The Obsession(80)

“Brick-and-mortar bookstores, adult learning centers, college dorms, even some libraries. You’ve given me some damn good work today, Xander. I’m going to tell Kevin it’s a go on the steam shower.”

“You’re putting in a steam shower.”

“I am now.” Nodding, nodding, she scrolled through the shots on her computer. “Yes, I am now. I’d talked myself out of it, but when I get this much good work on a Sunday? I’m steaming.”

He pointed at her. “I earned time in that.”

“You definitely did.”

She didn’t resist when he pulled her onto his lap, but did hesitate when he started to take the camera.

“I’m not going to bounce it off the floor. It’s got weight,” he commented.

“Just over nine pounds. I’m mostly going to use the tripod with it, and it’s worth the weight. It’s tough and reliable, and you can see just how sharp.”

“And this deal on the back makes it shoot digital?”

Nodding, she removed it. “Excellent system—no pins to catch on anything, and it has its own integrated software. It’s not something I’m going to take on a hike, but for what I wanted here, and for what you want with the band, it’s the machine.”

He had to admit he’d like to play with it himself, just to see how the mechanics worked. But he didn’t see that happening, any more than he’d let her under the hood of his GTO.

“I use my phone if I take a picture.”

“Very decent cameras on phones today. I’ve taken some nice shots I’ve been able to manipulate and sell. And now, I wouldn’t mind a half a glass of that wine while I break this down and we set up in the garage.”

“I can take care of that. I’ve already got most of a beer.”

“Thanks.” She hesitated again, then kissed him. “Thanks,” she repeated.

“No problem.”

She rose, went over to carefully replace her camera in its case. And as he rose to get her wine, he saw her gaze shift back to the books.

“So, it’s a classic therefore a clichéd question, but have you read all of these?”

“Everything out here, yeah. There’s some in my office, in the bedroom I haven’t gotten to yet.”

She pulled off casual, he thought, compacting her tripod, sliding it into its soft case.

“Mostly fiction, right? But you’ve got some nonfiction mixed in. Biographies, histories, books on cars—surprise—true crime.”

He could pull off casual, too. “Nonfiction, written well, is a story.”

“I tend to only read nonfiction that’s work related. How do you know if something based on true is written true?”

“I guess you don’t.”

“Sometimes it must be perception or personal agenda, or just enhancing or adjusting for creative effect. Like a photograph. I take an image that’s real, but I can manipulate it, change tones, enhance or soften or crop out to meet my own agenda.”

He brought the wine to her. Fifty-fifty, he’d thought. She’d done the work she’d come to do on the first fifty. Now, he could see, she’d tied herself up in the second half.

“I’d say the person in the original image knows what’s true and what’s manipulated.”

“That’s the thing about words and images.” She took a slow sip of wine. “Once the words are on the page, the image printed, it becomes what’s true.”

She turned away then, set her glass aside to break down her lighting. “They’re not so different, words and pictures. Both freeze moments, both stay with you long after the moment’s over.”

“Naomi.”

He didn’t have a clear idea what to say, how to say it, and decided it would be nothing as the sound of an old truck with a rusted-out muffler boomed outside.

“That’ll be Lelo and his muffler from hell.”

“If he had a friend who was a mechanic, he could get that fixed.”

“I’ll have to suggest that. For the millionth time. At least he can help us haul all this down.”

—

She liked Lelo—and it generally took her longer to like. And Tag loved him at first sight. Man and dog were all over each other in an instant, like long-lost friends (possibly brothers) thrilled with the reunion.

“That’s a good dog. That’s some good dog.” Crouched, Lelo rubbed Tag all over and got licked lovingly in the face with every stroke. “I heard you found him out of gas on the side of the road.”

“That’s right.”

“Not out of gas now, are you, boy? Not out of gas now.”

Tag rolled over, exposing his belly. His hind leg pumped like a piston in time with the rubbing.

Lelo had straggly hair halfway to his shoulders the color of a Kansas cornfield. He came in about an inch shorter than Naomi with a skinny build and ropey muscles set off in a tie-dyed T-shirt and jeans frayed at the knees and the hems. An emerald green fire-breathing dragon rode sinuously up his right forearm.

“How are you doing up there on the bluff?”

“I like it.” Naomi set up her lights as she considered ideas and options for the shoot.

“Needs help with the landscaping,” Xander said as he brought in—as ordered—his guitars, both his ax and his old acoustic.