Page 77 of Everything We Give

“We’ll be fine. Just don’t get any closer.” I glance around. “Let’s set up here.”

Aimee shrugs off her pack and takes out a blanket. She lays it on the ground.

“I’m going to walk around, take some photos.”

Aimee makes an OK sign with her thumb and index finger. “I’ll have lunch ready when you’re done.”

I spend the rest of the morning walking the perimeter of the herd, framing shots and snapping photos. I play with angles, the composition, and the light. The horses let me get within thirty-five meters of them before they flick their manes and tails, fidgeting at my nearness. Backing off, I wait for them to settle so I can take more pictures. I then set up some panoramic shots, using my stand and remote to minimize any vibration that would blur the pictures.

After a while, feeling light-headed, I return to Aimee, sinking beside her on the blanket. She gives me a sandwich of marinated vegetables and cut meat. I bite off a mouthful, and flavor explodes. “This is incredible.” I chew and swallow. “The horses are amazing. You’re amazing.”

Aimee tosses her head back with a laugh. “Hungry?”

“Starving.” I take another bite. Dressing leaks from the corner of my mouth. I thumb it off.

“You’re just happy because I fed you.”

I chuckle. “Good call on the sandwiches. My stomach thanks you.” Had it just been me up here, I would have survived the afternoon on RXBARs and nut packs. Boring squirrel food compared with the gourmet lunch Aimee brought along. “You can travel with me anytime if you bring food like this.”

She nibbles her sandwich. “Do you realize I’ve never watched you work?”

“You’ve seen me work.” Plenty of times. She’s witnessed me spend countless hours tweaking photos in my home office, or work the floor at my showings as I schmooze clients and upsell new buyers.

“I mean, I’ve never been on-site with you,” she clarifies. “Your focus is intense.”

“So is yours when you’re baking.”

She props her chin on her knees, hugging her shins, and smiles. I’m downhill from her on the blanket so I lean back on my elbow and rub her calf. Flies buzz past. The air smells of damp dirt and pine.

“Do you remember what you told me in Mexico?” she asks.

“I told you a lot of things in Mexico.”

Her eyes sparkle and I know what she’s thinking, how I told her that I loved her. But the next move had been hers, and she’d left me.

I could have gone with her, but I’d decided to stay an extra day. Yes, I was curious about Lacy and her connection with Imelda and the possibility of finding my mom through her. But Aimee’s quick departure from the country confused me. I didn’t know what happened between her and James the previous night, and I wasn’t entirely sure Aimee felt the same for me. Asking her to stay meant risking her rejection, and I’d been burned once too often.

“Do you remember comparing my baking to an artistic craft? You said I was an artist because ‘true artists elicit an emotional response.’”

“I did say that.” I nod slowly. “I still think that.”

“Me, too, about you and your work.”

“Thank you.” I sit up and kiss her leisurely; then I lie back down and sigh. Folding my hands behind my head, I close my eyes, letting the sun warm my face. This is what life is about, these slivers of time when my mind is a blank slate and I don’t think or worry. But there’s too much traffic in my head today. I wonder if Reese and I can meet halfway and make the feature happen and I wonder about Lacy. Dread falls over me, a blanket that covers me from head to foot. I feel as though we’ve been in Spain one day too long.

I sit upright and look at the space on my memory chip. “I should take some more photos.”

“Do you think your pictures will change Reese’s mind about her feelings toward the Rapa?”

“I certainly hope so.” I switch out chips and put aside the camera. “She asked me yesterday why I was so taken by these horses. She pointed out that they’re more semiferal than wild. I told her that I see the relationship between the villagers and the herds as symbiotic. It fascinates me. But that’s only part of the reason.”

Aimee wraps the remains of her sandwich and returns it to the paper bag. “What’s the other part?”

“My favorite book as a kid wasThe Black Stallion. Don’t laugh,” I say when Aimee’s mouth twitches.

“I’m not. I guess I imagined something different.”

“I’ve read my share of Christopher Pike novels and Superman comic books. But that’s beside the point. My mom lovedThe Black Stallionas a kid, too. She used to read a chapter a night to me until we finished the book and I’d beg her to start over. I swear we read that book over a hundred times. She would get into character and the story came alive. She could have read that book to me forever.”

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