What was she going to photograph? Wall hangings? He had two or three. Furniture. She could, but for what purpose?
She’d already been out of the house too long. Couldn’t spend an hour or two on the beach.
The girls were both out in their beds in the kitchen. Worn out from the day’s adventures on the beach.
Her charge was asleep, dressed in basketball shorts and a T-shirt, with his leg elevated, on top of the spare bed. She noted that his face was smoothed out. He wasn’t moaning, groaning or exhibiting any of the inadvertent movements that had populated his attempts to rest the first couple of days.
Her camera rose as if of its own volition and before she caught an outside-in glimpse of herself, she’d already taken dozens of shots. Close-ups. Zoomed out. His bandaged leg. His face. A hand on the bedspread. The portfolio would be a study.
In pain?
Recovery?
Resilience?
The strength of the human spirit?
Maybe, sometime in the future, when he was off living his carefree bachelor life again, she’d show him the portfolio as a reminder of how far he’d come. Give him proof of his ability to keep his word to himself. No matter how much he’d suffered,he hadn’t broken down and taken pain medication.
The story would be better if she’d taken shots during the first two days. But even the thought of having done so made her cringe in fear for what had been such a close call.
That memory needed to fade as far and as fast as possible. Not be preserved for all eternity.
And…what in the hell was she doing? Taking photos of a sleeping man without his knowledge or any kind of permission?
Her entire body tightened with tension. With chills and a sense of horror. How could she possibly have thought she had the right to just…?
Turning abruptly, she left the room. Clicked off the camera. Stashed it in the bottom of her largest camera bag. There would be no touching the thing again until she could make herself dump the photo shoot.
No one, absolutely no other being on earth—including the girls—could be witness to what she’d done.
Food.
Grabbing another camera, she headed to the kitchen. Almost stumbling over her feet in her rush to get there. Before Scott’s accident—on and off since before Sage’s wedding actually—she’d been thinking about ways to show what food said to her.
In scarcity.
In abundance.
In a color study.
To entice appetite.
Suddenly—almost desperately—energized, she pulled things out of Scott’s refrigerator. Out of his cupboards, and let her soul speak from behind her lens.
Snapping shot after shot—hundreds of them in an hour.Colors. Shapes. Telling stories. Even engaging the dogs in them.
The high she felt when she was doing good work slowly trickled through her.
Then consumed her.
And she welcomed herself home.
* * *
He needed her gone. Still. Just as badly as ever. But as Scott awoke from the first good sleep he’d had since the accident, he came into full consciousness with a clear head and a new, two-point strategy.
First, accept the help being given. Experts and nonexperts, friends and even family knew he needed assistance in order to heal most expediently. And his number-one goal was to get back on his feet. Both of them. And regain full control.
