***
Persistence was the key to everything in life, the only path she knew how to walk on, Catalina repeated to herself the same afternoon. It wasn’t something she had ever questioned, but when she found herself staring at an old, weathered picture she thought that maybe this one time she should have just let it all go.
Her fingers twitched convulsively at the mere idea, threatening the precious photography, already touched by unforgiving time.
She had her mother’s coloring, she marveled for a thousandth time, surprised and delighted anew. No matter how many times she had looked at the image of her parents before, each time felt like a gift being unwrapped all over again.
A gift with a bitter undertone to it, considering that was all that was left after people who were long gone from this world.
Catalina knew she owed the stubborn line of her jaw to her father and was grateful for it, even if it had landed her in trouble more times than not. If she was being perfectly honest, she was proud of it each and every single time because in those moments she shared yet another special bond with her father.
A bond which didn’t die with him on that horrendous night.
A bond that would live within her as long as she breathed herself.
These two people smiling at her from the picture had brought her to life, yet it was getting harder and harder to remember either one of them along with the love she had for them.
Cat closed her eyes, fighting to recall the smallest reminiscence, a touch, a scent, but her memory denied her even this substitute of comfort in a day she needed it more than usual.
Perhaps it was silly to be so broken up about the camera but she couldn’t shake it off. The senselessness behind Xan’s act of destroying it felt even worse than the damage itself now.
The camera was her charm, her memento, the last thread connecting her to the man who was her father. She could swear that each time she used the Canon, it felt as if he were next to her, keeping watch and ward over his daughter.
Cat liked to believe that even if he hadn’t approved of all of her choices, he still would have respected her enough to support them.
Support her.
Instead of undermining her every step as was her grandmother’s way. Catalina knew that Florence didn’t have bad intentions; it was all a matter of Cat wanting to walk her own path. A path that was nowhere near what the other woman had envisioned for her.
Catalina had spent many years trying to make her father’s mother happy until she understood it was an impossible feat. No matter her efforts, Florence had always only pushed for more, not leaving her even an inch of space to be her own person.
At times it was really hard to believe the woman gave life to someone as independent and strong-willed as Matthew Bennett.
But even he bent on several occasions, choosing a career in politics over going after his dreams of becoming a photographer. Perhaps that was one of the reasons why he tried so hard to encourage his only child to do what he didn’t follow through on.
Cat often wondered if she hadn’t taken his advice to heart too strongly.
She gazed down at the photographs of her parents again. Now all she was left with were those pictures, a few stories and her mother’s diary from the time she was carrying Catalina under her heart.
But the journal felt too intimate for her daughter’s eyes. It was hard to read those pages filled with the endless love Naomi felt toward Matthew Bennett and her unconditional affection for her unborn child. Uncovering each paragraph felt like sacrilege, making her focus more on guilt rather than the words alone.
How much different would everything be if they were still alive?
The question was far from being new; it was the one she asked herself often over the years while she entertained many scenarios. There were so many paths her imagination lead her to but no matter which one was on the forefront of her mind, each chain of events assumed a happy ending.
A happy ending her family was not granted.
In her version of a fairy tale, they were still all together and love was more than an empty and unfulfilled void living within her.
She knew Chloé was right and it was hard to find something true and real enough that would connect two strangers for life. But as someone who was a result of such thing, Cat knew that sometimes it did happen.
However, connecting and staying together were two different matters.
She sighed, caressing the picture with delicate brushes of her thumb wishing just once she could touch the faces of people who were as much strangers to her now as the idea of affection was.
CHAPTER 8
A vicious kick to his left kidney snapped Xan’s attention as nothing else would.
“Fuck!” His breath hissed out between his teeth and he looked at his attacker warily. “Disqualify me before my next fight, why don’t you?!”
“Got your attention finally though, did it not?” Kelton Donovan scoffed.
“A tap on my shoulder would do the same.” Xan scowled at the man who was his tormentor always, friend mostly unless he decided otherwise which happened on a few occasions.
Kelton was a thirty-seven-year-old ex-Marine carrying his own baggage. Xan met him when the baggage was getting the better of him and his only reality was the bottom of every bottle he could find.
One night he found himself in a dark alley on the receiving end of a knife when a few teenagers decided he was the best entertainment that stumbled into their way.
It didn’t look pretty, Xan remembered but then the sight of blood wasn’t a novelty in his own life.
Far from it.
For reasons he still fully couldn’t comprehend, he sidled up to the man, probably saving his life. Not that Kel was grateful, spewing profanities right and left that even Xan–who was no stranger to the life on the streets–had never heard before.
They had been part of each other’s lives since then, training together regularly, but their relationship was a far cry from peaceful sailing.
“Oh, I’m sorry, did you come here for some affection, boy? Hell, you should have said so because here I thought you actually wanted to learn something.” The man sneered.
