One Golden Summer(21)

I don’t know how to make you happy, Alice. Do you?

“I’m sorry,” Charlie says softly.

“There’s nothing to be sorry about.” I stand, smoothing my hands over the front of my shorts. “How do you take your tea?”

“I don’t,” Charlie says.

“Pardon?”

“I don’t drink tea,” he clarifies.

Nan scoffs. “Everyone drinks tea.”

Charlie turns to her. “How should I take it, then?”

For all his joking, I appreciate that he doesn’t speak to Nan like she’s a delicate old lady or a child.

“Sweet tooth?” Nan asks him.

“Not with this body.”

“Just with a splash of milk, then.”

Charlie turns back to me. “I’ll take it with a splash of milk, thanks.”

I retreat to the kitchen, a Trevor-shaped headache pushing against my temples.

“But don’t I make you happy?” I asked just before Trevor walked out.

He’d given me a sad smile and kissed my cheek. “I think you really tried.”

I thought Trevor was the one. But now he’s engaged to a pediatric nurse named Astilbe, and I’m left facing the possibility that the only person I’ll spend my life with is me.

Over and over, I keep falling. Over and over, I keep getting my heart broken. Everlasting love may have existed for my grandmother’s generation, but I’m beginning to think it’s a modern myth. Heather’s divorced. My parents are, too. They pulled the plug on their marriage three years ago, right after the twins left home. I held out hope that the separation was temporary until the very end, when the divorce was finalized, and Mom changed her last name. She’s Michelle Dale once more.

I blink away the tears and bring out the tea and cake.

“I imagine sabbaticals aren’t common in your line of work,” Nan says to Charlie as I hand him a cup. It looks like a dollhouse accessory in his hand.

I take a seat, noticing that he straightens slightly, like he’s zipping himself together.

“Probably not. But I’m not common. I’m very good at what I do.”

A few minutes earlier, I would have rolled my eyes, but I find myself studying Charlie, trying to determine whether there’s something more to him than dimples and triceps.

“I imagine you are,” Nan says, then gestures to me. “Alice is a photographer.”

“I’ve heard,” he says, looking at me with a delighted quirk of his brow.

“She’s very gifted. One of her photos has been selected for a big exhibition later this year. What’s the show called, Alice?”

“In (Her) Camera,” I tell her. “My friend owns the gallery,” I say to Charlie.

“Don’t downplay it, Alice. It’s a stunning shot. Haunting.”

Haunting. Yes.

It’s a portrait of a woman, staring directly into the camera, chin tilted up. From a distance Aanya looks like a typical executive. Blazer. Bland chin-length blowout. But when you step closer, you can see the creases of her eye makeup, the flakes of mascara beneath her eyes, the exhaustion in her gaze. She looks defeated. She was the CEO of a major telecom, and I shot her for a magazine profile. Three days later, Aanya was ousted in a corporate coup. It’s without question a powerful image, but there were other photos she and I liked far better—ones where the lighting isn’t so harsh, where she looks tired but determined, that felt truer to who she is. I tried to convince the photo editor to choose one of them, but he selected an image that suited the story the magazine wanted to tell.

Maybe that’s why it bothers me so much. Someone else decided how Aanya showed up in the world. Or maybe it’s because I didn’t argue my case with the photo editor hard enough.

Elyse loves the portrait. She looks at Aanya and sees strength and resilience. I see my own weakness.

Including it in the show makes a statement about who I am as a photographer. The portrait is good; great even. But it doesn’t feel like me. In truth, I’m not sure what me feels like anymore. Aside from the photos I snapped on the island earlier today, I don’t remember when I shot just for myself, without worrying about acing an assignment.

“When is the show, Alice? I don’t think you mentioned,” Nan says now.

“It runs from August until the end of the year.”

“You’ll have to go back for the opening,” she says. “I wouldn’t mind a few days here on my own.”

“It’s not a big deal, Nan. I don’t want to leave you.” Which is only part of the truth. I’m happy to have an excuse not to see the photo in the gallery.

Nan narrows her eyes. “I’m not a child.”

I feel Charlie looking between us. “I know,” I say quietly. “That’s not it.”

“You can’t blame Alice for not wanting to leave the lake in August,” Charlie says. I glance at him, grateful. He lifts his teacup in my direction before turning to Nan. “You know, I think I remember you from when I was growing up. You and your husband visited a lot, right?”

It’s an elite distraction. Nan lights up like a Christmas tree. “We came every summer. John and Joyce were our closest friends.”

Charlie squints. “John said it’s been a long time since you’ve been back. He asked me to let him know how you’re doing—said you haven’t spoken in a long time.”