“Exactly.” Sam matched my smile, and I felt my heart flutter in my chest.
“Then I’m glad today was a ‘yes’ day,” I said.
Vanessa looked between us and her eyes sparkled. She leaned forward. “Sam’s message said you needed a Mardi Gras mask. You’re a little late for the party this year.”
“It’s not for me,” I said. “It’s for Piper Kinkade.”
Vanessa leaned back in her chair and pressed her hand to her chest. “Ms. Kinkade asked for one of my masks?”
“Not specifically. But I think she might like it.” I quickly explained about my encounter with Piper and how we had failed to save Paul’s job. “So you see, it’s my fault, and I promised to try to make things right. I thought this might be the answer we were looking for.”
“If this is the answer, what was the question?” Vanessa asked.
I lifted my bag off the floor and withdrew the head shot of Piper. Handing it to Vanessa, I said, “I wrote it all down on the back of this.”
Vanessa held the photo by her fingertips, her eyelids fluttering as though trying to sense something within the paper and ink itself. Then she turned it over and read the list out loud, the cadence of her voice adding a musical quality to the words I had all but memorized. “‘Original but familiar. A fresh look at something ethereal. Signed one-of-a-kind. No fakes. Nothing pedestrian. Unexpected and bold. Needs to be emotionally moving. Inspiring but not sappy. Must match décor.’”
“Kind of crazy, right?” I said.
“Not at all,” Vanessa said with appreciation. She smoothed her hands over the glossy page. “I believe that art prefers rules. For some artists, the worst thing you can say is ‘Do whatever you want.’ Such permission can be terrifying. I know it is for me. Often it’s better if you impose rules or restrictions on a project. Requirements can force you to be creative in unusual ways.”
“Well, Piper’s requirements seemed a little extreme to me,” I said.
“But they have led you here, haven’t they?” Vanessa countered. “An unanticipated destination, perhaps, but you must admit, all the best journeys take unexpected detours.” She clapped her hands together a single time. “Come. We will take this journey together.”
She swept back from the table and glided across the room to the cabinet.
I watched her as she swayed in front of the drawers, her hands dancing in small circles as though she was conducting music only she could hear.
“She’s . . .” I shook my head, at a loss for words. “I mean—wow.”
“I know,” Sam said, grinning. “I thought you might like her.”
Vanessa suddenly darted forward, opening the drawers two at a time, her hands flashing and moving, gathering up supplies. The frame of a mask. Sequins. Feathers. Ribbons and glitter and glass beads.
She turned toward us, her face alive and alight with joy. “The muses are calling, my darlings.”
“And the artist must answer,” Sam answered, giving me a knowing look. He stood up and gestured for me to join him. “Are you ready?”
I lifted my mug in a one-sided toast. “Mmm, not quite. I can’t let something this delicious go to waste. You go on ahead. I’ll catch up.”
“Okay.” Sam jerked his head toward the other side of the room where the cabinet of art supplies stood. “You know where I’ll be.”
I took a sip of my chocolate and wiggled my fingers in a teasing, farewell wave. I was warm and comfortable and feeling good. A little sleepy, maybe, but the nap I’d taken at the Top of the Rock had helped.
I watched Sam walk away, appreciating the fine lines of his legs and the swing of his arms, and the sight reminded me of the first time I’d seen him that day. I fished my camera out of my bag and slouched back into my chair.
Sam and Vanessa had moved the mask-making supplies to a side table, arranging the items and arguing good-naturedly about if the red ribbon was the best choice or the blue. Maybe white? Their voices blended into a low murmur in the background.
Powering up my camera, I switched into review mode, and the last picture I’d taken flashed on the small back screen.
Except the image that appeared wasn’t one I had taken. It was of me and Sam, the flash painting the length of his forearm white, his hand disappearing into the blackness behind the lens. He appeared relaxed and comfortable—more so than I’d seen him all day—and what was even more interesting was that the picture had captured him doing something I didn’t think was possible for him: being still. And looking happy about it. The slope of his shoulder, the lift of his arm, the way he had crossed his legs beneath him, every part of him looked sculpted and polished. Like a work of art.
