photos on the wall were arranged as if in a gallery. There were insects on branches, close-ups of flowers and faces. There were lots of faces; old people with expressive smiles, children on swings, wedding pictures, graduation pictures, photos of quilts that caught my attention for a while. I could name some of the patterns: log cabin, cross weave and tessellating flowers. Aunt Rose was also a master quilter and in my apartment I have a small quilting frame, a graduation gift from her. I’m attempting to finish the quilt she started before she got sick.
But the photo that drew me, the picture that caused me to stand there unmoving, was one of a small girl standing beside a campfire. She was young, maybe ten, and wore scuffy pink sneakers and a hooded zippered sweatshirt that was opened to reveal a pink T-shirt. She was pointing at the flames.
I marveled that Evan was able to capture the vivid hues of the fire and how they were reflected in the solemn face of the girl as she pointed.
Close behind, very close behind me was a sound.
“You didn’t get your medium nonfat latte today.” I jumped, turned and found myself face-to-face with my winking coffee stranger. I muffled a gasp, put a hand to my mouth.
“Sorry,” he said. “I didn’t mean to startle you.”
“It’s okay. I…uh…” I felt my face flush. “I didn’t hear you. I was looking at the picture.” I was conscious of the fact that I couldn’t look any worse if I tried; glasses, flat hair tied back, red eyes and any makeup I did have on, being long ago smeared off by my sniffles. I hoped desperately that I didn’t have mascara lines running down my cheeks. And then I wondered, what in the world was he doing here, anyway? Maybe he was here buying film on his lunch hour.
“Are you, uh, are you a photographer?” I asked him stupidly. I was backing away slightly, aware, so aware of him standing close to me. I caught a whiff of a kind of musky aftershave.
“Do you like that one?” He pointed at the picture of the girl.
I nodded. “It’s very, um, vivid. The colors. The girl. She sort of, um, reminds me of myself when I was a girl. She looks so sad, somehow.” My voice trailed off. Why for goodness’ sake was I going on about this to a complete stranger? And why did I think he would care?
He said, “That one is sort of special to me.”
It was special to him? How could it be special to him? Someone had started a blender in my stomach.
“You asked if I was a photographer. I try to be,” he said.
I nodded some more. I felt like a bobble-head doll. He was even better looking close-up than across the crowded coffee shop. And what was I thinking with these thoughts, anyway? I needed to find Evan Baxter and get out of here.
“Are you in the market for a camera? Digital, perhaps?” he asked.
I shook my head. “No, um…” I swallowed. “I’ll just wait here for the owner. I need to speak to Evan Baxter about something.”
He raised one eyebrow, and then did the wink thing again. “Well, you’re looking at him.”
It took me a moment to figure out what he said. “I’m looking at him?”
He nodded.
“You’re Evan Baxter?”
“In the flesh.” He was smiling broadly.
“You can’t be!”
“Was last time I looked at my driver’s license.”
“But, but…” I sputtered. “I didn’t know you were Evan Baxter.” My hand flew to my mouth. “You really are Evan Baxter?”
He grinned. “I really am.”
“Oh…Oh…”
“I’m glad you like the campfire photo,” he said.
I kept sniffing and feeling foolish. I felt around in my pocket for a Kleenex, but of course I didn’t have one when I needed one. I kept nodding. I still hadn’t managed to say anything. I could almost hear what he was thinking: Why won’t this stupid, simpering woman get to the point?
Time to do just that. I took a breath. “I came in because, well, I need some help identifying a photograph. I’ve been told you might be able to help me. I would pay you, of course. Whatever you think is fair.” I tried to keep my voice businesslike. “I would like to know where a photo was taken, and who took it. This photo I have complemented a short story in a women’s magazine.”
“Let’s see what you’ve got.” He led me back to the counter where I opened up the manila envelope and took the photo out from between the two sheets of taped cardboard. He glanced at it. “You want to know who these people are?”
“No…I…I already know who they are.” I put my hand to my mouth, forced myself to breathe, breathe, and get back to my all-business self. “Yes. Maybe I would like to know that. And I need to know, um, who took this picture and maybe what magazine it was in. This is the original. I want to know…I don’t know.” My voice broke. And at that point I realized that I really didn’t know what I wanted to know at all. Why was I here? What I wanted to know was if anyone in this entire city of Burlington could tell me about my parents, but I couldn’t tell him that. He was a stranger.
He picked up the photo and studied it, and his eyes lingered there a bit too long. I swear I could hear him softly gasp. Then just as quickly, he recovered. When he brushed his curly hair out of his eyes, I wondered if I’d only imagined that flinch.
He bent his head so all of his hair fell forward into his eyes. As he spread out the edges of the photo with his fingers, I unwillingly found myself looking at his hands. I always think hands tell a lot about a man. His were strong and articulate. I could imagine him fiddling with camera settings, adjusting a shot until he got it just right, not being happy until it was.
Stop that, Marylee, I told myself. This guy dropped Johanna without so much as a how do you do. He’s someone you definitely want to steer clear of. So, why was I here, trusting him with one of the most important things in my life?
From underneath the counter he got a magnifying glass.
“This picture looks old,” he said. “The styles. These two look like hippies. It’s artistically done, though. Nice. Romantic.” And he looked at me and winked.
“I think it’s around thirty years old.” I kept my demeanor as businesslike as I could. “I understand you do forensic work for the police department.”
He shifted his position. “Sometimes.” He put the photo down and looked at me. “Okay, here’s what we can do. We can compare it to data banks of stock photos,” he said. “Although if it was in a magazine thirty years ago that might pose a challenge.”
“You said ‘we’?”
“My assistant, Mose, is a whiz at dating old photos. He might be able to help. I’m sure he’ll have some ideas, in any case.”
“I would also like information about certain parts of the photo.” I pointed out some duskiness along one side. “I’d always assumed
