Two from the Heart(27)

“So maybe the moral of the story is ‘be kind to strangers,’” I said. “I feel like that’s something I’ve been learning lately.”

“Be grateful for what you have, and be nice to people,” Jason agreed. “I think most people are pretty decent at heart, don’t you?”

I nodded in agreement. Everyone I’d met on this trip had been damn near great.

Jason looked down at the ground for a moment before looking up and meeting my eye again. “My dad said something else. But it’s going to sound crazy.”

I said, “I don’t mind crazy.”

“He said that I was supposed to ask you out for dinner.”

“Really?” I asked, taken aback.

“Really. He said, Son, take my advice for once.”

I had to laugh then. “You have trouble with that, too?”

“Very much,” he said.

“So in that case you’re not asking…,” I began.

“Yes I am,” he said. “I’m asking you out to dinner. At my dad’s funeral. I know it’s nuts. I know you live a thousand miles away. And I know I’m going to start crying halfway through the first course. But I’m doing what he told me to do, because I don’t know if I’ll ever see you again. And I know I won’t see him ever again. So, will you go? There’s a nice little Italian place…”

I paused. I thought about all I’d done and seen on my journey so far, and how every single day, I’d had to be open to chance.

To sorrow, too.

And to luck.

“Yes,” I said. “I’d love to go to dinner with you.”

Jason reached out and slipped the camera strap off my shoulder.

“Smile,” he said.

“But—”

“For my dad?”

“I can’t,” I said. “I hate having my—”

“What did King Tut say when he fell down and hurt himself?” Jason interrupted. “I want my mummy!”

And I laughed—because it was so stupid and because from now on I’d never hear anything about Tutankhamen without remembering Bob Kline. While I was laughing, Jason snapped the picture.

“Perfect,” he said. “Now you can have your story in the book, too.” Seeing my look of surprise, he explained. “Pauline told me all about it when I was here last weekend. Your project sounds amazing.”

“Thank you,” I said, taking the camera back from him. “I can’t tell my best story, though.”

“Why not?”

I shrugged. “I guess because I’m still in the middle of writing it,” I said.

Jason smiled. “Death notwithstanding, I hope this is a good chapter,” he said.

I smiled back at him. “I like the direction it’s going in,” I said.





Chapter 31


A YEAR ago, I never could have imagined the turns my life would take. It was possible that having foresight—like taking advice—was one of my weak points.

But it was a flaw I could live with.

“Anne!” A small, red-haired woman in towering black stilettos interrupted my thoughts. “I’d like you to meet Sasha Delaney. She’s an art critic for LA Weekly.”

I smiled at Amy, my new gallerist, and then I shook the hand of a statuesque young woman. “Thank you so much for coming,” I said.

“Your show’s wonderful,” Sasha said. “I’d love to talk to you about your process. Although maybe it’d be easier when you’re not swamped by opening-night guests.” She handed me her card.

“I’d love to,” I said calmly, even though my brain was short-circuiting with excitement.

“Call me Monday,” Sasha said. “It was so good to meet you. Now I’m going to see if I can get a glass of wine before the throngs drink it all.”

I gazed around the crowded gallery with a mix of happiness and disbelief. Printed on archival paper and suspended in beechwood frames, my poster-size photographs looked almost monumental on the clean white walls. Next to them, hung casually with thumbtacks, were the much smaller prints I’d made with my portable printer. But to me, the most exciting part of my show was in the center of the gallery, where a long handmade table, polished to a perfect sheen, held stacks of my new book, A Thousand Words.

In it were pictures of all the people I’d met, with their stories handwritten below their portraits. Here was Pauline on page four, clutching her beloved photo albums; opposite her was the mechanic, leaning against my beloved Beatrice. There was Lucy the dog, gazing up at her girl; next to her, Kate the waitress posed with her Melitta coffeepot, her smile radiant and proud.

I’d taken a lot of new pictures for the book, too. My neighbor Bill leaned against a shovel in front of my house as he took a break from overseeing its reconstruction. “I was born in the Kentucky hills on the night of a blood moon,” his story began, “in a year so long ago I’m damn near ashamed to admit it.”

A few pages further on was a photograph of my brother, eating breakfast a few months ago at Barnacle Bill’s; his story about sneaking out one night and witnessing an attempted robbery was definitely one my parents never heard.

Thanks to all the pictures, I felt surrounded by my friends and family, even though I barely knew anyone in the room.