Page 22 of The Edge of Summer
While Clara is gone, I make myself useful. There are rings of condensation on the bar top, so I grab a cloth and begin to wipe them up.
When the front door swings inward, I expect to see a new group of hungry diners, but instead a lone woman walks in. In her arms is a stack of flyers. My mother used to own a collection of vintage fashion magazines, and this woman looks as if she has walked off the page of one of her seventies-era lookbooks in her long skirt and shirt with billowing sleeves paired with her go-go boots. As she walks deeper into the restaurant, toward where I stand at the bar, she smiles and waves to different tables full of locals. Her earrings—giant bright orange geometric shapes—sway with her movement.
As she reaches me, her friendly smile intensifies. She looks to be about sixty, with laugh lines around her mouth and greying hair pulled back into a claw clip to show for it.
“Hello, there,” she says. “Is Clara around?”
I set the wet rag aside and dry my hands on a towel. “She just stepped out to take a call. Is there something I can help you with?”
“My name is Carole Dramus.” She extends a palm over the bar for me to take. “You must be new around here.”
“Delilah Delacroix,” I reply as I shake her outstretched hand. “I guess I give off city girl vibes, huh?”
“Not at all!” Carole waves me off. “I just happen to have lived here my whole life. I know everyone and everything to do with this place. That, and I never forget a face, especially one as lovely as yours.”
I laugh, slightly taken aback by the compliment. “Oh, uh, thank you.” Then, to take the heat off myself, I gesture to the stack of papers in her arms. “Are you advertising something?”
“Oh, yes! I most certainly am.” She pulls a page from the stack and slaps it on the bar top. “The Kip Island Business Improvement Association is hosting a photography contest. The winner will receive a contract to produce the photos for the island’s updated tourism website.”
I slide the paper off the counter and begin to peruse the details. The island’s BIA is taking portfolio submissions from seasoned and amateur photographers alike, with a focus on landscape photography and photojournalism. A panel of judges will then vote for a winner who will have the opportunity to sign a six-month contract with the BIA.
The contest sounds like a photographer’s wet dream.Okay, maybe onlythisphotographer’s wet dream. But it sounds like an amazing opportunity.
The younger me would have handed Carole her portfolio without hesitation. She would have jumped at the chance to prove the people that doubted her wrong. But I have responsibilities that I can’t shirk just to chase a pipe dream. Maybe it is just a silly contest, and I probably wouldn’t even win, but it would only serve to remind me of what I can’t have.
I offer Carole an approving nod, setting the flyer back on the bar. “That sounds like a really great opportunity for someone.”
“The winner will also have their photographs featured in my art gallery during the next exhibition.”
Now this piques my interest. “The island has an art gallery?”
Despite Kip Island’s downtown being a fraction of the size of our old city, I haven’t had the chance to explore all it has to offer yet. Sophia and I have only made it through about half of the businesses.
Carole beams. “We sure do. We’re just on Main Street. You should drop by sometime!”
Mitchell and my old friends used to laugh at me for the gallery openings and photography exhibitions I attended. They never understood the appeal and they found them boring, instead favouring nightclubs and staying out all night to shake off the monotony of the workweek.
I love the art at the exhibitions, but I also know what it’s like to have no one show up for you. Putting your blood, sweat and tears into a project only to have no one to share it with.
It’s hard when everyone in your immediate circle is so different from you. They don’t think like you—their brains wired for numbers and business and straight facts, not creativity. They don’t understand you, and half the time they don’t even try.
It feels like shouting into a chasm and not even hearing an echo in reply.
I nod. “I just might take you up on that.”
“I’m not too good at all that social media hooey, but I have a Facebook page where I post current events. Feel free to give it a thumb.”
This makes me laugh. “I’ll have to check it out.”
“Clara is a doll and usually hangs my flyers up somewhere in here,” she says, gesturing in a circle with her finger. She taps the flyer. “Can you give this to her?”
“Of course!”
She then looks at her watch and winces. “I have to run, but it was lovely meeting you, Delilah. I hope to see you at the gallery soon.”
Carole leaves just as she arrived, waving to fellow townspeople like a queen would her loyal subjects. When she disappears outside, I take hold of the flyer again. And for a moment, I let myself think about what would happen if I entered. In an ideal world, my portfolio would earn me a first place spot, and I would not only have my photos displayed for the town to see, but I would also have my first paid photography gig. This would give me exposure—a chance to get my name out there. Then maybe people would hire me for personal photography and I could make a business out of it.
But all of that hinges on winning, and I’m pretty sure I’ve used up all my luck.
