The Photographer by Mary Carter (best summer books TXT) 📕

a few items purchased for that reason. But Amelia and Fritz were working on a much deeper level. A great deal of the magic in Natalie’s room came from the lighting. It was clear that the materials and colors of the drapes, rug, furniture, walls, ceiling were all chosen to work with the lighting—to reflect it or absorb it, depending on the desired effect—and create a true feeling of otherworldliness. This child’s room might as well have been an art installation, it was executed so well. To a layperson, it appeared personal, authentic, and unstudied. That was what made it so effective.

Turning the brass knobs on the Straubs’ extravagant oven, grasping the substantial pulls on the smooth sliding drawers, handling the kitchen faucet, all of these actions were gratifying to my senses.

Natalie sat at the counter and watched me. I found the lasagna in the fridge. “It looks delicious. Did your mom make it?”

“My mom?” Natalie laughed sarcastically. “No.”

I could tell Natalie enjoyed pointing out something her mother didn’t do well.

“Does your dad cook?” The kitchen tools were all coordinated, as were their dishes and their copper pots and pans. The items hadn’t been acquired over many years. It was clear that they’d been purchased all at once, and all other items had been disposed of. Amelia was obviously purposeful in deciding what she wanted to include in her life and what she wanted to exclude. I felt honored that I was being included at this time.

“Sometimes. We get some meals delivered.”

The Straubs probably catered to liberal, sensitive, and socially aware clients, the kind who named family as their priority and considered the kitchen the center of the home, whether anyone cooked or not. And, naturally, their own home would reflect that sensibility. I tried to envision a typical evening in their house and felt a tinge of irritation when I thought about the kitchen sitting unused.

Natalie swiveled back and forth on the kitchen stool.

“Piper seems nice,” I said.

She shrugged. “Yeah.”

“But she’s no hairstylist.”

I was relieved to see Natalie laugh. She appeared to relax a bit.

“Did you have fun with her?” I said.

I noticed a temporary tattoo on Natalie’s hand that was already disintegrating. It said, She Inspires.

I served her a plate of lasagna and sat on the stool next to her.

“Piper likes to tell me how much fun she has with her other friends.”

“I see.”

She took a bite of lasagna. “She doesn’t want me to think I’m an important friend.”

“Maybe she’s worried she’s not important.”

Natalie paused as if considering the idea. “Maybe.”

She was quiet and pensive while she ate. After dinner, I served us each a piece of cake. I rarely ate dessert, because I wanted to maintain my figure. But I needed Natalie to feel as though I was celebrating her birthday with a full heart. She ate all the icing off the outside of the cake, then the cake itself. Then she served herself a second piece of cake.

“Your mom said you’re a really good cello player.” I was looking for a subject that would put her in a good mood.

“She wishes I was.”

I searched for a lighthearted response. “No, she really thinks you’re amazing. Do you like playing the cello?”

She smiled on one side of her mouth. “I don’t know what I like doing.”

“Play something for me.”

Natalie inhaled quickly. “Yeah … OK.”

When she finished her cake, she found her cello in the media room and played a piece from memory. She was actually quite good.

I clapped. “Stunning!”

She held back a smile, but I could tell she was pleased by my reaction. “That was Elgar’s Cello Concerto I played for my recital last week.” She modestly returned her cello to its case.

“I wish I’d seen the recital.”

“My parents got a video from my teacher, since they couldn’t make it. I can show it to you sometime.”

Later, in her bedroom, she put on her unicorn nightgown, brushed her teeth, and climbed into bed under her unicorn sheets. I kissed her forehead, exactly like her parents did when they left for the evening.

I ran the dishwasher, using the Straubs’ organic dishwasher detergent, and wiped down the counters, leaving the kitchen with a minty smell that made me queasy. Then I fed Itzhak his organic dog food. I was bitten by a rottweiler when I was eight and ended up in the hospital, once my third-grade teacher noticed the inflamed bite marks on my arm. Since then, I’ve never been entirely relaxed around dogs. Itzhak was too feeble to hurt anyone, but some fears are not rational.

The wind picked up outside and the windows shook loudly. Itzhak howled at the ceiling. “Shhh.” He settled back down after a few minutes. I thought about how my life compared to Itzhak’s life. He’d been raised with unconditional love by people who cared about his physical and mental well-being.

When finished in the kitchen, I had the rest of the evening to myself. I was free to peruse the house without anyone looking over my shoulder. Many of my clients had indoor security cameras, but I wasn’t surprised that the Straubs didn’t. Cameras would interfere with the exquisite lines of their design. I walked into the library and toward the far wall of bookshelves. I looked through each shelf methodically and stopped whenever I came to a book that had been read several times. Without stepping away, I would remove the book and read a few pages, then flip through to see if anyone had written something in it. I put it back in the exact same spot.

I’d expected to find a lot of books on architecture and art, which I did: exquisite large, heavy books with thick glossy pages and saturated photos. Many cost more than a hundred dollars. They were the kinds of books most people would display on a coffee table, but the Straubs had too many to display.

I moved to the side bookshelves and found a few how-to and self-help books on the bottom shelf close to the wall.