What She Wanted

by Julie Anne Lindsey

  He clicked through and stopped at the sight of my endless photo files. “Wow. Okay. How many files are in this folder?”

  “Lots. What are you looking for?”

  “Where do you keep the pictures of locals?”

  “Which locals?”

  “Everyone.”

  “Why?” I glanced at Heidi for help. Maybe she understood what was going on. I certainly didn’t.

  She smiled and waved. “Hi.”

  “Okay.” Dean spun the chair to face me. “This is what I’m thinking. Everyone knows you by your camera. It’s your thing. Your talent. Your gift.” Heavy emphasis on the final word. He rubbed his palms together.

  “You want me to give away my pictures?” My tummy swirled. “I can’t do that.”

  “Why not? You’re fantastic. People will want these shots.”

  I’d stolen moments of their lives and kept them for myself. “They’ll want me arrested.”

  “You’re wrong.” His pleading expression liquefied my bones.

  I sat on the bed by Heidi’s feet. “People will think I’m a stalker.” I saw them. They didn’t see me. That was how this worked. If I started giving out my photos, they’d turn me over to the cops. “Dean.” I chewed my lip. He was trying to help, but this was a no-good, very bad idea.

  He stretched and bent his legs, walking the rolling chair closer and pulled my hands into his lap. “Trust me.”

  I pulled my attention from our hands, resting too high on his thigh, and swallowed hard. His sincere expression melted my insides. “Adventures that begin with those two words rarely end well.”

  “Come on. Trust me.”

  Darn his soulful eyes and giant hands. I pressed the idea of them on my body out of my mind. I’d thought he wanted to kiss me at the bonfire, but maybe there had been something on my face. Maybe he just wanted to be friends. Maybe he wanted to see me complete my list, nothing else. I needed to follow suit. Focus on the list. Be thankful for what I had. “Okay.”

  His eyes screamed of excitement, and not the good kind. “Excellent. Help me pick the best shots of as many families as you have. We’ll load them into a special file, then you can print them tomorrow at Essence.”

  “Okay, and?”

  “And we’ll deliver them together when you get off work tomorrow.”

  Heidi squeaked. “I’m in.”

  I jumped. “Jeez. I thought you were asleep.” I freed my hands from his and rubbed my forehead. “For the record, this is a horrible idea.” All of it. Spending this much time with Dean was giving me ideas that would inevitably crush my heart. Why did he keep touching me, anyway? What was that about? I wagged a finger at him. “I want it on record that this is your idea, doomed for failure, and I’ll likely be forced to undergo a psych eval when people see what I’ve done all these years.”

  “Noted,” Heidi piped up. “I’ve noted it. Right here.” She pointed one finger at her other palm.

  “Great. Thanks.”

  Dean spun back to the keyboard. “If you fail the eval and they give you a padded room at Monroe Memorial, Mom will check on you during her shifts.”

  Oh, it wasn’t a matter of if I’d fail.

  I did a slow blink and braced myself. “Start with files named after My Little Ponies.”

  He hovered his hands above the keyboard and frowned. “I have no idea what that means.”

  * * * *

  Sylvia watched with blatant curiosity as I printed more than a dozen large photos and many sheets of smaller ones. “Are all these for the gala?”

  My limbs froze. “No. They’re gifts.”

  Her expertly sculpted brow inched higher. “Let me see what you’ve got there.” She opened and closed her hand. “You still need to choose something for the gala.”

  I placed the finished stack in her hands and dodged her gala request. Again. My work wasn’t ready for a Sylvia Reynolds show. “I can pay you for the photo paper. I didn’t mean to use so much.” I’d gotten carried away on Dean’s enthusiasm for the project. Mom would probably approve of this method for giving. I mentally marked it off the list.

  Sylvia straightened the stack and narrowed her eyes on me. “Who are the gifts for?”

  I squirmed. “I’m delivering them to the people in the photos.” Explaining the plan aloud felt nuts. Would she think I was nuts?

  “Uh-huh.” She flipped gingerly through the shots, pausing here and there. “Any certain reason you aren’t charging for these incredible shots?”

