and thatched-roof cottages. I picked out two that looked poetic. One showed an old mill churning water into a stream. The other had been taken at night with the moon over a Cotswold village.
There weren’t as many pictures of my children as I remembered —what kind of a mother had I been? Dangerous territory.
I set aside one of beautiful blond Jane absorbed in a book, and one of Hannah and Caitlin, mirror images, exchanging daisies. I only let myself think for a moment what Caitlin would be like now. More dangerous territory. There were several tinted photos of the girls before England, one a favorite that did make me cry: the three little girls in Easter coats and bonnets, clutching toy rabbits that my mother had given them. My mother, now gone herself. I was surprised not to find any photos of Jason, then remembered that I had given up taking pictures in the weeks before he was born.
For the past two weeks my lost child Caitlin had been in the shadows of my mind. It was as if I had been hearing my name called and spinning to find no one there, just an outline of air where she should have been. I’d had to brace myself to look at the photos. I would be opening a locked door and looking at something that was forever lost.
I WOKE UP in the middle of the night, certain that Gretchen would never have left the compound without putting her garden to bed for the winter.
C HAPTER N INETEEN
“Y OU BROUGH T THE pictures?”
Bianca came into the studio while I was setting up my computer for the day.
Silently I reached into my woven bag and handed her the brown envelope.
She pulled the photographs out, frowned, and scanned them quickly. Then she laid each one on the worktable. As a group, they were pathetic—clichéd landscapes, clichéd children, the pastel tint faded. But she’d said she would be finding a real artist anyway.
After a moment she turned to me wonderingly. “These are beautiful—exactly what the book needs! Who knew? Meeting you this way, it must have been karma. Do you have other photos? Can you do more?”
I was stunned by her reaction. I had never anticipated that they would be anything other than a stopgap measure. “Are there still darkrooms? It seems like everything’s digital now.”
“I’m sure you could find a lab online. Digital has made black-and-white photos into an art form. Acrylic paints never replaced oils.” She began collecting the photos, holding each one carefully by the corners, and returned them to the envelope. “Let’s show Mama!”
“Now?”
“Why not? She’s up at the house.”
“What do you think she’ll say?” I was surprised by how strongly I wanted Eve to like them too.
“We’ll find out.”
E VE WAS SITTING on an overstuffed sofa in the great room, legs crossed, reading Art in America magazine. “Lucien is showing at Acquavella again,” she told Bianca. I couldn’t tell if she felt vindicated or aggrieved by that. For a moment I was surprised to see her reading Art in America —but why not? Despite some occasional confusion, her intelligence had never been in doubt.
“Delhi’s brought her illustrations to show you,” Bianca said. “I’m very excited about them.” Excited, but I saw she was also biting at her lower lip.
I handed Eve the manila envelope and watched as she extracted the photos.
She scanned them rapidly, then thrust them away like an advertising circular she had no interest in. “These are photographs! What Nate did, those were book illustrations. Bianca, you must find a real artist.” She pointed a bony finger at me like a fairy tale witch. “This one must leave now.”
“Mama, that’s silly. These are just what I was looking for.”
I told myself Eve was reacting that way because they were photographs, not because of their quality. Wishful thinking, but I said, “Maybe you’ve never heard of Toni Frissell.”
“Toni? I knew Toni. What about her?”
“She did a beautiful book of photographs to illustrate A
There weren’t as many pictures of my children as I remembered —what kind of a mother had I been? Dangerous territory.
I set aside one of beautiful blond Jane absorbed in a book, and one of Hannah and Caitlin, mirror images, exchanging daisies. I only let myself think for a moment what Caitlin would be like now. More dangerous territory. There were several tinted photos of the girls before England, one a favorite that did make me cry: the three little girls in Easter coats and bonnets, clutching toy rabbits that my mother had given them. My mother, now gone herself. I was surprised not to find any photos of Jason, then remembered that I had given up taking pictures in the weeks before he was born.
For the past two weeks my lost child Caitlin had been in the shadows of my mind. It was as if I had been hearing my name called and spinning to find no one there, just an outline of air where she should have been. I’d had to brace myself to look at the photos. I would be opening a locked door and looking at something that was forever lost.
I WOKE UP in the middle of the night, certain that Gretchen would never have left the compound without putting her garden to bed for the winter.
C HAPTER N INETEEN
“Y OU BROUGH T THE pictures?”
Bianca came into the studio while I was setting up my computer for the day.
Silently I reached into my woven bag and handed her the brown envelope.
She pulled the photographs out, frowned, and scanned them quickly. Then she laid each one on the worktable. As a group, they were pathetic—clichéd landscapes, clichéd children, the pastel tint faded. But she’d said she would be finding a real artist anyway.
After a moment she turned to me wonderingly. “These are beautiful—exactly what the book needs! Who knew? Meeting you this way, it must have been karma. Do you have other photos? Can you do more?”
I was stunned by her reaction. I had never anticipated that they would be anything other than a stopgap measure. “Are there still darkrooms? It seems like everything’s digital now.”
“I’m sure you could find a lab online. Digital has made black-and-white photos into an art form. Acrylic paints never replaced oils.” She began collecting the photos, holding each one carefully by the corners, and returned them to the envelope. “Let’s show Mama!”
“Now?”
“Why not? She’s up at the house.”
“What do you think she’ll say?” I was surprised by how strongly I wanted Eve to like them too.
“We’ll find out.”
E VE WAS SITTING on an overstuffed sofa in the great room, legs crossed, reading Art in America magazine. “Lucien is showing at Acquavella again,” she told Bianca. I couldn’t tell if she felt vindicated or aggrieved by that. For a moment I was surprised to see her reading Art in America —but why not? Despite some occasional confusion, her intelligence had never been in doubt.
“Delhi’s brought her illustrations to show you,” Bianca said. “I’m very excited about them.” Excited, but I saw she was also biting at her lower lip.
I handed Eve the manila envelope and watched as she extracted the photos.
She scanned them rapidly, then thrust them away like an advertising circular she had no interest in. “These are photographs! What Nate did, those were book illustrations. Bianca, you must find a real artist.” She pointed a bony finger at me like a fairy tale witch. “This one must leave now.”
“Mama, that’s silly. These are just what I was looking for.”
I told myself Eve was reacting that way because they were photographs, not because of their quality. Wishful thinking, but I said, “Maybe you’ve never heard of Toni Frissell.”
“Toni? I knew Toni. What about her?”
“She did a beautiful book of photographs to illustrate A
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