I stared into Sam’s eyes that were looking directly into the camera, directly at the me sitting here on the other side, and I felt an idea begin to stir inside me.
The me in the picture was asleep on his shoulder, eyes closed, body curled close, one hand reaching out and almost touching Sam’s knee.
I pushed the button to scroll back to the previous picture and saw a close-up of my own face. Still asleep. Still peaceful. The curve of my cheek looked smooth and soft.
Holding the camera closer, I studied the image. I had always thought I looked average, normal. Brownish-blonde hair. Green eyes. Nothing too remarkable. But the face of the girl in the picture was beautiful. Was this how other people saw me? Was this how Sam saw me?
The idea stretched and reached, taking shape.
I pushed the button one more time to reveal the Empire State Building, lit with red, white, and blue lights and dominating the skyline. I had loved the picture when I had taken it, pleased with the emotion that had been captured along with the lights and shadows.
Toggling forward again, I skipped past the picture of me and returned to the one of me and Sam together.
The idea steadied and solidified. I knew what to do.
My hands trembled, both from excitement and from fear. Could I really pull this off? Should I? I wasn’t an artist—not really. Not like Vanessa, who ruled her world with magic and muses. Not like Aces, who lived his life with passion and built his own three-dimensional version of reality. Not even like Daniel, who could play music that sounded like the voice of God.
I was just me. But sitting at a table that had once been a door, I thought being me might be enough.
Chapter 36
Sam
“Vanessa?” Sara asked. “Can I use your computer for a minute?”
“Of course, sugar. What do you need?” She looked up from the table, her hands filled with ribbons of all different lengths and colors.
Sara turned her camera over and over like it was a puzzle box she was trying to solve. “There are a couple of pictures I took that I’d like to look at on a bigger screen. You know—see if they are any good.”
“You’re a photographer?” Vanessa said, delighted. She allowed the ribbons to flutter through her fingers. “It’s a beautiful art form.” She swept over to the desk with long, graceful strides. Sam trailed along in her wake.
With a touch of her finger, she woke the computer; bright light poured over the keyboard and mouse.
For all that the desk appeared cluttered, Sam realized it was actually quite organized. The cords were color-coded, and there was enough room to work while still keeping the supplies—scratch paper, pens, clips—close at hand. The lamp was positioned perfectly to offer enough light but not so much that it glared off the screen. Clearly Vanessa spent enough time in front of the computer to leave her mark on it and make it feel like home.
Sara joined them at the desk, one hand resting on the back of the chair, the other gripping her camera.
“I’ve tried my hand at taking a few pictures myself, but I’ve found that photography requires a certain kind of sight that I haven’t mastered yet. I’m still learning how to see the truth through the lens.” Vanessa gestured toward a bookcase that stood next to the window. The top shelf was lined with sleek black camera bodies and several lenses stan
ding tall like pillars. A black camera bag sat at the end of the row like a fat bookend.
Sam knew Sara had been taking pictures all day—they’d met because she’d taken his picture—but he hadn’t seen any of her work yet. It occurred to him that if she’d turned on her camera, she must have seen the shots he’d taken. He wondered what she thought of them. “Do you need my help?” he asked.
“I don’t know. Maybe.” Sara pulled back the chair and sat down at the desk without looking at him.
Sam heard a tremor in her voice, and he wondered if she was nervous about having an audience present while she reviewed her pictures.
Vanessa selected a small black cord and plugged it into the side of Sara’s camera. While the computer hummed, she launched Photoshop Lightroom and quickly closed her open files. In a moment, the screen was fresh and ready for new material. Once the camera and the computer had finished their conversation, a quiet chime sounded, and a window filled with a series of yellow folders opened up on the screen.