  I fought a blush despite the chilly studio temperature. Sylvia’s compliments meant everything.

  “Come on. Spill. Why the sudden giveaway?”

  “I found my mom’s journal while Mark was in the hospital. There was a list inside of what she wanted for me. I’m trying to complete her goals. She wanted me to give, but I don’t have anything to give.”

  “Give how?”

  “She didn’t say.” I pulled the journal from my bag and opened it to the list. “She wrote the journal for me. I’m trying not to let her down.”

  Sylvia placed the photos on my desk in exchange for the journal. Her lips moved silently as she took in Mom’s words.

  It was oversharing, and I regretted the move immediately. Sylvia was my mentor and boss, but she wasn’t family. It was unfair to burden her with my drama and really weird to give her something so personal. “Sorry. You don’t need to read it. I just…”

  She lifted a finger to stop me. A moment later she exhaled long and slow. “My.” She rested her fingers against her neck and batted emotion-filled eyes at me. “I think these are perfect.” Her voice cracked and she fanned her face with the book. “These are the perfect gifts. Your mother would be proud. Let me get you some frames.” She spun away on four-inch patent leather heels and returned with a stack of acrylic frames and large manila envelopes. “Who should we address them to?”

  I swallowed a heaping helping of appreciation and nodded, utterly speechless. I fumbled through my desk drawer for a marker and passed it to Sylvia. “This is the Anderson family.” I slipped the photo of a couple holding hands at the Strawberry Festival into a frame. A girl with helium balloons tied to her wrist laughed and skipped along before them, while a boy wearing an eye patch devoured pink cotton candy. A pint-sized princess rode the man’s shoulders and patted his head.

  Sylvia drew their name across the envelope in beautiful calligraphy.

  I watched in amazement. “How’d you do that?”

  “Practice, darling. Who’s next?”

  “Firemen.” I framed an oversized shot of the volunteer firemen outside our elementary school, surrounded with children, wearing their helmets and brandishing water guns. “Fire Safety Day was always my favorite.”

  Sylvia examined the men. “I can see why.” She drew Fire House #14 on the next envelope and tucked the frame inside.

  We continued at a leisurely pace for the rest of my shift, discussing the shots, composition, lighting, and lenses. She was impressed with the fact I only had the lenses that came with my camera and most of my shots were done with nothing more than the sun, the flash, and the element of anonymity. I found smiles were wider when people weren’t thinking about a camera. “Do you think anyone will be angry I took their picture without permission?”

  She shook her head and lifted sharp brown eyes from a photo of the Widow McCleary knitting in the library. “She’s the one who makes all those wonderful hats for newborns? I had no idea.”

  Mrs. McCleary was one of the sweetest women in town. She used to spend the day with me when I stayed home sick from school. “Yeah. She listens to audio books and knits in the reference section. That’s where she and her husband went in high school to be alone. She delivers the hats to labor and delivery after church on Sundays then spends the afternoon reading Anne of Green Gables to elderly patients in long-term care.”

  Sylvia looked at me with curiosity and appreciation, like she was meeting me for the
first time, but at the same time, we were very old friends. “You know all these things because you watch.”

  “I guess.”

  “These people won’t care you took their pictures, Katy. You’ve portrayed them all as heroes.”

  I lowered my gaze to the photo in my hand. A young Lincoln Conway flew a stuffed bear over his baby sister’s face at the farmers’ market while his mother shopped. Below that photo was a shot of the school crossing guard leaving gloves and boots near sleeping homeless men. A teacher made chalk drawings on an empty parking lot with a girl in a backpack. Her mom had been late that day, and the girl had been scared. I’d caught Farmer Johnson delivering a bushel of apples and flats of bottled water to hot 4-H kids at the county fair. A mother cooing into the face of her newborn outside the little white chapel on Oak Street. “They are.”

  “Spoken like a true hero.” She sealed her envelope and marched to the door. “Closing time. Take anything you need to finish your work. I want to hear all about it tomorrow.”

  “Okay. Thank you for the frames.” The paper. Help addressing my gifts. For believing in me.

