Page 75 of Stony Point Summer
“Me, neither. Should be a good time.”
“Glad you could make it. Elsa is, too,” Jason says offhandedly as he brushes through a few pieces of business mail—architectural flyers, trade show announcements—that Maris left on his desk.
“Wouldn’t miss it, Barlow. Elsa’s inn being our show’s premiere and all.” Trent motions to Zach where to set up the lights. “I’ll be at her shindig, but have to hit the road early. Wife’s got a family reunion at the Cape this weekend.”
“Oh, man,” Jason says, looking over at Trent. “Trying to avoid holiday traffic?”
“You got it. Hell of a ride up there. So let’s get to it now. Camera’s about ready to roll.” Trent looks around, then nods to Jason’s work area. “Maybe start at your drafting table.”
Jason drops a flyer on his desk and that’s when it hits him. He really misses this place. That scent of barnwood. The sunlight dropping in through the skylights. His framed and mounted renovation photographs. The old wooden shelves lined with his brother’s journals. Yes, he misses drawing his blueprints righthere, instead of outside on Ted Sullivan’s deck. Which isn’t a bad spot, but it’s surely not the same as this rustic barn.
So while Zach sets up the lighting, Jason walks over to the wall shelves. It would help to have a few of Neil’s seaworn journals at Ted’s. Actually, there’s one in particular Jason could really use. It’s the canvas-bound scrapbook that holds a puzzling photograph Neil once took. He brushes through the shelves, finding the scrapbook on the top of a stack of journals, off to the side. Jason grabs it and sets it on his drafting table. After adjusting his swing-arm lamp, he unties fishing line wrapped around the scrapbook and opens it to that cryptic photograph.
“What’ve you got there?” Trent asks.
Jason picks up the faded photo of someone he doesn’t recognize standing beside an old coin-operated viewfinder. Who is it? It’s hard to make out. And where? He just can’t tell. There’s a lot of blue sky in the background, but the locale’s a mystery. He shows the picture to Trent, telling him how it’s from one of his brother’s scrapbooks. “This is what gave me the idea for the beach binoculars at Mitch’s.”
“No shit.” Trent takes the picture from him. He holds it close, squinting. “Who’s that in the shot?”
Jason looks over at the vague image. “Haven’t a clue.”
“Perfect. Let’s get some footage of this, then. You know, of you finding the picture in an old journal.”
“Right now? What about the meet-and-greet promo stuff?”
“We’ll shoot this first. Can open an episode with it. Folks really eat up old photographs like that. You know,Who’s in the picture?What’s the story behind it?We’ll draw them right into the segment, then pan to the Fenwick project. Connect Mitch’s viewfinder right back to your brother.”
Jason takes the picture. “Not a bad idea,” he says, tucking the photo into the canvas scrapbook. “So where do you want me?” he asks, turning to Trent. “Right here at the drafting table, you said?”
“On second thought, no.” Trent hitches his head to the wall shelves. “Stand there. Lifting that scrapbook off the stack.”
“Sounds good.” Jason turns back his shirtsleeves before setting the fishing-line-wrapped scrapbook on the shelf.
Trent nods while walking closer. “Give me a brief oration, off the cuff. And one more thing—don’tforget to smile,” he says, slapping Jason’s shoulder. “Just remember,” Trent adds as he backs out of the camera’s way. “Whatever happened with you and Maris in your driveway … stays in your driveway.”
twenty-eight
— Then —
10 Years Ago
Same Night of Cake Tasting
The Confrontation
AT THE END OF SEA View Road, a pickup truck turns into a narrow, sloping driveway. The driveway runs alongside a gabled beach house on the bluff. It’s the shadowy hour of dusk; lamplight shines in some of the shingled house’s windows.
As the truck pulls in, its tires snap over scattered twigs. The driver parks in the back of the house, kills the engine and gets out. He also looks a little surprised to see someone outside the big old barn there, and walks closer.
“Jason. You’re back,” the guy near the barn says. He’s leaning over a motorcycle and polishing it with a white rag. A spotlight mounted over the open barn doors shines on his work area. “They pick out a cake?” he asks, standing straight then.
“They’re working on it, Neil.” Jason approaches Neil at his bike, a Harley-Davidson parked outside the barn. The bike’s silver trim glimmers in the low light. “They got a few cake samples in the running.”
Neil squints down the driveway, past Jason. “Where’s Lauren? You drop her off at her grandparents’ cottage?”
“Why?”
“I want to talk to her.” Neil bends and swipes his rag over the motorcycle’s chrome pipes. “See what’s going on.”
