The Last Time We Met

2

On Friday, I packed up my completed photographs, each one matted and framed and wrapped in brown paper, into a milk crate, covered it all with an oil cloth to protect everything from the moist ocean air and rain that brewed in the San Francisco air, then strapped it onto the back of my bicycle.

Seagulls called overhead as I coasted down the hill toward the pier. The streets were crowded with horses and carts and other bicyclists, and the lumbering, clanging trolleys. I swerved and wove my way through the vehicles and pedestrians hurrying to work and to the shops and to the pier.

Prior to moving to San Francisco, I had lived on a grape farm ten miles inland, where we couldn't smell the ocean air. I'd had little interest in the family winery. My father hadn't cared; he had two other sons to take over, and he gladly allowed me to seek out an apprenticeship. San Francisco had all that I craved – the ocean, the people. Even though I lived in a cramped apartment with another young artist who worked days at the fishery before coming home to spread his stink and his messy canvases, I found plenty of other company. Young women flocked to the city and were keen for escorts to take them out to the dance halls and the bars. I had my small photography studio if I needed to escape Otto's smell or have some private time with a lady, many of whom adored the idea of having scandalous portraits taken of themselves.

Once out of the bustle of downtown, the streets became wider, tree-lined, though many still wound their way uphill. Sweat soaked the collar of my shirt by the time I found the three-story home of the Walters family, trimmed in the popular San Francisco gingerbread style, though hidden behind high hedges. I hopped off my bicycle at the open iron gate, hoping the walk up the long driveway would give me time to stop sweating. I would have to walk regardless, as the way was paved in white gravel and would be a nightmare to navigate on bicycle.

The hedges encased the lawns in privacy. I could see but a vague glimpse of carefully manicured green and bright colored pops of flowers through the branches. My time as a solo photographer had been short, but I had made plenty of these deliveries before as an apprentice, and the wealth of the Walters' family would almost certainly mean that a servant would answer the door. I held out hope that perhaps Henrietta would be nearest the door, would run to open it with girlish excitement at the thrill of a visitor. Over the past few days in the darkroom, I had watched her face drift up at me from the depths of the photograph as it developed. I had studied her until I felt like I knew her. I wanted to see her again. I wanted a new image of her burned into my memory.

When the door opened, a young woman faced me. Not Henrietta. The girl's dark hair was wound up in a low bun. She wore the dark dress and white apron of a maid. "Yes?" she asked, when I did not announce myself.

"Er, hello. Miss. Yes, I am Theodore Shaw, the photographer. I'm—" I stopped there, remembering the parcel in my hands, which I thrust out at her. "I came to deliver the portrait of Miss Walters."

The maid accepted the parcel. "Thank you," she said, and waited. "Was there something else?"

"Oh, erm, no. I mean, I thought I might speak with Miss Walters? Or, Mrs. Walters. Or Mr. Walters. Sorry. I like to know that my customers are happy with my work." I tugged at my collar. I was still quite sweaty. And flustered now, on top of it all.

"Mr. and Mrs. Walters are not available at present." The maid's face was a stone wall.

"Oh. Well, perhaps Miss Walters is available? This portrait is of her. I would love to know her thoughts on it. She was a lovely model." I tried to smile.

"No, that would not be appropriate."

I knew this, of course I knew it. Proper young ladies were not allowed to speak with men without a chaperone, and a mere maid would not suffice. It had to be someone in her family, one who had a vested interest in matchmaking. And even if there was a chaperone available, I would still be shut out, as no proper chaperone would see a lowly photographer and think I could be a good match.

"Of course, of course." Shuffling my feet, I tried to come up with some other reason, some excuse to see her. If I hesitated long enough, perhaps I would be let into the house for a drink of water, and Miss Walters could pass by...

"The Walters will contact you if they are not pleased with the portrait. Good day."

The door slammed in my face.

Nothing lost, nothing gained, I supposed. I turned and kicked up the stand on my bicycle and began the long walk back down the driveway. The gravel crunched underfoot. "Idiot," I muttered to myself.

"Bold of you to assume you might catch a glimpse of my beautiful visage."

The voice, belonging to a girl, came from just beyond the hedge to my right. I stopped and listened, but heard nothing further. Perhaps Miss Walters was having a tea party in the yard. I walked on.

"And you've already seen it, and know how entirely unimpressive it is, and yet you wanted to see it again. What ho! Father would be thrilled to know there's hope for my debut after all."

I stopped again, and peered into the thick hedges.

"Er, are you talking to me?"

"Yes, I'm speaking to you, photographer. Did you think you had gone mad?" She laughed, and the harsh sound was exactly as I would have imagined Miss Walters laughing. Not ladylike at all, but infectious all the same.

"I had considered the possibility," I said.

She laughed again. "So tell me, photographer: how dreadful is my portrait? Come now, tell the truth. It's dreadful. Say it. I'm strong, I can handle it."

"Honestly?" I weighed my options here. I could lie or I could tell the truth. I could not bear the thought of her hating me for a lie. "It isn't nearly as dreadful as some others I've done. It would have been worse, you know, if you weren't so lovely. Not even a frown can erase a beauty like yours."

I waited, wincing, for how she would react.

"Are you trying to make me ill?" she demanded. "I can feel the bile rising in my throat."

"It isn't flattery if it's true," I tried.

"Photographer," she said, then stopped herself. "When we visited your studio I was trying to be anywhere else, therefore I neglected to learn your name."

"Are you asking me my name, Miss Walters?"

"Yes, you idiot. Tell me your name."

"Theodore Shaw, miss." Though I knew she could see as much of me as I could of her, I removed my hat and gave a little bow. "At your service."

"Good Lord," she hissed. "Do you want everyone at the house to see what's going on? Put your hat back on and keep walking."

I did as she asked, smiling a bit. "So this is to be an illicit romance, then?"

"What?" she half-screeched. "You're cheeky, aren't you? Presuming that there's to be anything akin to a romance between us. Me, the only daughter of a ship tycoon, and you, a lowly photographer! It would be a scandal."

My face had gone hot with her words, until she continued.

"A scandal is precisely what I need to make life worth living."

I grinned, my face still hot, but for a different reason. "Is life so difficult for one so wealthy?"

"My life is a gilded cage, Theodore," she said. My name on her lips gave me a thrill. Perhaps a scandal was what I needed, as well. "I may sing and look pretty, but I cannot fly."

"Shall we conduct this romance through the hedges?" I asked. "It seems a bit... thorny."

She groaned. "A pun? Uncalled for. But I do see your point. Perhaps this Sunday I'll take some air at Golden Gate Park. Yes, that would make for a lovely afternoon."

"Perhaps I will see you there," I said, keeping up the ruse. "I do hope you'll wear that lovely hair bow again."

"Oh, sod off!"

I blinked in surprise to hear such language from a girl, but her laughter showed that she meant no offense, and it was so infectious that I ducked my head and laughed softly to myself as I reached the end of the driveway, then mounted my bicycle and rode off.