“You will stay here, Maizie, and help me choose the photos. As my assistant I consider this part of your job.” Maizie picked up her spoon and took a bite of the canned fruit despite the horrible ache in her stomach. Rye Fulton remained quiet, eating little of his breakfast.
Mary made an effort to engage her breakfast guests in a conversation, but it was difficult. “Maizie, will you clear the table and return to wipe it clean?” Maizie stood and did as Mary had requested. After wiping the table clean in deliberate interlocking circles, she asked, “Mary, may I go and start my work in the office?”
“No, no, don’t be silly, Maizie. You will stay. Rye, please, the proofs.”
Rye laid down his proof sheets to share them with Mary. Maizie hesitated but took the seat next to Mary and Rye quickly placed a page of proofs in front of her. The pictures were good, even intriguing. It was obvious that Fulton had a talent for his chosen profession. The way he framed each shot made his work stand out. Every picture told a story of a family of individuals working together to put on an event for the good of not just Glidewell Ranch, but also nearby communities.
Rye Fulton had captured it all: James sitting straight and proud on Lightning, waiting in the saddling paddock for others to get mounted and ready; the viewing knoll full of people, blankets, and sun umbrellas; the spectators on their feet cheering and waving. There was Corky on Devil Doll, rearing in front of the crowd, with his trusty bugle in hand. There were pictures of the Castle quarry, the artesian well, the grazing fields with mothers and calves enjoying the sunshine. Pictures of Corky and Billy, laughing and preparing food in the mess hall, were full of movement. There were pictures of horses and riders such as Tommy O’Rourke, the Irishman; Ernesto and Alvaro from Juarez; Chief Jack, the Osage Indian, and others. A picture of Jeb in the wagon, handling the draft team, waving at the camera and smiling, was slightly out of focus, the effect ethereal. There was an interesting photo of all the women who provided domestic service to the ranch. They posed like a chorus line, arm in arm, kicking their right legs in the air, laughing. Ol’ Jon, the Cajun from Louisiana, was delicately picking fresh herbs to hang in his drying closet, his beautiful garden behind him. The fresh lavender hair bouquets were neatly placed on his gardener’s bench. There were pictures of the ranch house’s interior: the grand hall, the kitchen with Philippe and Leon working on delicate pastries. A photo of the piano with Meadowlark and Maizie singing “Up the Lazy River,” the two performers looking at each other as they harmonized, was entrancing. On and on they went—pages of proofs relating a narrative about a very special and diverse place, a place very different from what lay beyond the Osage orange-tree fence.
Making her selections, Mary came upon a picture that took her by surprise. It was a photo of Maizie looking into the camera with reserved warmth. Mary was shocked to see Maizie’s image. There was a deepness, a stillness, a sadness in the expression on her face. The photo was breathtaking, mysterious. Maizie wasn’t a girl in this picture, she was a beautiful woman. The picture was so powerful that Mary couldn’t quit looking at it.
“This is a nice shot of Maizie, Rye. Where did you take it?”
“Maizie was passing out hair bouquets on the veranda. She looked beautiful in the evening light. I have an eye.”
Curious, Maizie stood and walked behind Mary to catch a view.
“She looked beautiful to you?” asked Mary, turning her full attention to Rye.
“In an artistic sense, yes,” he replied, not looking at either Mary or Maizie.
“You do have an eye, Rye. Will this be in the magazine layout?”
“I don’t think so. The subject doesn’t fit the story we are trying to tell, but it’s a great portrait. You should see it enlarged. It is compelling. I look at it all the time.” Bringing his napkin to his mouth he coughed slightly.
“That doesn’t look like me,” Maizie said with certainty and returned to her seat.
Mary turned to Maizie and said, “It is you, Maizie. He has caught you in a moment. He has captured your thoughts. I do wonder what you are thinking.” Mary looked at Rye. He coughed again into his napkin. Mary picked up the photo and studied it even closer. She put the proof sheet down and turned to Maizie: “Have you marked the ones you like?”
“Yes. Some.”
“You may go to the office now, Maizie.” Maizie, feeling a sense of relief, stood to go, pushed her chair in and left the room.
Mary turned her attention back to Rye and asked, “What do you intend to do with this picture of Maizie, Rye?”
“I was going to keep it and sell prints commercially.”
“How much do you want for the negative? I want to buy it.”
“It’s not for sale. Not now.”
“Is there an amount that would change your mind?” questioned Mary.
“Well, I don’t know. It would be a lot. I see this photograph making money. Selling photographs is my livelihood and the economy has nearly put me out of business. I’m a good photographer, as you can see, and I can barely make enough to pay my rent.” Gesturing at the photo of Maizie, Rye continued: “This little girl here can help me out.”
“Then the sale of the negative should sound good to you. I’m uncomfortable with Maizie’s picture being part of any commercial use. She isn’t a model, after all.”
Rye Fulton put his hands in his pockets and said, “I am sorry you saw that proof. Should have left them at home.”
“How much, Rye?”
“Two thousand dollars. That is what it would cost to purchase the negative. The negative is my property and I have