“Screw you,” Xan said without any heat behind his words although he hated when Kel called him a ‘boy’ and the man knew it, which of course was the reason why he did it every damn occasion he got.
At twenty-eight years old, he was hardly a boy, if ever.
“No, screw you for wasting my time. What the fuck is up with you today anyway?” Kelton asked, taking off his sparring gloves, which was an unwritten law they were done.
Xan wanted to protest, but he knew his concentration was shot to hell today and he also knew better than argue with the man who could give him run for his money when it came to sheer stubbornness.
“Nothing.” He muttered.
Just because he knew it, didn’t mean he wanted to share it, Xan thought.
“I bet it’s some bimbo on your mind. No bigger distraction than that, my man.”
“It’s not like that,” Xan protested, although it was.
Kind of.
Since the last Tuesday and the meeting with Catalina in the Monsoon Café, he hadn’t been himself and it was pissing him off to no end that she managed to have the upper hand after all.
He blew out a harsh breath because it wasn’t like that either.
It’s just…
He believed he knew all there was to women shedding tears.
He was intimately acquainted with them since he was a little boy. His mother spilled buckets of tears on many occasions, usually due to his father’s actions, words or lack of thereof. They were dictated by shame, pain, hopelessness and plenty of other ugly emotions as well.
They affected him all the same no matter the reason behind them.
But then he understood there was the other side of the coin. That some people were beyond help, wearing their misery as some kind of badge of honor recognizable to those privy enough to bel
ong to the same club. It was similar to carrying bruises around like a reward for withstanding adversities while remaining strong.
Nina Thorpe did both.
However for Xan it was the opposite. He was around six, maybe seven years old, when he understood it.
His so-called father came home high as a kite and started to pick on him for no damn reason at all. He broke some dishes, knocked Xan around for doing nothing but sitting there quietly and trying to become one with a wall or the floor so the fucking bastard wouldn’t see him.
But he did.
He did alright and it was one of those times Xan would never forget as long as he was alive. Yet his mother didn’t tend to his tears and wounds, nursing her husband’s fit of temper instead. And even the child Xan was back then comprehended she drew power from the knowledge she stood next to her man’s side no matter what. Xan was nothing more than an inconvenience at best.
Since then he stopped trying to pay attention to her tears the way she ignored his.
It didn’t change anything as far as his home situation went but it protected him in his adulthood from falling victim to women who attempted to pluck at his heartstrings.
Catalina didn’t cry.
She did all in her power to stop herself from it and it affected him as nothing else. He knew he fucked up and caused her distress just because he could. While normally he wouldn’t care or give it a second thought, he was unable to stop himself from thinking about her ever since.
He wouldn’t have entertained any kind of thoughts about her had she flipped him off, yelled or reacted in one of the ways women usually did, ways he was used to.
So basically it was her fault he couldn’t get her out of his damn mind, he decided, and it nearly made him chuckle.
Xan went as far as to connect dots of the story she told him and they nicely did.
Apparently she was some kind of a fancy-pants photographer well known in the society of silver spooners and recognized in photography milieu despite her young age of twenty-four.
That hardly surprised him, because from the first moment he laid his eyes on her he was aware of the air of purposefulness and focus around her. Although he understood she was from another world than him, those were traits he could respond to and he did by striking at her any chance he got, he thought.
Did it absolve him that he was portraying her as an enemy at the time? Not really, Xan decided. She wasn’t an undercover cop or a journalist; that much was obvious already.
Being a photographer was placing her on an entirely new level not making her any less of danger to him though. Catalina was still going to use the pictures she took in the club, pictures of him, heedless of his warning and all consequences altogether.
He couldn’t do much about it at the moment, it seemed, but it didn’t mean he should let it go.
Letting go was not a part of his makeup.
It was well advised to see for himself what the end result was going to be along with people’s reaction to what they saw. That meant seeing the woman again, and that was definitely not a hardship, he admitted.
Catalina was beautiful and it wasn’t the kind of attractiveness he was used to. He was surrounded by good looking women on a daily basis, but they were gaudy and obnoxious while she was… dignified was the best fitting description he could come up with.
She wore class and elegance as a second skin along with sophistication. Probably that was why she didn’t call him names or make a scene and the explanation should quiet his conscience–the one he was unaware of having–but it didn’t happen anyway.
Seeing her again sounded like a better and better idea with every passing moment, Xan decided.
“So? How is it then?” Kel asked and he understood he lost his focus again but this time he just sighed instead of coming up with some new invectives.
“It’s complicated.” Yet another perfect description, he smirked inwardly to himself.
“Usually is, come on man, indulge me.”
“I screwed up and I will need to fix it.”
“I must be getting old because I could have sworn you said you’ve admitted to a wrongdoing.” Kelton’s jaw nearly dropped.
