She started clicking through, enlarging when one struck her.
“You can probably tell I started out with a basic Vinyasa, to warm us both up.”
“Added a Tree Pose, which is perfect, and really lovely. But, I think, too typical.”
She continued on.
“Oh, this. Reverse Warrior, the curves, the light. Top contender.”
She flagged it before going on. Then flagged another, Warrior Three, before shifting to floor poses.
“Show-off,” she said as they viewed Cleo in a split-leg fold with her torso flat on the floor. “But this one, this bridge, the curves again, and that light doesn’t quit. Scratch that, this one. One-Legged Bridge, the leg extended up. Curves and angles. How do you manage to look relaxed holding that pose?”
“Because it relaxes me.”
Sonya went through the rest to the final cross-legged, hands in prayer, eyes closed.
Namaste.
“These are absolutely right in every way. I’ll go over them another, oh, five dozen times, but it’s going to come down to the Reverse Warrior, Warrior Three, and that One-Legged Bridge. I’ve got multiple shots of each after I settle on which.
“Thanks, Cleo. Big, giant thanks.”
“I had fun, and I like Corrine. She’s elegant without being stuffy. Now I’m going to put my nose to the grindstone. Makeup and hair’s done, so I’ll probably work till six. If you knock off earlier, come up and drag me away.”
She sent Corrine a thank-you text and gave her the top three current picks, then settled down to work, with Yoda napping and Clover playing quiet classic rock with some pop tossed in.
Just before five, she got another file from Corrine.
Too perfect a day to miss doing some outdoor shots. It took some persistence—of which I have a deep well—but I think I got what you were after. Owen volunteered to hit a few, which stirred up that sense of competition I wanted. Let me know what you think.
She opened the file, said, “Oh, oh, oh!” Then literally jumped out of her seat and danced.
There was Trey, worn jeans, blue T-shirt, fielder’s cap, stretching for that line drive with the ball inches from the sweet spot of a Ryder’s ball glove.
Sonya spun into a pirouette, then another before she managed to sit again.
Trey digging for a grounder, that long line of motion, eyes focused, and another snapping a throw toward—she assumed—home plate.
And unexpectedly, one of him all but horizontal to the ground, the ball pinched in his glove.
She went through them all, flagged her favorites. And answered Corrine.
I’m thrilled. I’m speechless. I’m not paying you enough. Forget I said that. These are beyond perfect. Thank you for your persistence and your talent and your incredibly handsome son.
She shut down, grabbed her tablet, and ran straight up to Cleo’s studio.
“I’m here to drag you away. Can you stop? You have to see these.”
“Nearly ready.” Cleo sat at the workbench with a tabletop easel, finishing an illustration in acrylics.
Knowing how it worked, Sonya walked down to the sofa, sat, and went over the file she’d copied to her tablet.
When Cleo sat back, Sonya bounced up.
“What do you think?” Cleo asked.
Walking back, Sonya studied the painting. “Lovers meet, under the sea.”
“Mermaids need mermen.”
“And it’s lovely, their movement toward each other, arms reaching, fingers nearly touching. The yearning.”
“That’s what I wanted. Not just sex, but emotion, yearning. It’s human. Now, what do I have to see?”
“Another version of poetry in motion.”
“Oh, she said she was going to try, but not to mention it in case Trey’s schedule didn’t allow. And may I again say, mmm-mmm-mmm.”
“You may.”
“I know you had this one as your vision, but this one—where he’s basically hovering above the ground? It’s awesome.”
“And I’m going to frame it for him, but I think, like your split-leg fold, it’s too good. Intimidating for regular people. And in the first, you can clearly see the Ryder logo on the mitt. The client will like that.”
“You win the point. I guess we should go change so Mr. Baseball can take us to dinner.”
“I’ve got to push it, grab a shower.” She glanced at the time. “Why is it always later than I think it should be?”
She hustled back downstairs, jumped in the shower. Wrapped in a towel, she decided to twist up a ponytail, clip it, and consider her hair done. Looking forward to an evening with Mr. Baseball, she fell into her fifteen-minute, night-out-makeup routine while she tried to figure out what she should wear.