A Discovery of Hope (A Coming Home Again Novel Book 3) (5 page)

“Then pick
one
,” the old man retorts. “That’s an odd number.” He glances over at JP and the two men chuckle. The lady places her hand firmly on her hip and glares over at her husband. Well, I’m assuming he is her husband. It’s clear they are a couple, at least. “Okay, okay. Let’s go to your office and settle the bill for all
three
, Mr. Thorton,” the man relents.

“Just call me JP.” He leads them to his office.

After I hear the door close, I scramble down the stairs to get a look at the photos. I stare in confusion at what I find. I’m not sure what I expected, but it was not photos of crypts. They are black-and-whites and are quite eerie. I can feel the grief the camera has captured so clearly. One tomb is what appears to be a grey and white marble in a mourning mausoleum. The one in the middle is old and looks to be crumbling in spots with a dreary outside scape. It’s very weathered and looks so tired. The one to the right of it is what looks to be just a plain cement block. No markings or adornment is evident as if its significance has been grossly overlooked. I give my head a scratch in confusion before heading back up the stairs to hide.

Moments later, they all three head back into the gallery with JP grabbing up two of the large photos and the man carrying the third one as the woman holds the door for them. I descend back to the bottom of the steps and wait for my new boss to come back.

JP comes back in and startles a bit when he spots me sitting here.

I point at myself. “Willow. Remember?”

“I remember,” he mumbles as he heads over to the easels. It sounds like he wishes he could forget.

He begins shuffling the hefty easels towards a back room. He has such an athletic physique with broad shoulders that taper to a lean waist and tanned, well-built arms. I tear my eyes away and absently wander around the gallery until he is finished putting the easels away.

My curiosity is getting the better of me, so I ask, “Why do you think anyone would want photos of crypts on their wall?”

JP comes back by me and locks up the front door. The sky is now a dark indigo.

“It’s really none of our business.”
Ouch
. “The clients commissioned me to photograph the selected subject of their choice and I delivered.”

He heads toward his office, but turns back around. “Art is subjective. If you are serious about a career in photography, then you need to understand that now.”

“Okay,” I mumble, feeling like a scolded schoolgirl. Embarrassed, I head back up the steps.

“Those crypts were of three holocaust survivors the couple are kin to,” he calls out.

I keep heading in the same direction, but say, “Why didn’t you just say that to begin with?” The photos take on a completely different meaning to me with this vital piece of information. Their story makes more sense to me now.

“Then you wouldn’t have had the opportunity to be all judgmental.” I’m pretty sure I wasn’t meant to hear his words, but I did.

My eyes sting and I’m wishing I had never stepped foot in this gallery. I would pack my bags and leave right now if the dark hadn’t already arrived, making a quick retreat home impossible. I close my door and find Hope standing beside me.

“He got you there.”

Humiliated and aggravated, I choose to pretend she’s not there and go to bed early with hopes of making tomorrow appear quicker so I can go home where I obviously belong.

Chapter Nine

Saturday shows up and finds me in a better, more positive mood. I set my alarm early, thinking I would pack and be gone before my cranky host woke up. Not even ten minutes after I turned my bedroom light on, he was knocking on my door to deliver fresh coffee and donuts. He even welcomed me in a more friendly tone before leaving me alone to eat. Maybe he felt guilty for being so harsh yesterday or whatever. By the time I finished my gift of breakfast, I decided to give it another shot.

The gallery has had a steady stream of visitors all day. Photos have been purchased for obscene amounts of money, and private shoots have been scheduled. Even though JP Thorton struts around casually in basic jeans, a button-down shirt and Converse sneakers, he is all business and really knows his stuff. Lots of people come in, speaking about visiting his other gallery in Bay Creek, and asking JP to design murals similar to the one on display there. The way they describe hundreds of shots of the same field with varying angles and weather circumstances, I’m itching to drive up and see it for myself.

I quietly shadow JP all day mainly because I don’t know what else to do. He gives no instruction. I know he said we would figure things out Monday, but I have no desire to waste any of my intern time. It’s not a bad way to spend the day, by the way. I get to admire the artwork-adorned on the rustic walls along with the visitors. Each photo is superb and unique. There’s just something exceptional about how he sees through the camera lens, and it clearly comes through in each shot. He has a distinct style and I seriously doubt it could be mimicked by another photographer.

I’m pretty overwhelmed from having the privilege of following this artist around for the entire summer, even if he’s not very happy to have me. As the day wears on, I feel a giddiness build over the prospect of learning from him.

JP locks the doors a little after five. I make myself useful and sweep the floors as he closes up. Music has filtered quietly through the gallery all day, but now it’s turned up and I find us listening to an alternative rock station. I continue to sweep as JP hurries back through and starts taking a section of photographs down.

