me.
“Give up the sunrises and the seagulls sitting onpiers,” he said crankily, “and you just might make something of yourself.”
“Are you kidding me?” I plucked out a photograph I was particularly proud of, a picture of a pelican sitting on a boat prow, cleaning its feathers. “This stuff is gold.”
“ This stuff,” Mr. Bird said, tapping the photo behind it, which was a picture I’d snapped just for fun, of Shaniqua and Jill having a quahog fritter fight one afternoon during a lull, when Peggy had taken the afternoon deposit to the bank, “is gold.”
“I agree,” said a deep, male voice behind me.
And I couldn’t help from letting out a groan.
Nine
“This,” I said, sounding almost as cranky as Mr. Bird, when I turned around and saw who was standing behind me, “is too much.”
“What?” Tommy asked innocently. He’d swiped the photos from the envelope in front of me, and was flipping rapidly through them. “He’s right. You’ve got a great eye for capturing people. Pelicans? Not so much.”
“S’what I been tellin’ her for years,” Mr. Bird agreed. “Any hack can take a picture of a pelican. Sell it as a postcard for twenty-five cents. Big deal.”
“Whereas this”—Tommy pulled out a picture I’d taken of Liam and my dad tossing a football out on the lawn, my dad’s expression intent, Liam looking a little frightened—“tells an actual story.”
“Are you following me?” I demanded, snatching myphotos back from Tommy and then giving him the evil eye. Which wasn’t easy. Giving him the evil eye, I mean.
Because he looked even better today than he had last night, even though he clearly hadn’t put much effort into getting dressed. He was just wearing a pair of baggy cargo shorts, flip-flops, and a Billabong slim tee.
Which was even more annoying given that it was essentially what I was wearing, minus the baggy part.
And he looked much better in it than I did.
“Wow,” Tommy said. “You used to be able to take artistic criticism. What happened?”
“You aren’t my editor anymore,” I snapped, stuffing my photos back in the envelope Mr. Bird had given me. “Now, seriously. Are you so hard up for female companionship that the only way you can get it is to stalk people?”
“What, I can’t shop in downtown Eastport if you’re in the same five-mile radius, or something?” Tommy looked more amused than insulted.
“Right,” I said sarcastically. “You aren’t following me. You just happened to walk into Eastport Old Towne Photo because you needed film.”
“Um, no,” Tommy said. “I noticed your bike parked outside. I was in the pharmacy next door, picking up a prescription for my grandmother.” He held up a white plastic bag that did, indeed, have a prescription bottle inside it.
“You think I don’t have anything better to do,” he asked, “than harass you?”
“Well, what am I supposed to think?” I demanded, flushing. “You show up where I work, you show up here…” I looked over at Mr. Bird. “Do you think that constitutes harassment?”
Mr. Bird shrugged grumpily. “What do I know about it? All I want is my twenty-seven dollars for the prints, and whatever you’re putting down today on the Digilux.”
Still blushing—what is it about this guy that I can’t stop turning red when he’s around?—I reached into my backpack and pulled out my wallet, counted out twenty-seven dollars to pay for my photos, and laid an extra fifty-dollar bill on top.
“Here,” I said to Mr. Bird. “What’s the balance on the Leica?”
Mr. Bird took out his little layaway book (he’s one of the only merchants left in the historic seaport district who’ve yet to computerize his business, or even learned how to use a computer), looked up my page, and carefully calculated my new total.
“Four hundred twenty-eight dollars,” he said. “And seventeen cents.”
Tommy whistled. “Four hundred bucks,” he said. “For a camera
“Give up the sunrises and the seagulls sitting onpiers,” he said crankily, “and you just might make something of yourself.”
“Are you kidding me?” I plucked out a photograph I was particularly proud of, a picture of a pelican sitting on a boat prow, cleaning its feathers. “This stuff is gold.”
“ This stuff,” Mr. Bird said, tapping the photo behind it, which was a picture I’d snapped just for fun, of Shaniqua and Jill having a quahog fritter fight one afternoon during a lull, when Peggy had taken the afternoon deposit to the bank, “is gold.”
“I agree,” said a deep, male voice behind me.
And I couldn’t help from letting out a groan.
Nine
“This,” I said, sounding almost as cranky as Mr. Bird, when I turned around and saw who was standing behind me, “is too much.”
“What?” Tommy asked innocently. He’d swiped the photos from the envelope in front of me, and was flipping rapidly through them. “He’s right. You’ve got a great eye for capturing people. Pelicans? Not so much.”
“S’what I been tellin’ her for years,” Mr. Bird agreed. “Any hack can take a picture of a pelican. Sell it as a postcard for twenty-five cents. Big deal.”
“Whereas this”—Tommy pulled out a picture I’d taken of Liam and my dad tossing a football out on the lawn, my dad’s expression intent, Liam looking a little frightened—“tells an actual story.”
“Are you following me?” I demanded, snatching myphotos back from Tommy and then giving him the evil eye. Which wasn’t easy. Giving him the evil eye, I mean.
Because he looked even better today than he had last night, even though he clearly hadn’t put much effort into getting dressed. He was just wearing a pair of baggy cargo shorts, flip-flops, and a Billabong slim tee.
Which was even more annoying given that it was essentially what I was wearing, minus the baggy part.
And he looked much better in it than I did.
“Wow,” Tommy said. “You used to be able to take artistic criticism. What happened?”
“You aren’t my editor anymore,” I snapped, stuffing my photos back in the envelope Mr. Bird had given me. “Now, seriously. Are you so hard up for female companionship that the only way you can get it is to stalk people?”
“What, I can’t shop in downtown Eastport if you’re in the same five-mile radius, or something?” Tommy looked more amused than insulted.
“Right,” I said sarcastically. “You aren’t following me. You just happened to walk into Eastport Old Towne Photo because you needed film.”
“Um, no,” Tommy said. “I noticed your bike parked outside. I was in the pharmacy next door, picking up a prescription for my grandmother.” He held up a white plastic bag that did, indeed, have a prescription bottle inside it.
“You think I don’t have anything better to do,” he asked, “than harass you?”
“Well, what am I supposed to think?” I demanded, flushing. “You show up where I work, you show up here…” I looked over at Mr. Bird. “Do you think that constitutes harassment?”
Mr. Bird shrugged grumpily. “What do I know about it? All I want is my twenty-seven dollars for the prints, and whatever you’re putting down today on the Digilux.”
Still blushing—what is it about this guy that I can’t stop turning red when he’s around?—I reached into my backpack and pulled out my wallet, counted out twenty-seven dollars to pay for my photos, and laid an extra fifty-dollar bill on top.
“Here,” I said to Mr. Bird. “What’s the balance on the Leica?”
Mr. Bird took out his little layaway book (he’s one of the only merchants left in the historic seaport district who’ve yet to computerize his business, or even learned how to use a computer), looked up my page, and carefully calculated my new total.
“Four hundred twenty-eight dollars,” he said. “And seventeen cents.”
Tommy whistled. “Four hundred bucks,” he said. “For a camera
Similar Books
