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“That must be tough. For both of you,” said her father, suddenly serious.
Ethan stared down at his hands and bobbed his head slightly. “Yeah, it was. Is.”
She looked over at her father, and saw his face was filled with compassion. He knew what that was like, his own father having disapproved of his music career, wanting him to put the furniture store first. Her father had taken it on eventually, after Kate came on the scene and it was no longer practical to take Tom and her along for gigs, or leave them with babysitters. Had he regretted that? But she knew deep down, he hadn’t. Still, it must have been difficult for him to bear his father’s disapproval and the guilt that had probably come along with it. It was something she hadn’t spent time considering. Questions came to her mind. Things she wanted to ask him soon. The reason for the need to act she pushed away.
“Did you get some good pictures?” asked Ethan, his head still lowered.
She understood he wanted to change the subject. “Yes, I got some great ones. Do you want to see?”
He lifted his head and smiled, his eyes clearing. She moved over to the sofa and took a seat next to him. With a few deft clicks she pulled up the images on the screen of the camera and passed it over to him, conscious of the warmth of his thigh next to hers.
He took the camera from her and began to scroll through them. “These are amazing,” he said. He looked over at her, his eyes filled with admiration. “You’re really talented. I wish I could have seen your exhibition. Do you have photos of it?”
She reddened at his words, pleasure spreading through her. “Thanks. I do have some, on my laptop. I’ll show you sometime if you want.”
Ethan finished scrolling and passed the camera to her father, who took it. “She’s very talented, my girl. Always has been. First music, and now this.” He began scrolling through the images, smiling and nodding. When he’d finished he handed the camera back to her. “You’ve got some really pretty scenes there, Katydid.”
She nodded, thrilled that both of them had liked her work, even though some, she knew, were just experimental shots that would probably be discarded.
“Have you been to the lake at all?” Ethan asked. “The woods around it are amazing at the moment. The trees”—he shook his head—“thick with color. The maples just have a magic of their own, don’t they? The way they mix the crimson, fire red, sometimes almost orange, the blood red, and an almost purple red…” His eyes were filled with warmth from the memory.
His words echoed in her head,thick with color. All the reds. Something prickled at the back of her mind, more than a creative urge, an inspiration. She paused for a moment, still staring at Ethan trying to catch hold of it.
“Do you want to go see them now?” Ethan asked, studying her. “I can take you on the bike. I’ve an extra helmet. Unless you have something else to do.”
His words pulled her out of her reverie. She glanced at her father. “No, no. I should stay here. Besides, I need to do some work.”
“Nonsense,” said her father. “Go with Ethan. Take the truck so Max can go along with you. He’ll love it. And no arguments. Don’t think I don’t know you’re just saying you should stay for me. I’m fine.” The last words he pronounced firmly. “And besides, this is still work, isn’t it? You’re researching potential pictures.”
She laughed at the thought. She supposed he was right. It would be work. She looked down at the old sweatpants she was wearing, which she’d paired with an overly large NYU sweatshirt that had been Tom’s, the Converse on her feet. The sweatpants were hers, but worn and hip-hugging. Good for a quick walk on a morning not particularly cold, but not for a ride on a motorcycle to a lake that could very well have cool breezes blowing from it.
She smiled at Ethan. “Fine, great. Thanks. Let me just change a minute.”
Twelve
Ethan was right. The colors were vibrant and alive, making the leaves dance, creating mosaics of patterns in the late morning light, both overhead and underfoot. She raised her camera time and time again, clicking away, until finally, she was just looking through the camera, stopping only to change F-stops. This time she also panned a shot at a slow shutter speed, to create a blurred effect. Max raced on ahead, sometimes doubling back as if he was wondering what was taking them so long.
Behind her, Ethan followed her silently, allowing her full rein on her creativity. The wind meandered through the trees, rustling, stirring the leaves to flutter and flirt, as if posing for the camera. Phrases drifted through her head, scattered words liketapestry of color weaving a song, the music of leaves.It fed the images, and she reached for a poem, but the words eluded her, the phrases that she’d just created overriding anything else. Never mind, it would come.
Ethan placed a hand on her shoulder. “Look, there,” he said. He pointed through the trees to her left with his other hand. “See, through the trees. You can see glimpses of the lake and with the light just so it’s twinkling. Like diamonds.”
Kate looked through the area where he’d pointed and studied it. It was a tricky but a very good shot. One she could do much with if she got it right. Slowly, she lifted her camera, conscious that his hand was still on her shoulder, warm and very real. Steadying. She narrowed her eyes, trying to focus on the shot, adjusting the lens, considering a filter, but in the end she decided she’d just make a few more adjustments and try another approach, maybe an overexposure. She clicked a few times, angling the camera slightly differently each time, then besides selecting different F-stops, she also changed shutter speeds to create a different kind of motion effect, making small adjustments for each shot. She was excited. More phrases came to her mind.Light weaves through the leaves, creating patterns among the shadows.No, too ordinary.
Above her, the crimson and green canopy nearly encapsulated them, and it was as though they were in their own little world, wandering through the woods. Ethan’s hand had left her shoulder, and it was now sunken into the pockets of his jeans, his flannel shirt open to the breeze that stirred around them still.
“Do you remember ‘The Song of Wandering Aengus’?”she asked him on impulse.That poem was about wandering in the woods.
“You mean the Yeats poem? Of course I do. I was an English major, remember? But weren’t you too?”
She grimaced. “Yeah, I was. Much good it does me.”
“What do you mean? Your dad says your art incorporates literature in the images.”
She shrugged. “Yes, true.”
He spoke the words of the poem slowly, and she stood there, letting them infuse her with the deep, rich intonation of voice.
I went out to the hazel wood
