Out of the Depths

“And I want you to take this new Farley case. Look over it. We’ll discuss it first thing Wednesday morning.”

“I’ll be ready.”

“Seeing Denise this weekend?”

“No.”

“You’re a fool. Someone’s going to snatch her up.”

“If I’m lucky.” Denise Macomb was the flavor-of-the-month his dad was trying to cram down his throat. She met all the criteria, but her voice sounded like a violin badly played.

“Get those briefs done,” his dad said by way of parting.

Chance watched the intercom light switch off. “You have a life, Brennan.” He sighed and ran his hand through his hair. “And this is it.”

* * *

SNAP…SNAP…SNAP. Three good shots before the tiny bottom lip started to pucker again.

Thank you, Lord, for digital cameras and comfortable shoes. Kyndal’s third straight day of twelve-hour shifts was almost over.

“I think we got her.” She smiled at the young couple hovering nearby, only now truly noticing them.

The young man’s shirt had Ted’s Car Wash stamped on the pocket. His zit-covered face suggested he couldn’t be much more than seventeen. A chunky high school ring hung from a chain around the girl’s neck.

Kyndal sized them up, knew immediately they were here for the free 8x10 and wouldn’t be able to afford any of the great package deals Shop-a-Lot offered at a bargain price of $29.95.

She watched the way they handled the infant so carefully, saw the pride shining in the boy’s eyes as he kissed his baby girl and his baby girlfriend on their foreheads. How long before he’d be out of this picture?

“Come over here and you can see the shots.” Kyndal swiveled the freestanding monitor to face the couple.

The best part of this job was getting to see the parents’ eyes when the portraits clicked on. Without exception, they all softened instantly. If only she could capture that moment on film, those images would be priceless.

The shots were better than good, and Kyndal watched the parental expressions turn fretful when they realized they had to choose.

“They’re all so precious. Can we get all three, Danny?” The young mother’s voice held little hope, but the blue of her eyes shone intensely like the stone in the ring around her neck.

The young man’s head dropped, and he lowered his voice. “We can’t afford ’em, Lisa. We can only get the free one.”

Kyndal remembered the glow on her own mom’s face when friends admired the free 8x10 of Kyndal at twenty-eight months. She would go on and on about Kyndal’s smile looking “just like her daddy’s.”

Mason Rawlings had walked out of their lives a month after that portrait was taken, but her mom still talked about his smile to this day.

I might have his smile, but that’s the only thing I ever got from him. She couldn’t help wondering if he had any regrets.

Life wasn’t easy for teen parents—nor was growing up as the child of one as Kyndal knew firsthand.

She sighed in resignation, aware she was about to give these kids a break and forfeit her last three hours’ commission in the process. “Which one would you like? I’ll print it for you.” She allowed her mouth to droop into a pout of feigned preoccupation, tried to sound bored, glanced at her watch to let them know it was closing time.

The girl chewed her bottom lip until the young man prodded her with his elbow. “Number three.”

Kyndal pressed a key and pretended to be busy as she fumbled with some order forms. She turned back as the paper slipped from the printer. “Oh, shoot! I’ve printed billfolds of the wrong one. Here, you can have these.” She held the prints out to the young man, but he hesitated. “No charge,” she assured him. “I’ll just have to throw them away.”

“Now.” She hit another key, queuing up number two to print as two 4x6’s. “You said number two, right?”

“No, we said number three.” The young man gave her a look that could have indicated she’d sprouted an extra nose.

“Crap. I’ve done it again.” She watched their guarded looks of amusement as she thrust the second sheet toward them and sighed dramatically. “Third time’s a charm, right?”

Another keystroke sent the correct command, and the 8x10 slid from the printer. “She really is a doll.” Kyndal checked the finished product before handing it over. “Sorry for the inconvenience.”

The lights blinked, indicating five minutes until closing time. The couple moved toward the exit, the young mother clutching the photographs to her chest.

Kyndal watched until they were out of earshot. “And that’s why I have to get back to a job where I can shoot golden eagles instead of golden-haired toddlers.” The hope that tomorrow would bring that dream job back was never far from the surface. She let it rise to the top as she disassembled the gear and lugged everything to her car.

Tomorrow will bring the perfect shot that will make me somebody. Tomorrow will bring the perfect shot that will make me somebody. The mantra couldn’t block out the sluggish start of the old Jeep’s engine, but if she said it often enough, it had to come true. That’s what affirmations were for.

When she reached her apartment, fatigue convinced her to leave everything in the car except her laptop. Dover, Tennessee, wasn’t a hot spot for crime. In fact, Dover, Tennessee, wasn’t a hot spot for anything. But it was centrally located between the other two towns where she took family portraits on Wednesdays and Thursdays, and the apartment she rented was clean. And cheap.

She’d tossed a package of ramen noodles into some water before she saw the message light blinking on the phone.

The light always brought the same thought to her mind. This could be the big one. Her hand shook as she pressed the voice mail button.

“Kyn. It’s Mom. Going on a little road trip with Lloyd for a few days. Talk to you later.”

Lloyd who? When did a Lloyd come into the picture? And “a few days” meant she’d quit her job at the dog kennel. Or gotten fired. Kyndal swallowed her frustration and sent a mental warning to the little girl she had photographed at closing time: Being a parent to your forty-four-year-old mother is not an easy row to hoe.

She deleted the message, but the light blinked again, indicating a second message.

“Hey, Kyndal.” Mike Sloan’s southern drawl oozed from the handset. “Heard about a tourism magazine startin’ up in your hometown. Sounds like a good fit for you. Gimme a call.”

A job opportunity? In Paducah? She grabbed the phone and had half of Mike’s number punched in before logic reared its head. Would it be wise to trust the man whose dumb-ass moves had caused her to be blacklisted for the past six months? He and his shady contacts ultimately caused the lawsuit that became the demise of the True Tennessee website—and her own reputation by association.

But his intentions had been good. She punched another button. He was trying to make things up to her.

Four years of eye-opening, truth-seeking public awareness of pollution in the Cumberland River brought down by an asinine lawsuit over a totally unnecessary hack job. Her stomach tightened at the memory.

But it turned completely over at the thought of many more ramen noodle suppers. The ten-cent price had made them a staple when she was growing up, but she’d always dreamed adulthood would bring better fare. And it had for a few short years. Then it was back to ramen noodles—just like Mom used to fix.

But someday her luck would change when she found that perfect shot.

The lure of landing a magazine job and splurging on a carry-out pizza won out over the anxiety of talking with Mike. She dialed the rest of his number, keeping one eye on the pot on the stove.

“Hel-lo?” he drawled.

“Hey, Mike. It’s Kyndal. Got your message.” She hurried on, trying to move the conversation directly to the point. “So, you’ve heard about a new magazine starting up?”

“Hey, Kyndal darlin’. How you been?”