On Second Thought(55)

“Hi,” I said. He mouthed back. Hang in there, I imagined him saying. You still have me.

*

When I arrived at the park, lugging my bag of lenses and filters, my camera slung over my shoulder, babies were out in full force. Beautiful, lovely babies in every color and age, running, yelling, crying, laughing, nursing and, in one case, being ignored as a mom complained loudly on the phone. For a second, I considered just pushing the stroller away and stealing the kid, but no, she gave me the side-eye.

I guess I’d been staring.

I hadn’t really thought I was pregnant.

When I was about ten, my second cousin invited me to go on a trip. Our mothers had been close as children, and Mimi and I were about the same age and played together at Christmas. She was an only child, and when her parents booked a trip to Hawaii, they invited me to come along. We would helicopter over a live volcano and swim and take a surfing lesson.

It was, by far, the most exciting invitation of my young life. For weeks, Mimi and I talked on the phone—we would tame a dolphin, ride horses through the rain forest, and eat pineapples and coconut ice cream. It was incredible to think that I’d be going anywhere so exotic and different, that I’d have actual adventures.

The day before the trip, Mimi came down with appendicitis, and the trip had to be canceled. I was crushed, but as I cried into my pillow so my mother wouldn’t hear, I also acknowledged I never really expected the trip to actually take place. It was too good to really happen.

That was how it was with Nathan and me and children. Unimaginably wonderful, so close...and then no.

“Kate. How are you?” Max appeared, unshaven, his white skin, dark eyes and black stubble making him look like a somewhat sickly vampire. Still, he had a thing going on. Balding, midfifties, that scary assassin voice... Women loved him.

“Max.” We hugged briefly; he wasn’t touchy-feely, and neither was I.

“You good to go?” he asked.

“Yep. We’re meeting over by the Boathouse.”

We walked under the Cleft Ridge Arch, where a toddler was testing the echo, and down Prospect Park’s winding paths. The grass had been cut recently, such a happy smell. Overhead, the branches of the towering trees interlocked like a couple holding hands.

A beautiful, gazelle-like young woman wearing jeans and a T-shirt stood by one of the iron lampposts. Next to her was a suitcase, for wardrobe changes, I assumed. “Elizabeth?” I said.

“Hi! You’re Kate?”

“Yes. This is my friend Max,” I said. “Great to meet you. You’re gorgeous!”

She beamed. “Thanks. I’m so glad you could do this. I looked at the rates for a fashion photographer and I almost had a heart attack, and that’s when Daniel said to call you.”

“I’m glad you did. Do you have a makeup artist?”

“No. I’m doing it myself.”

“Got it. Max can help if you need to.”

“I used to work for Bobbi Brown,” he said.

“Really? I love their lip gloss.”

“Hey. Sorry I’m late,” came a voice, and there was Daniel the Hot Firefighter, clad in faded jeans and the requisite FDNY T-shirt, a denim jacket slung over his shoulder. Cue Donna Summer. I need some hot stuff, baby, this evening...

“I told you not to come,” Elizabeth said, scowling.

“Sorry, Lizzie. It’s my job to make sure you don’t look like a slut. Mom’s orders.” Daniel winked at me, oozing testosterone as one did when one was FDNY. “Daniel Breton,” he said to Max.

“Max Boreo.” They shook hands.

“So Lizzie here thinks she’s pretty enough to model,” Daniel said.

“More than pretty enough,” I agreed, though models had to be more than just pretty. Lizzie had dark brown hair and green eyes, perfect skin and a full, smiling mouth.

She and I talked about the looks she wanted for the portfolio—couture, which would involve the usual strange, heron-like poses; girl-next-door, which I was fairly sure she’d rock; drama, which would entail some crazy makeup and a close-up of her face. “Daniel says we can use his place for the indoor shots,” she said.

“Where do you live, Daniel?” I asked.

“St. John’s Place. Not too far.”

I suddenly remembered a night at his and Calista’s apartment nine or ten years ago, when we’d lived on 4th Street between 5th and 6th Avenues—how happy Daniel had been, pouring us wine, looking at Calista like she was the sun and stars. That was one of the things that made him so likable—he’d been an adoring husband.

I wondered if a person got over a love like that. Based on Daniel’s dating history with the False Alarms, it seemed the answer was no.

Daniel caught me looking at him, and I turned my attention to my camera, adjusting the lens.

While Lizzie changed in the Boathouse, Max and I set up. Daniel texted and leaned against a tree. Max got out the reflector to make sure we’d have enough light on Lizzie’s face. I checked the light meter and did a few test shots of the building.

Then Lizzie came out wearing a formfitting gold gown, her hair in a sleek twist, shimmering gold eye shadow and dramatic blush. “Holy shit,” Daniel said. “How old are you again?”

“Almost seventeen.”

“I thought you were twenty-four.”