“Hasselblad, medium format. Larger media, higher resolution. I’m going to shoot digital first.”
She took a back from her case, attached it to the camera. When he looked in the case, the bagthe lenses, backs, cables, attachmentshe understood why everything was so damn heavy.
How the hell did she haul all that stuff around?
He didn’t ask because he recognized focused work mode.
She peered through the viewfinder, used a remote to switch on the light, switch it off. She popped an umbrella out of the bag, screwed it onto the light stand, then shielded that with a screen.
She checked everything again, changed the angle of the tripod, walked it back about an inch.
If she thought about the book, she didn’t show it.
He figured it took her a good thirty minutes to set up and take a couple of test shots. Halfway through it, he decided she didn’t need him, got a book out of his office, and settled down at the table to read while she worked.
“Is there a system to the way you shelve the books?”
He glanced up. “Where they fit, why?”
“You have Jane Austen beside Stephen King.”
“I don’t think either one of them would mind, but if you do, you can move books around.”
“No, that’s part of the point. It’s a wall of stories. Take out any one, go anywhere. It’s . . . Storyland.”
She pulled him into watching her again. Shoot, study, adjust, test, shoot. Curious now, he got up to take a look at the laptop screen.
The colors bloomed deeper, the light a little dreamy. Somehow she made some of the tattered spines appear interesting rather than worn.
Another popped on. He couldn’t see the difference, but apparently she could as she squinted at it, said, “Yeah, yeah.”
She took half a dozen more, making minor adjustments, then crouched down to slideshow through all the shots.
“How come it looks better in the picture than in reality?”
“Magic. This one, yeah, this is the one, I think. It looks great in reality. Light, shadow, angle, that’s just atmosphere.”
“You made art.”
“I captured art,” she corrected. “I want to take some film.” She took the back off the camera and switched it with something out of her bag.
“That camera does bothdigital and film?”
“Yeah. Handy.”
He wanted to ask howwanted to see how. But she had that in-the-zone look about her again.
She went back to work; he went back to reading.
She pulled him out of his book when she switched backs again, changed lenses, and took the camera off the tripod. She moved to the side, took a picture of the books from a sharp angle. Checked the result, adjusted the light, took a few more.
When she lowered the camera, moved to the shelves, he thought for a moment she meant to pull off the book about her father. But she pulled one from a higher shelf, carried it to the table.
“I want you with the Austen. Can you bookmark what you’re reading?”
“I’ve read it before. I can pick it up where I left off if I want.” He felt more than a little foolish. No one would ever term him shy, but the idea of taking pictures of his hands?
Weird.
“You’re serious about the hand thing.”
“Deadly. Tough man’s hand with classic novel written by a woman, one a lot of people consider a woman’s book.”
“A lot of people are stupid.”
“Either way, it should work.” She took out her light meter. “And the light’s good right here for what I want. Good, natural light through that window. Especially if you just . . . scoot your chair to the right, just a couple inches.”
Once he had, she checked the light meter again. Apparently satisfied, she went back for her laptop, set it on the postage-stamp corner of counter.
“Just hold the book open, the way you would if you were reading it. Not the first pageyou’ve been reading it awhile. About a third of the way through.”
He felt ridiculous, but he did it. He’d give her five minutes to play around.
She shot over his shoulder so that sultry summer scent spilled over him.
Maybe ten, he considered, while she shifted behind him, leaned in closer.
“Turn a pageor start to, don’t turn it all the way. Juststop, hold it. Good. It’s good. But . . .”
She straightened, frowned at the laptop image. He had to twist around to check it himself, and what he saw surprised him.
“I thought you were crazy, but it looks like an ad in a high-class magazine or something.”
“It’s good, but it’s not quite there. It needs . . . Of course.”
She pulled open his refrigerator, took out a beer. When she spotted the opener, she popped the top, then to his shock, poured a good third of it down the sink.