Jenna paused to make sure her voice wouldn’t break before she spoke. “Did you take this?” She’d never seen any of his work, and yet she felt sure it was his. That he’d been the one to draw such life and light out of this family’s impossible situation.
He joined her in front of the photo. “I did.”
She pointed to a group of acrylics. “What about those?”
He shrugged. “I paint every now and then. It loosens me up. I’m not very good though.”
She snorted. “Yes, you are. All of this is . . . Tell me about them.” She gestured to the photo of the family.
“A few years ago TIME magazine did a story on fracking in the Appalachians. The woman’s husband was killed in an accident on the job, leaving her with five kids and no income. These are the two youngest.” He scratched his bearded chin. “They could barely keep the lights on, but she offered me tea and a homemade biscuit. The kids played marbles with me.”
Painful things made beautiful.
She made a slow turn, taking in the array of photos. People, landscapes, old buildings, street scenes. “Are they all from TIME, or . . . ?”
“No, that one’s National Geographic. That’s Travel + Leisure . . .” He started to point to another photo but let his arm fall. “It’s just a random assortment. They asked me to bring some to leave on display this summer while I’m mentoring.”
“I didn’t realize you were so . . . Are you famous?”
He laughed.
“I’m serious. Are you some famous photographer I should know about?”
“What difference does it make? I’m just a guy who takes pictures and gets paid for them. At least that’s the goal.”
“These are more than just ‘pictures’ though. They’re incredible. Why are you wasting time at this little art retreat when you could be out winning a Pulitzer or something?”
“Now you’re just embarrassing me.” He stepped back from the wall. “I don’t know. You’ve seen how well I fit in.” He cut his eyes to her and she smiled, then remembered she was supposed to be mad at him. “For some reason, they keep asking me to come back and I keep saying yes. I guess one day maybe I won’t, but it works for now. And Halcyon isn’t just some ‘little art retreat.’ It’s a big deal to a lot of people in the art world.”
He turned toward a door at the back of the room and pulled his boots off. “None of this matters though. What I really wanted you to see is in here. Take your shoes off, if you don’t mind. I like to keep it clean.” She dropped her sandals next to his boots, then followed him as he opened the door and turned on the light. A counter along one wall held bins, trays, and bottles. A thin metal wire dotted with clips was strung across one wall.
“A darkroom? How come no one told me about this?”
“It’s my job to let the photographers know about it.”
She stared at him.
“Well, I’m telling you now. And you haven’t needed a darkroom until now.”
He reached in front of her and flipped another switch on the wall. The main lights went out while another one clicked on, coating the room in a soft red glow. “Let’s see what you got today.”
She passed his camera to him. “I haven’t developed film in a while.”
“Don’t worry. I’ll walk you through it.” His voice was low, as if excess noise would damage the film as much as light.
He pulled the film out of the camera and loaded it into the spiral developing reel.
“The reel goes into the processing tank here.” He picked up a bottle of developer and poured the liquid into a clear beaker, along with water from a bucket on the counter. “It has to be the right temperature or it’ll ruin the film. Hand me that thermometer, will you?” She gave it to him and he slid it into the beaker. “Perfect. Now, I want you to pour the developer into the tank and we’ll start the timer.”
The red light offered enough light to see shapes and forms, but not enough to see small details. When she had trouble finding the hole at the top of the tank to pour the developer, he reached over and moved her hands to the right place. “There. Pour it in, then hit the timer.”
They inverted the tank to make sure the developer coated all the film inside, then repeated it twice more, waiting a minute or so between movements.
“Next is stop bath, fixer, and holding bath, in that order.” He held a pair of tongs out to her. “Use these, never your fingers, although I’m sure you remember that. And don’t forget to rinse them off before you move them to another solution.” He turned the sink faucet on, and she rinsed the ends of the tongs before moving the photo paper to the next tray.
The manual process was fickle and each movement, no matter how insignificant it seemed, could have a huge effect on the outcome of the photos. She hardly knew this man—wasn’t even sure if she liked him very much—but in the soft light of the darkroom, he was kind, helpful. A surprisingly gentle teacher.
As they waited for the final wash, he hopped up onto the edge of the metal counter behind her. “I owe you an apology.”
“Oh?” She leaned against the table and faced him. “What for?”
He
