Chapter 6 - The Man With the CameraDaniel Reyes photographed buildings as if they had feelings.
That was the first thing I noticed about him.
The second was that he disliked being photographed himself.
“You realize this is suspicious,” I told him.
We were standing inside an abandoned theater on King Street that Bennett Story & Design had been hired to help rebrand before its restoration.
Daniel adjusted his camera.
“What is?”
“You’ve taken approximately nine thousand photographs in your career, and I have seen three photographs of you.”
“Four.”
“The fourth is your driver’s license.”
“It counts.”
“It absolutely does not.”
He smiled.
Daniel was forty-two.
Divorced.
No children.
Originally from Miami.
He had moved to Charleston six years earlier after what he described as “a professional crisis involving a magazine editor, an impossible deadline, and a hotel room in Atlanta with no functioning air conditioning.”
I had never learned whether that explanation was serious.
Probably partly.
Daniel lived that way.
Half sincerity.
Half amusement.
He made people comfortable without demanding they explain themselves.
That was what I liked most.
He lifted his camera.
“Stand there.”
“No.”
“Why?”
“I hired you.”
“Exactly. You should respect my artistic authority.”
“I hired you to photograph the building.”
“You’re standing in the building.”
“Daniel.”
“Clara.”
I crossed my arms.
He took the photograph.
“You’re fired.”
“Send the termination notice to my accountant.”
I tried not to smile.
Failed.
He took another.
“Definitely fired.”
That evening was supposed to be our third official date.
The problem was that neither of us knew what made a date official.
Dinner after working together?
Possibly.
Coffee?
Probably not.
Walking through the Saturday market for two hours and accidentally buying an antique lamp neither of us needed?
Unclear.
Megan had established a classification system.
According to her, if I changed clothes first, it counted.
I told her that was ridiculous.
Then changed clothes.
Daniel picked me up at seven.
He drove an old silver Land Cruiser with camera equipment permanently occupying half the back seat.
When I opened the passenger door, there was a paper bag on the seat.
“What’s this?”
“Bribery.”
I looked inside.
Chocolate-covered pecans.
“You remembered.”
“You ate half my bag last week.”
“That does not mean they’re my favorite.”
“You said, and I quote, ‘These may be the only reason South Carolina deserves statehood.’”
“I was emotional.”
“About pecans?”
“I contain depth.”
He smiled.
I climbed in.
We drove toward Sullivan’s Island.
Dinner was at a small restaurant near the water.
No chandeliers.
No corporate clients.
No anniversary expectations.
Just wooden tables and seafood and a waitress who called both of us honey.
Halfway through dinner, Daniel asked about the wedding.
“You said complicated.”
“I did.”
“How complicated?”
I considered avoiding the question.
Then decided not to.
“I danced with Nathan.”
Daniel paused with his fork halfway to his mouth.
“That kind of complicated.”
“Yes.”
“How was it?”
“Strange.”
“Bad strange?”
“No.”
“That sounds more dangerous.”
I laughed softly.
“It wasn’t dangerous.”
Daniel put down his fork.
“I’m not worried.”
“You looked worried.”
“I looked interested.”
“You looked like a man calculating whether he could defeat an architect in hand-to-hand combat.”
“Architects have weak wrists.”
I laughed.
Then he became serious.
“Clara, you don’t owe me a version of your history that makes me comfortable.”
The sentence surprised me.
He continued.
“You were married a long time.”
“Almost ten years together.”
“That doesn’t disappear because you signed papers.”
“No.”
“And you still own part of his company.”
“Fifteen percent.”
“And occasionally work with them.”
“Yes.”
“So Nathan is going to exist.”
I studied him.
“You’re unusually reasonable.”
“I’m trying to impress you.”
“Ah.”
“Normally I’m terrible.”
“That’s reassuring.”
He smiled.
Then he asked, “Do you still love him?”
There it was.
I looked toward the window.
Outside, the last light was disappearing over the water.
“Yes.”
Daniel was quiet.
I looked back.
“I don’t mean I want to be married to him.”
“I know.”
“I don’t want our old life back.”
“I know.”
“But I think there are people you love because they became part of the language you use to understand yourself.”
Daniel leaned back.
“That’s a very specific answer.”
“I’ve had time to think.”
“Do you think he still loves you?”
“Yes.”
“And does he want you back?”
I hesitated.
“I don’t know.”
“That means probably.”
“No.”
“Clara.”
“He has never asked.”
“That wasn’t my question.”
I looked down at my plate.
Nathan had respected the boundary.
He had not asked for reconciliation after the divorce.
He had not used therapy as evidence that I owed him another chance.
He had not treated changed behavior as currency.
But sometimes I saw something in his expression.
At the studio.
At the wedding.
When I spoke about Daniel.
Something quiet.
Something carefully contained.
“I think part of him might,” I admitted.
Daniel nodded.
“Okay.”
“That’s all?”
“What else should I say?”
“I don’t know.”
He considered.
“I could challenge him to a duel.”
“There it is.”
“But parking is difficult downtown.”
I laughed.
After dinner, we walked along the beach.
Daniel carried his shoes.
I carried mine.
The sand was cool beneath my feet.
We talked about everything except Nathan.
His mother.
My studio.
A project he wanted to photograph in Cuba.
Megan’s increasingly aggressive campaign to fill my office with plants.
