Page 50 of I Saw Her First

She nods. “Built in the 1860s and used as horse stables. Look at the architectural details, like the brickwork above the arches.”

I lower the camera for a moment to take them in more clearly. The first two buildings in the lane are a pair of redbricktwo-story homes, with black wooden double-height doors curving into a graceful arch at the top. They look to be used as garages today, but I can imagine where the horses would have entered. The rounded windows and front entryways on each side mirror the large middle arch, their rooflines extending to two points directly over the arches, marking the pair of buildings perfectly symmetrical.

I can’t quite explain why, but the photographer in me loves it.

I lift the camera again and find a position that best frames their symmetry in the evening light. A few adjustments of the settings, and I capture their beauty with a press of my finger. It sends a burst of warm, buzzing energy through me, and I turn back to Violet with a grin.

“Look at these,” Violet says, leading me further along the lane.

The next row of carriage houses is just as pleasing to the eye. Not as grand as the first two, but understated in their elegance. Two stories of white painted brick with four rows of matching black doors, capped by arched black framed windows with window boxes bursting with greenery. The contrast between the black and white—and the vibrant foliage in the boxes—has me lifting my camera quickly.

I spend a little more time adjusting the settings on the Nikon to get the contrast exactly right, and experiment with capturing the buildings from either end, since they’re too long to fit inside the frame head-on. It allows me to play with the perspective and the angles of the flat roofline, and the excitement continues to fizz inside me as I capture the details. I’ve never photographed buildings before, and definitely nothing so beautiful, with such a unique history.

“There’s more,” Violet says, motioning behind me.

When I finally drag my gaze from the structures in front of me, I see she’s right. There’s an entire row of carriage housesextending along the lane. I can hear the hooves on the cobbles as I picture the area bustling with people and carriages a hundred and fifty years ago. One building in particular catches my eye, and I rush ahead, gripping the Nikon. Violet laughs as she follows me.

“It’s pretty, isn’t it? I love the shutters on the windows.”

I nod, lifting the camera to frame the shot. The weathered and worn facade of the brick building is definitely in need of some love, but the patina only makes it more beautiful. The windows and their shutters, as well as the carriage and front doors at the ground level, are painted in a soft cornflower blue. Window boxes spill over with white daisies, their yellow faces hidden as their petals close for the night. I take a few more pictures in the fading light, promising myself I’ll return to shoot the house in full sun.

I turn to Violet, feeling fuller than I have in a long time. “Thank you so much. I never would have thought to come here.”

She grins. “I love looking at the carriage houses. It feels like stepping back in time.”

I nod vigorously. With a sigh, we meander out of the lane and head back toward Violet’s house. The Nikon is warm in my hand, and I look up from the sidewalk to take in my surroundings in a way I never have. My gaze travels across the brownstones, noticing architectural details I’ve passed over before. When I view the neighborhood from the perspective of a photographer, there’s so much to see, so many intricacies to capture. I’ll have to come back to shoot the rest of the neighborhood.

I skip along beside Violet, buzzing with energy. I can’t wait to develop these shots, and…

My thoughts grind to a halt as the events from earlier in the evening come back to me. The feeling of being in that darkroom, knowing Wes had gone to the trouble of doing that for me.

Just give him time… he’ll get there when he’s ready.

Violet’s words come back to me as we weave through the streets of Brooklyn Heights.

Maybe she’s right. When I think about the way Wes kissed me this evening, I know he has feelings for me. And he made me a darkroom… Well, I’d even go so far as to say he might have “serious feelings,” to use Violet’s words.

But… I shake my head as we approach Violet and Weston’s building on Fruit Street. He also asked me to keep my distance, and I want to do that, to respect him, but I also don’t want to give up on us.

Not yet.

I pull Violet into a hug, thanking her for this evening and congratulating her again on her engagement. Then I head home, an idea formulating in my mind. Weston’s birthday is coming up, and I can work with that. I won’t push him for something between us when he’s clearly not ready, but I won’t let him spend his birthday alone, either.

I just have to figure out when it is.

22

Weston

Inever celebrate my birthday anymore. When your wife dies and your son won’t talk to you, there’s not much to celebrate. And given I haven’t seen the only woman I can think about since I lost Lydia, this year is no exception.

I spend the morning throwing myself into work until I’m too numb to notice. And when Pauline, Lydia’s best friend, shows up at the office with a bunch of flowers and a cupcake with my name on it, I want to crawl under my desk and hide. But since I’m the boss, and a grown man, I refrain.

How did she slip past my assistant, Nina? She’s usually my first line of defense against unplanned visitors, but when I spot her grinning through the glass, I get the sense she might have encouraged this.

“Hello, hello!” Pauline chirps as she enters my office. I don’t entirely know what she’s doing here; she’s never celebrated my birthday before. The first six months after Lydia’s death, she took care of me with food and regular house visits. Over time those faded to phone calls, then to texts. So seeing her here in my office is kind of jarring.

“Happy birthday,” she sings, thrusting the flowers into my hand and setting the cupcake down in front of my laptop. “It’s not Lydia’s famous lemon cake,” she adds with a wistful smile, “but it will have to do.”

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