“What are you doing?”

“I swap the photos out every other week,” he says over his shoulder.

“Why?”

“So it doesn’t get boring.” He turns with hands full of photos and begins heading to the back.

“I don’t see how one could ever get bored with the beauty you’ve captured in any of these shots.” I motion around the gallery in awe.

JP stops briefly to give me a curious look, before continuing on his way. To be sure, this guy has got to be used to receiving a compliment by now in his career. He didn’t seem so comfortable with it, though.

I finish sweeping and grab a duster I spot as I put the broom away. I stroll around and dust anything I come across even though there’s no dust in sight. JP makes quick work of replacing the empty spaces. Within an hour, he has transformed the entire gallery and I find myself wandering around in reverence all over again with a slack jaw.

Behind the stairs is an alcove. Earlier it was home to a vibrant rain forest of lush, brightly colored shots. As I walk in now, I feel as though I have entered a completely new space. Gone is the vibrancy of color, and in its place is a display of interesting black-and-white images. There are five photos grouped together with purpose. I shuffle over to the right and take my time inspecting each one, not wanting to rush the revealing of their story.

The first photo is just awe-inspiring. It is of a pregnant woman on a beach. The sun is behind her and all you can see is her silhouette. Her long hair is cascading all around in the breeze. It’s remarkable, giving the illusion of her being bare to the world with how her image is shadowed. Upon closer inspection, I find faint lines of a bikini swimsuit in the outline of her body. She is very round with child and she has her hand resting on the edge of her belly protectively. I want to stay rooted in front of this one all day and try to decipher how JP was able to completely shadow her out. I eventually move to the next and find myself grinning at its sweetness.

This photo is of a newborn baby with his or her perfectly round bottom stuck in the air. The baby is snuggled in the shielding hands of who I’m guessing is the daddy. The hands look strong yet gentle with the fragile newborn. The baby rests peacefully on one of his own hands while the other clings to the daddy’s wedding-ringed finger. It’s the most precious photo I have ever seen. The background is completely black so all focus is on the baby as it should be. It is such a crisp photo, I feel as though I could reach out and pick the baby up right out of the daddy’s hands.

Again, I have to force myself to the next picture. This photo has the black background like the previous so all the focus is on the subject, a pair of male hands palms-side up. These hands are longer and a bit thicker than the set holding the baby. They are cupped together with one hand ever so slightly holding the other. The hands seem to beckon a closer look as though they are holding a secret. I automatically step closer for a better look, but see nothing hidden on the surface. The angle and the way the hands are holding each other in comfort makes me feel mournful. It’s like they are all the other has in the world. I study for a while longer before moving more to the left.

This photo replaces my melancholy mood with a more uplifting one. This is another beach shot where the sun shines so bright it shadows out the subjects once again. This black-and-white is softer in texture and feels warm although no color lends to it. The subjects this time are two boys, with one maybe a good bit older than the other. Both have dark shaggy hair with their bare backs to the camera. They each are holding a surfboard under the outer arm, and the older brother’s right arm is draped around the younger brother’s shoulder. The image conveys they are brothers—the older one looks down towards the younger one in devotion with the younger looking up admiringly to the older. More time passes than I realize as I finally move to the last photo.

This photo also summons a whole other set of emotions. At first I think to look away from the intimacy captured as though I am imposing on a very private moment. This image captures a man’s well-formed bare chest with a woman pressing her lips over his heart. Her very light hair is in a romantic updo that seems to be slowly escaping, obscuring the view of her face. Her only exposed feature is her lips. The photo begins at the man’s shoulders and ends at his waist where the woman’s delicate hand rests. His hand gently holds her to him by the back of her head.

“You get lost back here?” JP whispers, causing me to jump anyway. This man’s voice is too rugged to hold a whisper properly. I turn around and see him sitting in a chair by the door. I’ve been completely wrapped up in the hidden stories of these photos, I have no idea how long he’s been here watching me.

I point to the photo in front of me. “Umm… Wow…. This photo is pretty…sensual.” I want to say erotic, but blush at the thought of using such a word.

JP stands beside me and admires the picture. “It is at first glance, but if that’s all you’ve seen in all this time you’ve been standing here studying it, then you’ve missed it.” He nudges me a bit closer. “Look again.”

I do and find the woman’s lip resting on a thick scar. “I can’t imagine what would cause that. Some type of cut, maybe—”

JP huffs out in annoyance. “Don’t focus on what’s behind the scar. Focus on what’s before it.”

I look again for another long spell. “The scar brought them together,” I murmur as I look on.

“Something like that.” JP answers and becomes quiet for a while before asking, “You realize you’ve been back here for over an hour?”

“These photos have so much to tell.” I shrug.