Then Daniel stopped.
“Clara.”
I turned.
He kissed me.
It was not my first kiss after Nathan.
That had happened months earlier with a man named Andrew whom I met at a gallery opening.
Andrew had been handsome.
Polite.
Interesting.
And when he kissed me, I had spent the entire time wondering whether I was moving my head too much.
We did not have a second date.
Daniel was different.
I didn’t think.
That was the difference.
His hand touched my cheek.
The ocean moved behind us.
For several seconds, the world became beautifully uncomplicated.
Then we stepped apart.
Daniel smiled.
“Still thinking about whether this counts as a date?”
“No.”
“Good.”
I kissed him again.
Three weeks later, Nathan met Daniel.
Not because I planned it.
Life had apparently decided the situation required entertainment.
Bennett Story & Design was hosting an opening reception for a preservation campaign.
Daniel had photographed twelve historic businesses throughout Charleston.
His photographs covered one wall of the studio.
Nathan had been invited because Carter Coastal sponsored part of the campaign.
I considered asking him not to come.
Then I became irritated with myself.
This was my business.
My event.
My life.
I was not going to rearrange it to prevent two adult men from occupying the same room.
Nathan arrived at seven fifteen.
Daniel was standing beside me.
Of course.
I saw Nathan notice.
His expression changed for less than a second.
Then he walked over.
“Clara.”
“Nathan.”
His eyes moved to Daniel.
I inhaled.
“Daniel Reyes. Nathan Carter.”
Daniel held out his hand.
“Nathan.”
“Daniel.”
They shook.
No lightning.
No duel.
No architectural wrist injuries.
Nathan looked at the photographs.
“These are yours?”
“They are.”
“They’re excellent.”
“Thank you.”
Nathan stepped closer to one showing an old pharmacy.
“I know this building.”
“Most people do.”
“No, I mean we assessed the roof six years ago.”
Daniel nodded.
“Then I owe you thanks. It remained attached.”
Nathan smiled.
I stared at them.
This was intolerable.
They were being normal.
“You two are disappointing me,” I said.
Daniel looked at me.
“Why?”
“I expected at least one territorial display.”
Nathan nearly choked on his drink.
Daniel remained calm.
“I marked the parking meter.”
I laughed.
Nathan shook his head.
“I’m going to speak to Eric.”
He started away.
Then stopped.
He looked at Daniel.
“It was good meeting you.”
“You too.”
Nathan walked across the studio.
Daniel waited.
Then whispered, “I still think I could take him.”
“You’re impossible.”
But later that evening, I found Nathan alone near the back window.
The old desk stood beside him.
He was touching the stubborn drawer.
“Still broken?” he asked.
“Yes.”
“You could fix it.”
“I could.”
“But you won’t.”
“No.”
He nodded.
“I understand.”
I stood beside him.
For a moment, we watched people moving through the studio.
“You like him,” Nathan said.
It wasn’t a question.
“Yes.”
“He seems good.”
“He is.”
Nathan looked down.
“That’s good.”
I recognized the effort required to say it.
“Thank you.”
He nodded.
Then he looked at me.
“Can I ask you something?”
“Depends.”
“Are you happy?”
I thought about Daniel.
About the studio.
About Sunday dinners.
About mornings alone in my cottage when sunlight came through the kitchen window and nobody needed anything from me.
“Yes.”
Nathan smiled.
Not completely.
But sincerely.
“Then I’m glad.”
He walked away.
I watched him go.
That night, after everyone left, Daniel helped me collect glasses.
“You okay?” he asked.
“Yes.”
“You’re quiet.”
“I’m thinking.”
“Dangerous.”
I smiled.
Then I sat on the edge of the old desk.
“Daniel, I need to tell you something.”
He put down the glasses.
“All right.”
“I don’t know what I’m ready for.”
His expression remained calm.
“With me?”
“With anyone.”
He leaned against the wall.
“Okay.”
“I like you.”
“I had begun to suspect.”
“But I spent years building my life around another person.”
“I know.”
“And right now, even something good can sometimes feel like another structure I’m expected to move into.”
Daniel thought about that.
Then he nodded.
“So don’t move in.”
I frowned.
“Metaphorically.”
“Oh.”
“Stay outside.”
“That sounds uncomfortable.”
“Bring a chair.”
I laughed.
He walked closer.
“Clara, I’m not asking you for a five-year plan.”
“I know.”
“I like having dinner with you.”
“I like having dinner with you.”
“I like kissing you.”
“I’ve noticed.”
“I’d like to continue.”
“That seems reasonable.”
“So maybe that’s enough.”
I looked at him.
For years, love had meant plans.
Mortgage payments.
Calendars.
Retirement accounts.
Promises about forever.
Daniel was offering Thursday.
Maybe Saturday.
Perhaps next week.
Nothing smaller because it mattered less.
Smaller because it was honest.
“All right,” I said.
He kissed my forehead.
Then my phone rang.
Nathan.
I stared at the screen.
Daniel saw the name.
“Answer it.”
“It’s ten thirty.”
“Maybe it’s important.”
I answered.
“Nathan?”
His voice sounded wrong.
“Clara.”
I stood immediately.
“What happened?”
There was noise behind him.
People talking.
A door opening.
May you like
Then Nathan said four words that changed the direction of the next year.
“My father had a stroke.”