Sara moved the mouse, the arrow hovering over the folder dated today, but she didn’t click it open. She twisted in the chair and looked over her shoulder at Vanessa and Sam. She bit her bottom lip. “Um, I’m sorry . . . but, well . . . I mean, I was kind of hoping . . .”
Vanessa smiled. “I understand. Sometimes art demands privacy.” She touched Sam on the arm. “Come, Sam. Let’s leave her with her muses. There is other work for us to do.”
He looked from her to Sara. Part of him wanted to stay with Sara—he wanted her to want him to stay—but it was clear that she needed some space and time alone with her pictures.
“Let me know if you need anything,” he said as Vanessa drew him away from the desk. He stepped back reluctantly. “I’ll be right here.”
“I know.” Sara gave him a smile. “I will. Thanks.” Then she turned toward the computer and clicked open the folder.
Sam saw a flicker of colors around the edges of her body as the images loaded up on the screen—green, blue, silver, black. He craned his neck, hoping to see at least one of the mystery pictures, but Vanessa tugged on his arm and pulled his attention to her.
“She’ll let us know when she’s ready to share,” she said.
Sam leaned his hip against the small table, frowning. He’d thought they were a team, working together to solve the problem of Piper, but now, just when he thought they’d hit upon the right answer, Sara was suddenly off on her own, pursuing a different course and working on something where he didn’t feel welcomed.
He watched as Sara pulled up one leg beneath her on the chair and leaned forward, studying the screen intently. Her hands moved swiftly but confidently over the keyboard. She knew exactly what she was doing—whatever it was.
He sighed and looked down at the table. The blank mask stared back at him with empty, black eyes. He picked up a green ribbon and draped it across the oval sockets. Better, but he still shivered, thinking that no amount of decoration could bring life to those eyes.
“Maybe this mask is a bad idea.”
“How so?” Vanessa selected a heavy brocade trim in green and gold and laid it next to the silk ribbon.
“Piper said she didn’t want anything fake. What’s more fake than hiding behind a mask?”
Vanessa shrugged. “Sometimes wearing a mask is the best way to show our true selves.”
Sam flinched inwardly and looked away.
“Art can conceal as well as reveal,” she continued. “It takes courage to remove our masks. But it takes greater courage to allow those we care about to remove their own masks when they are with us.” Vanessa fanned a row of feathers—all green except for one solitary white one—above the arched eyes. “When we grant others the opportunity to be open and vulnerable, that is when we can see the truth. In them. And in ourselves.”
Sam rolled a bottle of silver glitter between his fingers. He thought about the truths he had learned today. “What if you don’t like what you see?” he asked quietly.
“You see something in Sara you don’t like?” Vanessa frowned.
Sam shook his head, feeling the dog tags shift beneath his shirt. “In me.”
Her frown broke into a crooked smile. “That’s good. That’s how we know we need to change. And what we need to change.” A strand of hair escaped from the pins, curling by her ear. “But you should know, once you go down the road of change, you’ll never be able to wear that old mask again. Are you brave enough to leave it behind?” She met his eyes with a kind but piercing stare. “Are you ready to trade away your fear?”
Sam set down the bottle and pressed his hands flat against the table to keep them from trembling. Bravery had never been his strength, but for the first time in a long time, he had tried today to be brave. For Sara. With Sara. And he was still standing. Maybe he was stronger than he thought.
Vanessa touched his hand. “You are,” she said, and for one moment, Sam thought she had read his mind; then he realized that she had simply answered her own question.
But either way it was true. He felt it deep in his soul. He had offered up his story of Alice; he had accepted Sara’s story of her fractured family. Maybe he was ready to move on. To move forward. To leave stagnation behind and say yes to life.
He looked at Sara. She leaned back in her chair and reached her hands high in a stretch that pulled her spine straight. She ran her fingers through her hair, scraping it away from her face, and then bent again to her mystery task.
