It’s based in Jerusalem though.’
‘I could do Jerusalem.’
‘Can you do Hebrew?’
‘Do I need to?’
‘Beats me.’ He pulled out the jobs section and passed it to her. ‘Keep it.’
She waded the few feet to the shore and set her paint pot down, pushing it into the wet sand to stop it from spilling before settling down beside it and opening up the paper. Nothing like a world of possibilities to distract her from a vision sublime of man and cake, both of which she wanted far more than common sense allowed.
‘There’s one in here for you too,’ she said after a few minutes of silent browsing. ‘Feel like flying climate-control scientists around Greenland?’
‘No.’
‘Why not?’
‘Because I’d freeze. Here’s another one.’ He’d been leafing through The Australian. ‘They’re looking for a Wilderness Society photographer. This one’s based in Tasmania.’
‘You think I have environmentalist tendencies?’
‘Serena, you’re trying to send me to Greenland.’
Good point. ‘Tasmania might be a little too close to home,’ she told him. ‘I’m thinking further afield.’ Pete glanced at her and shook his head. Serena lifted her chin. She knew that look. Usually it preceded a lecture about setting goals that were realistic, not to mention closer to home. ‘What? You think I’m wrong to want my freedom?’
‘I think you should be choosing your future career based on the work you’ll be doing and whether it’ll satisfy you, not on how far away it is from your family.’
Another good point.
‘You’ll miss them, you know.’ He wasn’t looking at her. He was looking at Sam, thinking of Sam, unless she missed her guess. ‘You don’t know how lucky you are to have a family who cares for you. People you can rely on because they love you.’
‘He’s talked to you, hasn’t he?’
Pete looked at her but said nothing.
‘Sam. He’s talked to you. About his mother.’
‘No.’
‘About Chloe, then? And not fitting in here.’
‘No.’ And at her look of disbelief, ‘What?’
Honestly, men! They had no idea how to communicate. ‘Well, what did you talk about?’
‘Money, and stuff.’
Serena sighed heavily and shook her head. ‘Talk to him next time. See if you can get him to open up to you about his feelings.’
Pete snorted. ‘Not gonna happen, Serena.’
‘Why not?’
‘Because it won’t.’ He glanced back at Sam. ‘He’s doing okay.’
Serena followed his gaze to where Sam and Nico sat mending the net. She narrowed her eyes, automatically framing the shot as she waded out into the water and reached for the camera she’d tucked inside the boat. The pattern of the nets contrasted with the ripples in the sand beneath and presented an interesting juxtaposition, but it was the focus both Nico and Sam brought to their task that interested her. The wordless connection between them as boy looked to man for guidance. Nico’s nod of approval; the pleasure and quiet pride Sam took in it. She captured every heart wrenching nuance, and knew instinctively that somewhere amongst the photos she’d just taken she’d find the final image for her postcard series and that it could well be the best photo she’d ever taken.
‘Here, grab a brush and let’s get this done,’ she said to Pete, picking up the paint pot and handing it to him. ‘We’re getting out of here.’
‘We are?’ He took the paint pot with the brush sticking out of it and wandered around to the bow of the boat to survey her work. ‘I only just got here.’
‘How do you feel about spending the afternoon working on postcard photos?’
‘Do I have a choice?’
‘No. You’ll like it. Trust me.’
‘Does it involve a darkroom?’ He smiled a pirate’s smile. ‘I love darkrooms.’
‘Excellent,’ she said. ‘Start painting.’
‘I thought you said you had a darkroom,’ Pete muttered half an hour later. They were up at her grandparents’ little whitewashed cottage, in a neat little sitting room that looked as if it doubled as an office. A widescreen laptop computer sat on a table in the corner beside a printer. Half a dozen folders stood beside that. There was nothing wrong with it, as far as rooms went. But it wasn’t quite what he’d had in mind. ‘You know, dark, private, discreet.’
‘I said no such thing,’ Serena said cheerfully and pulled down the window shades, switched on the computer, and sat down in front of it. ‘You just assumed we’d need a darkroom. Welcome to the age of digital photography. The days of broom-cupboard darkrooms and messy, smelly chemicals are long gone.’
Pity. He’d had a fantasy or two about broom cupboards, beautiful women, and the mingling thereof. Guess it’d have to stay a fantasy. ‘These photos had better be good,’ he said with a sigh as he pulled up a chair and settled down beside her to watch her work.
The photos were better than good. They were outstanding. From a wide-angle shot of Mrs Papadopoulos watering the geraniums out the front of her shop to the latest shot of Nico and Sam, they showed the power of the human spirit, with all its strengths and frailties.
‘Forget the words, Serena,’ he told her bluntly. ‘Your pictures don’t need them.’
‘There’s another one you might like to see,’ she said after a moment. ‘It’s not for the postcard series, though.’
‘What’s it for, then?’
‘You.’ She trawled through her files until she found it. Pete sat back in his chair, aiming for distance, and wished to hell she hadn’t. It was one of the photos she’d taken of him when they were up on the plateau. She’d captured his solitude, he thought, trying to be objective. And she’d captured a pain he’d thought he’d buried deep.
‘If I were a curious woman,’ she said with a tiny half-smile, ‘I’d ask you what you were thinking about.’
‘If I were the sharing kind I’d tell you.’ He glanced away; he didn’t want to look at his picture any longer. One day he’d stop running. He’d turn and face his past and all that went with it. Maybe one day he’d even make his peace with it. But not today.
‘No great tragedy?’
‘No,’ he muttered as she stood and pushed the laptop aside before leaning her backside on the table, curling her hands around the edge of the table, and regarding him solemnly. ‘You’re very persistent, aren’t you?’
‘So I’m told.’
Not that it seemed to bother her.
‘Something put that look in your eyes,’ she said at last.
‘Experience.’ He spanned her waist with his hands and slid her towards him in one effortless movement. She was still perched on the edge of the table. He still sat in the chair. Their bodies weren’t quite touching, not yet, but if … when … he pulled her into his lap she’d be straddling him. ‘Nothing more, nothing less.’ His hands were rough, her stomach was silky smooth and just begging to be kissed. He slid her closer and set to tracing lazy circles across her stomach with his fingertips, before leaning back in the chair and glancing up at her face to gauge her reaction.
If the flush of colour riding high on her