  She nodded toward the lot outside and smiled. “How about this one? Is he a hero, too?”

  Dean jogged across the lot, waving his phone.

  I ducked my head. “Yeah, but he has no idea.”

  “Maybe you should tell him.” She opened the door and motioned me out.

  I gathered my things and piled the framed gifts into an open box. “Maybe.”

  Dean bounded onto the sidewalk and relieved me of my box. “Hey. Hi, Mrs. Reynolds. Ready?”

  Not even a little. “Almost.”

  Sylvia stacked extra frames and envelopes into the box with my remaining photos. “Hello, Dean. Tell your mother not to be a stranger.”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  I made a mental note to find out how close Sylvia and Mrs. Wells were. I’d never considered there was a link between my job and my personal life.

  We started on Main Street and moved clockwise around the town’s interconnected streets, saving the county road residents for last. I fit smaller packages into mailboxes but had to run up the walk to leave larger photos on front porches. The whole process felt a little like the Grinch in reverse. Only time would tell if the townsfolk thought I’d delivered actual gifts or just proof I was a dedicated creeper.

  Dean wheeled his old truck back onto Main Street and idled at the light. “This is fun. Who’s next?”

  I slid a photo of a thousand little leaguers crowding our local ice cream stand out of the envelope and wiggled my eyebrows. The shot was great in color, but I’d chosen black and white for the finished product. It’d fit perfectly with all the other photos hugging every wall in the historic space. “How do you feel about a chocolate malt right now?”

  Chapter 16

  Dean angled his truck into the lot outside the ice cream shop. An old white sign above the front window announced “Ice Cream, Malts, Cones, Sundaes” in faded red letters. “Do you know how many times I was one of those little guys in your picture?” Nostalgia lifted his voice. “Dad coached before the divorce. We never missed a game or an ice cream.”

  I had no idea where his dad was now, and I didn’t ask. He’d tell me if he wanted me to know.

  I’d had my share of ice cream at this shop, too. I’d come with Mrs. B and with Heidi’s family over the years, but by high school, I didn’t always have the money for something as frivolous as ice cream and hated letting them treat. I’d been saving up to move out since freshman year. Originally, I’d assumed the cash would help me survive on a campus somewhere far from Woodsfield, but Mark had stolen that dream when he didn’t sign my student loan papers.

  The passenger door swung open, and Dean stared at me from the gravel lot. “Are you coming?”

  Right. Yes. I hopped out and shut the door.

  He carried the envelope with the framed photo through the lot and held the shop’s glass door open with his elbow. Music from the nineteen sixties rolled out and invited me inside. The place never changed. Black-and-white checkered floors and white laminate tabletop pulled visitors back in time. The Beatles music helped. Families gathered in knots around tables filled with empty bowls and dirty spoons. Kids sucked on bendy straws impaling plastic cup lids.

  The blonde I recognized from the bonfire lit up when Dean walked in. She wasn’t quite so bright when she noticed me trailing behind him.

  He stopped to greet her. I took the framed picture and kept moving.

  She stroked his arm from shoulder to elbow.

  I made my way to the counter and took the last empty seat, while she invaded Dean’s personal space.

  “What’ll it be, sweetie?” The old man behind the counter winked at me. His white paper hat fit perfectly on his balding head. His nametag said Mike, but no one needed to read it. Mike and his wife, Iris, had opened the ice cream shop before the Beatles were cool.

  “Two chocolate malts, please.” The rich scents of homemade waffle cones and hot fudge hung like spun sugar in the air. Two minutes inside the building and I had a contact high.

  He patted the counter with pale, age-spotted hands. He was thinner than I remembered, and his skin seemed too big for his crooked frame. How many treats had those hands served over the years? How many smiles had he made? I slipped my phone from my pocket and caught a photo of him at the malt machine, whistling along as the song changed to “Rockin’ Robin.”

  Dean squeezed his lean body between me and the next stool’s occupant. “You can’t go anywhere without finding something to photograph, can you?”

  I turned the phone on him and clicked. “Nope.”