In no small way, he had Sara to thank for this day that had changed everything. She may have stolen his soul, but she’d given it back to him, better than before. He wanted to do the same for her.
“I think,” he started, cautious and careful. If he went down this path, there was no going back. “I think I might need to find someone, but I’m not sure where to start.”
“The great Sam the finder needs help finding someone?” Vanessa’s smile was warm as she inclined her head toward Sara’s back. “I don’t know—I’d say he’s already found someone.”
Sam flushed. “Not for me.”
Vanessa’s eyebrows rose. “For her? Who does she need that she doesn’t already have?”
“Her mom.”
Chapter 37
Sara
The answer had been right in front of me all day? Who knew?
I knew the minute I opened the folder containing the pictures I’d taken today that I was on the right track. I pulled up my leg, tucking it under me on the seat.
Twelve pictures opened in twelve windows, one after the other, in reverse chronological order:
Sam’s portrait of us together on Top of the Rock.
The close-up of me asleep on his shoulder.
The skyline of New York with the Empire State Building in the center.
The picture of Sam on the subway, his head leaning against the dark window, his reflection a smudge of light on the glass.
Two pictures of the birds I saw outside St. John’s. One brown, one blue. Both small and nestled in a summer-green tree, their wings as close as a whisper.
The black-and-white photo of Daniel’s hand wrapped around mine.
My snapshot of me and Daniel, the walls of St. John’s Cathedral rising up behind us, the blurry image of Sam’s face as he was caught turning away.
A red, double-decker bus driving past, filled with tourists on their way to their next destination.
The back wall of 24 Frames, where if you looked at the pictures fast enough, a man seemed to be in motion. Sam was in motion too, trying to duck out of the frame, but failing.
A picture of a crowded sidewalk, a bookstore off to the side.
The last picture—or the first, depending on your perspective—was of the same crowded sidewalk, the same bookstore off to the side. But the difference was Sam. He wore his gray Zebra Stripes hoodie and had a book wrapped in brown paper tucked under his arm. The picture didn’t show his face, just a portion of his back, his leg extended midstride.
I studied the twelve p
hotographs, amazed at how my day had been captured and chronicled. It wasn’t a perfect record: I didn’t have any pictures of Piper or Paul or Will or Rebecca. I didn’t have any shots of Times Square. I was asleep in two of the three pictures of me.
But even still, as my eyes moved from image to image, I remembered the emotions I’d felt at each stop. I remembered the experience.
Original but familiar—that was what Piper had asked for. There were enough hints in the pictures to place them squarely in New York, but somehow I suspected Piper had never seen this side of the city. I had pictures that I felt were fresh and bold and ethereal. There was certainly nothing pedestrian about the picture of Daniel’s hand with mine. There was something inspiring about the two birds perched on the tree branch. There was something emotional about the picture of Sam on the subway, his expression unguarded, his eyes lost and thoughtful.
A shiver ran down my back. Was I really going to do this? Could I?
I found myself lingering on the pictures of Sam. There were more of them than I expected. Outside the bookstore. On the subway. On Top of the Rock. But he was also in the one at St. John’s. And the one at 24 Frames. He was blurry in both of those, but he was there. And when I looked closely at the picture of the double-decker bus, I could see the gray sleeve of his hoodie with the black stripe down the edge of the frame. He was even in the close-up shot of me—or at least, his shoulder was.
Parts of him were scattered through almost every picture I’d taken.
I clicked through them one more time, front to back, then back to front.
I stopped on the picture of Sam outside the bookstore. It was a decent action shot. The other people in the frame were in various stages of motion—a few in the background were blurry, a few in the front were sharply defined—but Sam was clearly the subject of the photograph. After spending the day with him, I recognized the shape of his body, the set of his shoulders. I could imagine the expression on his face even though it was turned away from the lens: determined, focused. His eyes would have been wide open, seeing everything, noticing everything.