at the last image she captured. She sees the saturation, the brightness and contrast, the composition, and approves. It’s a good picture. Then something shifts, maybe some of the gray surrounding her lifts, and she forgets the technical aspects of the photograph. She looks at the image on her LCD, and she sees joy, intimacy, family, love. Magic captured.
I could do this .
CHAPTER 9
B eth and Petra meet up with Jill, who is waiting for them, always early, in front of Salt. Courtney’s not coming because she’s teaching two yoga classes tonight, and Georgia can’t come because she’s overseeing a wedding down the street at the Blue Oyster. But with Petra and Jill by her side, Beth has more than enough girl power in her corner, and she’s feeling confident and ready in her Goldie Hawn dress. But as Petra walks up the steps, leading the way, Beth realizes that her heart is beating way too fast, urging her body to spring into some kind of large physical action to match her racing pulse. Run! She focuses on the back of Petra’s neck, on the clasp of her turquoise necklace, the one Beth asked to borrow but didn’t wear, as she forces each forward step, walking behind her friend, slowly, deliberately, against her heart’s instinct, into the lion’s den.
“Hi, welcome to Salt.”
Before Beth can notice anything else, there she is, smiling at Petra. Salt’s Saturday-night hostess. Angela.
She’s younger than Beth, possibly in her late twenties. Her hair is long, curly, and dark brown. She’s wearing a plain, boringblack top, but on her it’s tight and has a plunging V neckline. That and a small gold cross at the end of a long gold chain draw Beth’s eyes, and probably everyone else’s, to her big, exciting boobs. Of course. Twentysomething and big boobs.
Beth rounds her shoulders and folds her arms over her own chest, already neatly covered by the thick polyester blend of her Goldie Hawn dress. Even pushed up and in to the best of her Victoria’s Secret bra’s ability, even before pregnancy stretched them and breast-feeding sucked the bounce out of them, her boobs never looked like that . Angela’s eyes, big and black and unnervingly beautiful, are still smiling as they move to include Jill, but then they stumble when they see Beth.
She already knows who I am.
Angela clears her throat and pulls her fake, professional welcome smile back on. “Table for three?”
“No, thanks,” says Petra. “We’re going to sit at the bar.”
We are? Beth wants to correct Petra, to say that they’d prefer a table, please, one facing the street and not the bar actually, but a sour-tasting panic has risen at the back of Beth’s throat, and she can only manage to swallow. Like a lamb being led to slaughter, she follows Petra and Jill to the bar and takes the empty seat between them. And there’s Jimmy.
He at first greets them with a neutral cheerfulness, the way he might acknowledge any three women who sit down at his bar, clearly without really seeing them. But then it registers. His smile softens on Beth, becoming genuine, but only for the slightest moment before it’s replaced by a tensed grin, holding surprise and uncertainty between his teeth, and then finally his jaw clenches tight to keep him from saying what he’s probably thinking. Oh, shit.
“Ladies.”
“Jimmy,” says Petra.
“Beth,” says Jimmy.
“Hi,” says Beth.
“So what are you ladies up to tonight?”
“This,” says Petra. “We’re here to spy on you.”
Jimmy laughs and shakes the martini he’s making with noticeably extra vigor. Beth wipes her hands on the lap of her dress. She didn’t know her hands could sweat.
“Not exactly subtle, are you, Petra?” he asks.
“Never,” says Petra.
Direct and fearless, Petra would never tap a nail gently a hundred times with a rubber mallet when she could whack it once with a sledgehammer and get the job done. While Beth admires this quality in Petra, Beth has never been comfortable
I could do this .
CHAPTER 9
B eth and Petra meet up with Jill, who is waiting for them, always early, in front of Salt. Courtney’s not coming because she’s teaching two yoga classes tonight, and Georgia can’t come because she’s overseeing a wedding down the street at the Blue Oyster. But with Petra and Jill by her side, Beth has more than enough girl power in her corner, and she’s feeling confident and ready in her Goldie Hawn dress. But as Petra walks up the steps, leading the way, Beth realizes that her heart is beating way too fast, urging her body to spring into some kind of large physical action to match her racing pulse. Run! She focuses on the back of Petra’s neck, on the clasp of her turquoise necklace, the one Beth asked to borrow but didn’t wear, as she forces each forward step, walking behind her friend, slowly, deliberately, against her heart’s instinct, into the lion’s den.
“Hi, welcome to Salt.”
Before Beth can notice anything else, there she is, smiling at Petra. Salt’s Saturday-night hostess. Angela.
She’s younger than Beth, possibly in her late twenties. Her hair is long, curly, and dark brown. She’s wearing a plain, boringblack top, but on her it’s tight and has a plunging V neckline. That and a small gold cross at the end of a long gold chain draw Beth’s eyes, and probably everyone else’s, to her big, exciting boobs. Of course. Twentysomething and big boobs.
Beth rounds her shoulders and folds her arms over her own chest, already neatly covered by the thick polyester blend of her Goldie Hawn dress. Even pushed up and in to the best of her Victoria’s Secret bra’s ability, even before pregnancy stretched them and breast-feeding sucked the bounce out of them, her boobs never looked like that . Angela’s eyes, big and black and unnervingly beautiful, are still smiling as they move to include Jill, but then they stumble when they see Beth.
She already knows who I am.
Angela clears her throat and pulls her fake, professional welcome smile back on. “Table for three?”
“No, thanks,” says Petra. “We’re going to sit at the bar.”
We are? Beth wants to correct Petra, to say that they’d prefer a table, please, one facing the street and not the bar actually, but a sour-tasting panic has risen at the back of Beth’s throat, and she can only manage to swallow. Like a lamb being led to slaughter, she follows Petra and Jill to the bar and takes the empty seat between them. And there’s Jimmy.
He at first greets them with a neutral cheerfulness, the way he might acknowledge any three women who sit down at his bar, clearly without really seeing them. But then it registers. His smile softens on Beth, becoming genuine, but only for the slightest moment before it’s replaced by a tensed grin, holding surprise and uncertainty between his teeth, and then finally his jaw clenches tight to keep him from saying what he’s probably thinking. Oh, shit.
“Ladies.”
“Jimmy,” says Petra.
“Beth,” says Jimmy.
“Hi,” says Beth.
“So what are you ladies up to tonight?”
“This,” says Petra. “We’re here to spy on you.”
Jimmy laughs and shakes the martini he’s making with noticeably extra vigor. Beth wipes her hands on the lap of her dress. She didn’t know her hands could sweat.
“Not exactly subtle, are you, Petra?” he asks.
“Never,” says Petra.
Direct and fearless, Petra would never tap a nail gently a hundred times with a rubber mallet when she could whack it once with a sledgehammer and get the job done. While Beth admires this quality in Petra, Beth has never been comfortable
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