“Bear! Did you get him drunk?”
“No! Maybe. How was I to know he was such a lightweight?”
“His father only drank so he never drinks.”
“Oh. Oops.”
“How was he?” Angry? Sad? Chatty? Inconsolable? Fine... “What did he say?”
Bear shot her a wry glance, before picking up a perfectly dry glass and drying it some more.
Fair enough. But why couldn’t he be the town gossip? Sure, she was glad he wasn’t before, but now it would be so helpful.
Sable reached out and grabbed her coffee, wrapping her hands around the hot glass. She drank deep, letting the smooth dark roast fill the parts of her tears had sent dry.
Then someone broke into her peace and quiet, slipping into the seat to her left. Another someone sat in the seat to her right.
“Coffee,” said Mercy.
“How ’bout adding a nip of that Pumpkin Spice liqueur I know you have stocked back there?” That was Carleen. The two had become firm friends after the dire dinner party, connecting over disappointment in their respective children.
Bear baulked. “Sun’s barely up.”
“Meaning it’s practically still night time,” said Mercy.
Carleen laughed. “As your Queen of the Pumpkin Parade, I decree it’s time to get the party started.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
While Bear moved to the back room, Mercy threw an envelope on the counter in front of Sable. “This came for you.”
Sable opened it up to find the name of a Melbourne-based specialist photo developer on a package. The photos from the original film in her box Brownie. She’d sent it to a specialty developer in Melbourne when she’d hit the end of the roll a couple of weeks back, and had been planning on taking her second and third rolls in person the day before. Before their plans had changed.
Sable tore open the envelope, saw the large negatives spilling out. The feel of them—crisp and cool—gave her a sweet little thrill.
The pictures had been loaded back to front. Starting with the ones she’d taken over her first few days in town. The contrast was heavier than she’d have liked, something she’d work on with the next film, but the composition was fair.
Her critique came to a full stop as she saw the photo before the first she had taken.
“Mum?”
“Hmmm.” Mercy took one look before screwing up her face.
The photo was of her mother’s sunroom—a ray of buttery summer light pouring through her drying lavender hanging from the ceiling.
The next—Wanda and Carleen and Old Man Phillips sitting around a poker table, laughing till you could see their back teeth.
“You took these,” Sable said, knowing it to be true.
Mercy waved a hand her way. Called, “What’s taking you so long, Bear?”
The next photo was a stray kitten, sitting on Mercy’s front stoop, looking right into the lens. The next, Mercy’s view looking down at her skirt with her shoes poking out, the wild colours of the clothing contrasting with the raw rough streaks in the wooden floor.
Smiling, Sable shifted to the next photo, then lifted a hand to her mouth.
For there was a photo of Rafe, putting up the tomato trellis on the side of Mercy’s house. He’d built that? Neither had said. His hair was shorter, the dark curls cut closer to his head. The roping muscles of arms were brought into sharp relief by the black of his T-shirt, the hard midday light.
Mercy must have called his name, as he’d turned towards the camera, a small smile on his face.
It amazed her still that over the years they had found a way to put aside their differences. But over the past weeks she’d come to understand why—they’d missed her. And in one another had found a way to keep her close.
Carleen asked if she could have a look, so Sable went through them all again. Happy with the stunning contrast of brilliant autumn leaves against a harsh grey sky. The old red McGlinty truck, the back filled with pumpkins. Loving the photo of the shops of Laurel Avenue as evening hit, right after a rain shower, light spilling onto the street creating puddles of gold on the footpath. The view thorough The Barn’s new porthole window.
Markers of her time in Radiance. Memories she’d take with her as she left.
While she felt as if she’d been hollowed out with a spoon, the pictures reminded her that her time there had been pretty wonderful.
As she scrolled through the last shots, and hit the last picture, she had begun to see a theme. Different from the one she’d described to Nancy. There was none of the discord that had given her career such a great start. No focus on things lost and broken and cast aside. Quite the opposite.
Every single one of her new photographs exuded warmth, nostalgia, harmony, comfort.
She ran a thumb over the corner of the picture of Rafe leaning against the railing of the carousel. The dappled light. The warm foliage. And could all but see the exhibition title written on the marquee outside her favourite little New York gallery: Home.
Sable reached out blindly for her coffee and took a sip. Only to find it no longer tasted quite like coffee. “What am I drinking?”
“Clove,” said Mercy, sipping her own coffee as if it were manna from heaven, “spice, cinnamon, nutmeg, pepper, ginger and pumpkin.”
Sable grabbed the bottle of home-brewed Pumpkin Spice liqueur and read the label. “And vodka.”
“Which is made from potatoes. Wholesome as can be. Unless... You’re not pregnant, are you?”
Sable coughed on her next sip. “No. Not pregnant.”
Though she’d thought she’d kept her voice normal, her mother paused. Looked at her like a hawk. Even Bear seemed to stop breathing.
Sable looked his way. Saw the sorrow in his face.
Rafe... Rafe must have been really toasted if he’d told Bear that much. And for Rafe to even go near a drink, well, he must have felt truly wounded.
“Not pregnant,” she repeated. Then, “Not living with a guy. Not in a relationship. Just