“This is my family album for the next two weeks.” He motions to the wall and walks over to the pregnant one and explains each picture briefly. “This is of my younger sister when she was pregnant. It was a day at the beach. She was watching her husband surf and I was watching her.” He points to the baby. “This is my handsome nephew she delivered a few weeks after the first photo was taken. He’s the man all the way.” He chuckles before explaining, “Not even three shots into the photo shoot, he peed all over his dad’s hands.”

“I love both of them. I love how you captured her silhouette only. And how you explain the dad’s pride with only showing his hands.”

JP nods his head in appreciation before pointing to the next photo. “These are of my hands. I set up the camera on a tripod and set the timer. I stayed up all night playing with different angles, not satisfied with any of them. I gave up when the sun showed up and didn’t even look at the shots for a few weeks. When I did, this one spoke to me.”

“It makes me hurt,” I comment as I continue to stare at the hands.

“Hurt?”

I glance over and find JP looking at me curiously. “I feel hurt when I look at it. Is that what you were trying to achieve?”

He looks back at the photo and shakes his head. “I don’t know…” Without another comment, JP steps over to the brothers. “And this one? What does this one make you feel?”

“Much happier.” I smile over at him and he rewards me with a faint one of his own.

“These two are also my nephews. This was another family day at the beach a couple of years ago.”

“Are they from an older sibling?”

“No. They belong to Savannah and her husband, Lucas.” Before I can ask, because I’m pretty sure she is way too young to have older children, JP clarifies. “They are adopted.”

“Oh,” I remark as I follow him to the last photo.

“And this is my older sister’s wedding portrait.” He points the very edge of the photo. “You can just see the edge of her strapless gown. I started out doing traditional wedding shots, but she put up with that for all of five minutes before stripping her husband’s tuxedo shirt off.” He pauses to chuckle at the private memory. “Those two are professional models so you can imagine regular ole portraits wouldn’t cut it. That scar is very significant to their relationship, so Julia insisted on including it.”

I look closer at his sister’s almost hidden face when recognition clicks. “
Julia Rose
is your sister?” I give him a good looking at and find the resemblance immediately.

“Yep.”

“Oh, my gracious. I’ve seen her and Greyson Stone in runway shows before. He’s her husband, right?” I look at the exposed chest once again.

JP just gives me another, “Yep.”

“Wow. That’s just… Wow.”

“So you’re into fashion, too?” He looks at me skeptically. Today my wardrobe is nothing spectacular—plain jeans and a bohemian top.

“My mom is the fashion diva. I’ve retired from it. I heard Greyson and Julia are retired from it as well.”

“Pretty much. Julia only agrees to a few contracts a year.”

I move the subject on, since it doesn’t seem to be a favorite of JP’s. I motion back to his hand portrait. “I like how you center yourself in the middle so that you are surrounded by your family.”

“That’s how I always want it,” he says softly. He looks over the photos briefly before strolling out of the alcove and I follow behind him. “Okay, so tomorrow is Sunday, which is my only day off. I’m heading to Bay Creek and won’t be back until tomorrow night. You think you’ll manage not to burn the place down or anything until I can get back?”

I roll my eyes. “I think I can manage.”

“Good.” He pulls a key and a piece of paper from his pocket. “Here’s a set of keys and the security code. We’ll figure out what I’m supposed to do with you on Monday.”

I watch him leave and mutter an, “Okay.”

It’s already dusk out, so now I’m stuck here for another night. Alone. I know I’m a big girl and I’m used to being home most of the time alone, but this is different. I’m in a new place. I decide to walk next door and try out the café for supper. It’s pretty good and has a substantial menu to choose from. That’s good news, if I’m going to be stuck here for the summer.

Being alone feels strange. For some reason I had pictured the photographer becoming my buddy and wanting nothing more than to talk about the photo world with me. Wrong. Mine has his own life and I feel as though I’m nothing more than an intruder forced upon him.

At these thoughts, I start to feel choked up again so I leave most of my pasta untouched and head back to the gallery. I unlock the door, enter and relock behind myself. I feel a presence immediately and think it’s Hope. I call out into the dark space. “I was wondering when you’d show up.”

A deep male voice answers as a light switches on overhead, causing me to let out a bloodcurdling scream. He’s in front of me before I know it, so I start swinging my fists in hysteria.

He gathers both my hands by the wrists and actually laughs. “Knock it off, Willow, before you hurt yourself.”

It’s Duke.

Knowing he’s the one who scared me makes me want to punch him more. “You trying to scare me to death?”

“You knew I was here.”

“No, I didn’t.”

“Then who were you talking to?”

“Myself,” I say defensively. I yank my hands free.

“Nothing new there.” He laughs. Yes, Duke has caught me talking to myself, aka Hope, a few times. He thinks I’m weird and vice versa.