Snowed by Pamela Burford Read Free Book Online Page A

blast writing the catalog copy. ‘The South shall rise again. And so will our cornbread.’”
    “Hey, that’s not bad. If you ever get tired of being a zillionaire photographer, you’ve got a job at Harmony Grits.”
    The timer
bing
ed and once more he directed his attention to the enlarger as its light went off and the amber safe light went on. He carried the paper to the water table and carefully slid it into the liquid-filled tray on the far left, using his fingers to keep it submerged and gently agitate the chemicals around it. “This is the developer,” he said. “It brings out the image.”
    Her eyes widened. “You stick your fingers in that stuff?”
    He shrugged. “Some people use tongs. I’ve been doing it this way so many years, no point in getting dainty about it now.”
    She stood next to him as the black-and-white picture began to emerge, slowly at first, an indistinct image, then swiftly darkening until a man stared back at her through the developer bath. She watched, transfixed. The man in the photo was middle-aged, aristocratic, forbidding. And somehow familiar.
    Realization slammed into her like a fist in the gut. She looked at James. He was holding the picture now, letting it drip over the tray, but his eyes were on her. Even in the amber light, she saw an inquisitor’s ruthless determination.
    She pulled in a deep, steadying breath. “Who is he?”
    “My father.”
    Unconsciously Leah stepped back from the water table. She forced her voice to remain steady. “What’s the next step?”
    He moved to another tray. “This is the stop bath. It neutralizes the developer.”
    “Smells kind of vinegary.”
    James Bradburn, Sr., glared at her through the swirling eddy of acetic acid. She could almost hear his challenge.
Why did you come here? You can’t hurt me. You can’t do anything to me now. You’re nothing.
    “Leah.” She started at the sound of her name. “I said, did you ever meet my father? You seem to recognize him.” James was staring at her intently.
    She pulled her eyes from his. “No. He...looks like someone I know.”
    He transferred the picture to the next tray
—
”fixer,” he called it
—
where it rested for several minutes.
    “James, why did you develop a picture of your father?”
    “I thought you’d like to see what he looked like.”
    She felt an icy wash of apprehension. “Why?”
    “You commented on the fact that I don’t have any pictures of him on the walls. Remember?”
    She remembered. After breakfast he’d offered an impromptu tour. She’d made the observation while admiring a striking photograph of his mother on the west wall of the ballroom. The large close-up portrait told a story, brutally revealing. No, she’d thought, approaching the portrait, studying it more closely: brutal, yet at the same time compassionate. A story of the weight of years, the glow of life, and, unless she was mistaken, the specter of approaching death in the pale, world-weary eyes.
    In any event, James had ignored her remark. If he had a reason for not immortalizing his father on the walls of his home, it was clear he wasn’t going to share it with her.
    “Mary told me your father died three years ago,” she said.
    “You asked Mary about my father?”
    “No! I mean...it just came up.”
    “He died three years ago. Auto accident. Not half a mile from here.”
    “I’m sorry. Was anyone else hurt?”
    He stared at the image of his father. “My wife was killed.”
    For a moment Leah was too stunned to speak. “I
—
I’m so sorry, James. I had no idea.”
    “It’s all right.” He sounded weary. “It was a long time ago.”
    “Was she a photographer, too?”
    “No, Renee was a model. That’s how I met her.”
    “You must have lots of pictures of her then.”
    “No.”
    There was a finality to that
no,
and she knew the discussion was over. The man with an insatiable curiosity about others had shut the door on his own inner secrets. And turned the key.
    “One