbly—maybe because of the pills, or because she’d eaten almost nothing all day—she looped her arm through Mark’s as they approached the crosswalk. He slowed his pace, allowing her to use him for support.
It wasn’t until they were seated at their table that she began to feel a bit better.
“Are you sure you’d rather not just call it a night?”
“I’ll be okay,” she said, not altogether convinced herself. “And I really need to eat.” When he didn’t seem reassured, she went on. “I’m your boss. Think of this as a business dinner.”
“It’s not a business dinner.”
“Personal business,” she said. “I thought you wanted to hear more about my time in Ocracoke.”
“I do,” he said. “But only if you feel up to it.”
“I really do have to eat. I’m not kidding about that.”
Reluctantly, he nodded just as the waitress arrived and handed them the menus. Surprising herself, Maggie decided she would like a glass of wine, settling on a French burgundy. Mark ordered an iced tea.
As the waitress walked away, Mark took in the restaurant. “Have you ever been here before?”
“On a date, maybe five years ago? I couldn’t believe they had a spot for us tonight, but I guess someone must have canceled.”
“What was he like? The guy who brought you here?”
She tilted her head, trying to remember. “Tall, great salt-and-pepper hair, worked for Accenture as a management consultant. Divorced, a couple of kids, and very smart. He wandered into the gallery one day. We had coffee and then ended up going out a few times.”
“But it didn’t work out?”
“Sometimes the chemistry just isn’t there. With him, I figured it out when I went to Key Largo for a shoot and realized when I got back that I hadn’t missed him at all. That’s pretty much the story of my entire dating life, no matter who I dated.”
“I’m afraid to ask what that means.”
“In my twenties, when I first moved out here, I frequented the club scene for a few years…going out at midnight, staying out until almost dawn, even on weeknights. None of the guys I met there were the kind I could bring home to my family. Frankly, it probably wasn’t a good idea to bring them back to my place.”
“No?”
“Think…a lot of tattoos and dreams of being rappers or DJs. I definitely had a type back then.”
He made a face, which made her laugh. The waitress returned with her glass of wine and she reached for it with a confidence she didn’t quite feel. She took a small taste, waiting to see if her stomach rebelled, but it seemed okay. By then, they’d both decided on what they wanted—she ordered the Atlantic cod, he opted for the filet—and when the waitress asked if they wanted to start with appetizers or a salad, both of them declined.
When the waitress walked away, she leaned over the table. “You could have ordered more food,” she chided. “Just because I can’t eat much, you don’t have to follow my lead.”
“I had a couple of slices of pizza before you got to the gallery.” “Why would you do that?”
“I didn’t want to run up the bill. Places like this are expensive.” “Are you serious? That’s silly.”
“That’s what Abigail and I do.”
“You’re one of a kind, you know that?”
“I’ve been meaning to ask you…How did you start with travel photography?”
“Sheer persistence. And lunacy.” “That’s all?”
She shrugged. “I also got lucky, since salaried gigs for magazines don’t really exist anymore. The first photographer I worked for in Seattle already had a reputation as a travel photographer because he’d worked a lot for National Geographic back in the day. He had a pretty good list of contacts with magazines, tour companies, and ad agencies, and he’d sometimes bring me along to assist him. After a couple years, I went a bit crazy and ended up moving here. I roomed with some flight attendants, got discount flights and took pics in whatever place I could afford to visit. I also found work with a cutting-edge photographer here. He was an early adopter of digital photography and was always investing whatever fees he earned in more gear and software, which meant I had to as well. I started my own website, with tips and reviews and Photoshop lessons, and one of the photo editors at Condé Nast stumbled across it. He hired me to shoot in Monaco, and that led to a second job and then another. Meanwhile, my old boss in Seattle retired and he pretty much offered me his client list as well as a recommendation, so I took over a lot of the work he’d been doing.”
“What allowed you to become fully independent?”
“My reputation grew to the point where I was able to book my own local gigs. My fee, which I purposely kept low for international work, always enticed editors. And the popularity of my website and blog, which led to my first online sales, made bills easier to pay. I was also an early user of Facebook, Instagram, and especially YouTube, which helped with name recognition. And then, of course, there was the gallery, which cemented things for me. For years, it was a scramble to get any paid travel work, and
then, like a switch had been thrown, I suddenly had all the work I could handle.”
“How old were you when you landed that shoot in Monaco?” “Twenty-seven.”
She could see the gleam in his eyes. “That’s a great story.” “Like I said, I was lucky.”
“Maybe at first. After that, it was all you.”
Maggie took in the restaurant; like so many spots in New York, it was decorated for the holidays, featuring both an ornamented Christmas tree and a glowing menorah in the bar area. There were, by her estimation, more than the average number of red dresses and red sweaters, and as she studied the patrons, she wondered what they would be doing on Christmas, or even what she would be doing.
She took another sip of her wine, already feeling its effects.
“Speaking of stories, do you want me to pick up where we left off now or wait until the food arrives?”
“If you’re ready now, I’d love to hear it.” “Do you remember where I stopped?”
“You’d agreed to let Bryce tutor you and you’d just told your aunt Linda that you loved her.”
She reached toward her glass, staring into its purplish depths.
“On Monday,” she began, “the day after we bought the Christmas tree…”