“You are old,” Xan agreed jovially and finally his reflexes proved intact, allowing him to avoid another kick, this time aimed for his right kidney.
***
Sundays were off limits in Catalina’s life since she had been a little girl. Even unforgiving Florence Bennett had never begrudged her for it, believing it to be the one and only day of the week reserved for resting alone since God set the example himself.
No matter Cat’s commitments, the amount of work that demanded to be done, she had never broken this unspoken rule.
Nothing, but absolutely nothing was as magical as Sunday mornings.
The lingering pleasure of a few hours just after awakening when there was only undisturbed silence and peace surrounding her, left a lot of space for breathing and simply letting her be.
She rose from the bed, donning a negligee to cover up the silk slip she slept in. She padded to the kitchen barefoot, enjoying the sensation of smooth, cool tiles of the kitchen floor under the soles of her feet.
Catalina closed her eyes for the briefest of moments, giving herself permission to dream if only for a little while. She imagined walking in a shallow lake or sea, the heat of the sun, the sensations accompanying sashaying over warm sand.
She sighed softly, not able to remember when exactly her last holiday was or when she last rested except for the magical twenty four hours of every Sunday.
She could walk down the beach and experience the very same sensations, but it wouldn’t be the same as having a week or two off just to go to some exotic place, she thought.
Her gaze wandered to the kitchen counter and a decorative mug full of coffee beans. She sighed again and a wave of disappointment crashed into her over the fact that no matter how hard she wished to believe in magic, magic kept refusing to happen in her life.
Her coffee was as unready today as it had been last night when she decided to leave everything as it was, heading straight to bed too tired after a nine hour photo shoot to worry about anything really.
She knew she was going on fumes but the stress of the upcoming exhibition was getting to her more than she thought possible, and the closer it was getting the less prepared she felt herself to be.
Hiding it from the world and pretending she wasn’t about to crack under the pressure was even more exhausting.
She was used to being in the center of attention, but it never mattered to her like now. Before she was only Catalina Bennett and it had nothing to do with her personally. Partaking in plenty of social events, never-ending meetings with too many people where not nearly enough of them had something valuable to say.
But that was her playground, part of her heritage.
The exhibition had nothing to do with it, although she was sure that many people wouldn’t agree with her.
Florence Bennett would be the first one, she thought.
Her grandmother was convinced people were interested in what she did simply because of who she was. Catalina decided it was rich coming from Florence since she was clueless as to who Cat was in the first place. She worked so hard to get rid of this… brand, but at times it felt like nothing was ever going to be enough.
When people got used to looking at a person in one way, they were unwilling to change their point of view ever again.
Even though she was still a part of Florence’s world, it was not the same as the refined trap, a cul-de-sac she didn’t want to find herself in again, she thought and swallowed hard.
No, not going there, Cat told herself firmly when Xan’s face flashed before her eyes again.
Her gaze landed on the coffee beans again and her disappointment started to morph into a kind of sadness which shouldn’t find its way to haunt her on any Sunday morning. Yet that was how she had been feeling recently.
Undone.
Unfinish
ed.
On the verge.
Impatiently awaiting something that could open her eyes to what she had been missing her entire life. Something that could make her feel… complete and fulfilled, she thought with displeasure.
In this one frozen instant in time she forgot about all the shades of satisfaction she felt every time she captured a fleeting moment with her camera, or any other accomplishment really.
In the blink of an eye there was no more space for simple joys of the Sunday morning. All she had been reduced to was a woman standing barefoot on the cool tiles of her kitchen’s floor, feeling cold and bereft for no apparent reason.
CHAPTER 9
Catalina was floating through the crowd with the ease of someone who has years of experience in being an active part of social gatherings.
A word here, a smile there.
She fit right in and the knowledge should have soothed her and calmed her stomach clenched with nerves but it didn’t happen, keeping her suspended in a state where she couldn’t catch a breath instead.
She didn’t want to be here at all.
Today’s exhibition organized in the Einarr gallery was solely focused on portraying Santa Monica’s life. But it was not about the glitter and shine but quite the opposite, giving priority to the unknown for a change. The images she has been collecting for the last six weeks were part of it as well.
A homeless woman, from one of Cat’s pictures, was staring at the clique gathered around as if silently judging their clothes, jewels and make-up.
But mostly their indifference.
There was a look of such hopelessness in her eyes, as if she didn’t expect anything good to come her way. But this was the essence and the purpose of this display in Cat’s opinion.
She wanted it to make a difference.
Maybe she was as naive as Chloé kept accusing her of being, she thought, but then if everyone believed nothing could be done there would have never been any change or progress in the world.
She knew every single photo so intimately she could recall circumstances of taking each one along with time of a day or night, the dance of light and shadow seen through her lens. And yes, pictures from the Cul-de-sac were there as well, but her eyes kept swaying in another direction.
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