  “Five dollars.” Mike returned with two big cups.

  Dean put a ten on the counter.

  “I was paying,” I protested.

  He guffawed. “Can you believe this, Mike? She thinks I brought her here to buy me ice cream.”

  Mike leaned in conspiratorially. “Yeah? So, what did you bring her here for?”

  I dragged the big envelope onto the counter and slid it his way. My secret was officially out. “I made you something for the wall.”

  He raised puffy eyebrows and opened the package. “Iris!” He waved a hand overhead and the tiny woman in a matching apron barreled out from the kitchen.

  “Yeah?” She wedged glasses onto her nose, careful not to tangle the chain attached from the stems to her neck. “What do you have there?”

  Mike’s face burst into a smile. “The Monroe County Mini Moos.”

  She slapped a hand to her chest. “Our Marty was a Mini Moo. His Alexander is a Mini Moo now. We’ve been serving free cones to Mini Moos since nineteen fifty-three. Oh, bless your heart, honey. This is fantastic.” She patted my hand and looked at me like I’d given her the moon instead of an old file from my computer.

  “No problem.”

  She slid the photo from the frame and pushed it toward me.

  Mike extracted a marker from his shirt pocket. “Sign it.”

  “What?”

  Bodies gathered behind me, craning for a look at what had Mike and Iris all worked up. They whispered, naming the little players and taking pictures of my picture with their phones.

  My palms slicked with sweat. I rubbed them on my thighs. Now the whole town would know exactly where the pictures on their porches came from.

  I fumbled with the marker and dropped it before getting my name across the bottom corner in a somewhat legible fashion.

  “It’s perfect.” Iris reframed the shot and carried it to the wall of vintage advertisements. She moved them around until there was room for my picture. “Perfect.” She clapped her palms together.

  “You made my Iris happy,” Mike said. “For that, you’re family.”

  A stupid tear pricked my eye. For that I was family? People threw the F word around way too carelessly. “Thank you.”

  A man with a round face and matching body peeked over D
ean’s shoulder. His cologne was like formaldehyde and Old Spice had a baby. “You ever want to watch a Mini Moo game, the bleachers are always open. We provide juice boxes and popcorn to the patrons. Sometimes popsicles. The kids love an audience. Makes them feel like big leaguers.”

  Dean twisted to shake the man’s hand. “You had us at juice boxes.”

  I laughed. “Thanks.”

  The crowd trickled in the direction of my picture. Iris wrapped her arms around Mike’s middle and squeezed. She pressed her cheek against his ribs, and they slow danced amidst the chaos of a packed summer ice cream crowd.

  The blonde popped into my periphery.

  Fuzzy feelings over.

  I turned with my malt for a clear view.

  “So, Dean.” She smiled brightly. “We’re heading out to the quarry tonight if you want to come. There’ll be music, a campfire, swimming.” She tipped her head and beamed in utter innuendo.

  Yeah. Yeah. We all get it. Suits are optional.

  Dean’s gaze jumped to me. “I don’t know.”

  She didn’t like that answer. Her posture stiffened and her voice grew firm. She angled her back to me. “Well, do you have other plans?”

  I was clearly not on the invite list. Not that I cared or would swim anywhere without a bathing suit. Who knew what lived in the toxic depths of the quarry water, or any water for that matter? Pass.

  His expression was impossible to read. Did he want to go but not want to hurt my feelings by ditching me? Did he not want to go but not want to hurt her feelings with a rejection? “No.”

  No, he didn’t have plans or no, he wasn’t interested in the party?

  Blondie touched his bicep with hot pink nails. Her bottom lip jutted out. “Please?”

  Whoever this girl was, she wanted Dean, and she didn’t look like the kind of girl who took no for an answer. Her coral sundress fluttered high on her thighs. Matching cork wedges emphasized the firm curve of her calves. Long blonde hair danced around her hips, like a neon sign pointed at her perfect ass. She tipped her head seductively, arching her back just enough to provide a tall guy like Dean an unobstructed view down her halter top. A preview of the night’s events, no doubt.