Haunting Refrain by Ellis Vidler Page B

then stopped again before she could get to it, adding to her frustration.
    Glaring at the now-silent phone, she snapped a 400-millimeter lens onto her Nikon, edged to the studio window, and careful to keep out of sight, checked the bushes again. Raising the camera, she adjusted the focus and snapped off three quick shots. This is insane, she thought. It's probably kids playing hooky from school. If so, it might make a nice shot. And if not, maybe I'll get lucky and see a face.
    But whose face?
    She returned the camera to the drawer and went back to the darkroom. The publicity shots for one of the character actors with the Principal Players were due. She had promised to leave them downstairs at the theater for him to pick up this evening.
    Working in the dim red glow of the darkroom, Kate fed the strip of negatives into the enlarger and adjusted it until an image filled the eight-by-ten block framed beneath it.   She rolled the thirty-five millimeter film forward to the first of the shots she had selected. Since the players only wanted eight by tens, she used her lighter weight Nikon N70 with fine-grained Fuji film for their portraits. The Mamiya she kept in the studio for the larger portraits. Even used, she could have lived for a few months on what she had paid for the medium-format camera. But it was worth it, she reminded herself, making a mental note to pick up Mrs. Armstrong’s proofs from the lab. She found the frame, made a few quick adjustments, and placed the ghostly face slightly off center. As she slipped a sheet of photo paper into the frame, the phone rang in the other room, but she couldn't stop now. Surely the caller would leave a message this time. She started the timer and grabbed a quick sip of lukewarm coffee as the bright light burned the image into the paper.
    The timer sounded and the enlarger light went out, returning the room to the red glow of the safety lamp.
    She lifted the paper from the frame and slid it into a tray of developer, watching intently as the first faint shadows slowly evolved into the actor's lined face. Although it was a traditional publicity shot, she was pleased with it. This was what drew her to photography—seeing her work come to life on the blank white paper.
    The phone rang again in the other room. Each time she left the darkroom and checked , there had been no message. Probably Venice . She never left messages. She’d call her as soon as she finished.
    When she was satisfied with the picture, she transferred it to a tray of fixer. She made several prints, swirling them gently in the chemical baths, until the last one reached the final stage, the stop bath. She flicked the overhead light switch and turned off the safety light before rinsing the prints in the water-filled sink. Then each print had to be squeegeed dry on a pane of glass. After plastering the dryer with the prints, she started cleaning up. The ancient dryer roared in her ears. Soon, maybe after she finished the bank portraits, she would replace it. She dried her hands and closed the darkroom door behind her. Her stomach reminded her of the time.
    Back in the studio she examined the peanut butter sandwich she had brought. It looked decidedly unappetizing. Briefly she considered calling James Earl, the maintenance man, to see if he would pick up a vegetable plate for her when he went out at noon, but she was too hungry to wait. Before she could get out the door, the phone rang again. This time she answered. “Period Portraits, Kate McGuire speaking.”
    “Hi, Kate. It's John. Have you had lunch?”
    It must be fate, she thought, glancing at the sandwich in the trash. She checked the worn khakis she was wearing. No stains. “No, I haven't.”
    “Good. I'll come get you and we can grab a sandwich at the Sunshine Cafe, if that suits you.”
    “I was just about to leave. Why don't I meet you there?” The Sunshine Cafe? Her mouth watered. She dreamed about their chicken salad sandwiches. The sandwich shop, once