The Last Place You Look, page 21
“I know it’s a bit unorthodox for a competition, but since the prize, if you will, is working with our youth for six months, we really want to make sure the individual we select is a good fit.”
“Yes, of course.” Great, she was already repeating herself. Pull it together, Julia. “That makes perfect sense.”
“Oh, good. Is this a good time to schedule with you?”
“Absolutely. Let me get my planner.” She snagged it from her purse and grabbed a pen. “Okay. What time frame are you looking at?”
“I know you’re upstate right now, but we’re really hoping to wrap this up by the end of next week. Is that doable?”
Julia flipped to the dates in question, even though she already knew her schedule. She had senior portraits with Jesse Preston on Monday and was scheduled to work Wednesday through Sunday. “Is there any chance we could do Tuesday?”
“Tuesday would be fantastic. We weren’t sure you could make it down to the city on such short notice.”
Just a five-hour drive to the place she’d left three months before, with no intention of ever going back. “It’s not a problem at all.”
“Do you have a preference for morning or afternoon?”
“Afternoon, please.” Because unless she wanted to broadcast her whereabouts, she’d be going down and back in one day.
“Excellent. I’ll have our admin email you the details. We’re very much looking forward to talking with you.”
“I am as well. Thank you so much.”
The call ended and Julia set down her phone, only to realize her hands were shaking. The reality of what she’d been offered, agreed to, hit her. Excitement and panic coursed through her, sending her pulse racing and making it difficult to breathe. Her pictures—hers—had been chosen. Maybe not as the very best, but some of the best.
She wanted desperately to call Taylor, or better yet, show up at her shop and deliver the news. Without Taylor’s encouragement, she’d never even have taken up photography again, considered it something she could do artistically or professionally. But telling Taylor would entail telling her the grand prize. The thought put a boulder in the pit of her stomach, almost as much as the thought of moving back to the city.
Oh, God. What was she thinking?
Julia started to pace, foyer to living room to kitchen and back. She couldn’t tell Taylor, or anyone else for that matter. She didn’t want to answer the question about whether she’d really go. Even more, she didn’t want the unspoken “I told you so” from everyone who didn’t have the heart to tell her she’d, once again, gotten a little too big for her britches. Because, really, what were the chances she’d get it? They were probably interviewing at least three or four finalists, maybe as many as five or ten.
No, she wouldn’t borrow trouble. It was flattering to be a finalist and, when it was all said and done, she could tell Taylor and everyone else like it was an accomplishment in itself. Because it was.
Calmer, she grabbed her purse to head to work, only to realize her shift started in exactly five minutes. “Fuck.”
She hustled out of the house, then realized she’d forgotten her keys. “Fuck.”
She got the keys, locked the door, and started the fifteen-minute drive to the winery. She could see her sister’s face, teasing. At least it would be about her assuming she was getting busy with Taylor. Julia shook her head. Knowing she’d not get fired, or even yelled at, felt like a consolation. Strange at this point, but she’d take it.
Chapter Twenty-four
Taylor stood in her shop and surveyed her options. “What do you think, buddy? Pay the bills or feed the soul?”
Waylon tipped his head from side to side, as though contemplating the question. Then, without ceremony, he loped over to the corner and curled up.
Taylor shook her head. “Ah, to be a man of leisure.”
He snuffled his agreement and rested his chin on the tufty part along the edge of his bed.
She might tease him, but she was not made for too much leisure. Aside from the unyielding desire to be with Julia for as long, and as often, as she could, she needed to work. Because it both paid the bills and fed her soul. But also because she liked routine and work and turning blocks of wood into things both beautiful and functional. Perhaps those were subcategories of the first two.
Not generally one for philosophical musings, she shook her head and got to work. She started with a commission: a chunky farmhouse table made from reclaimed wood. It ticked all the boxes.
She planed the wood, trying to leave as much character as possible, and cut the pieces for the top to size. She laid the five boards out on her worktable, moving them around until she was satisfied with how they fit together, literally and aesthetically, before marking each with a pencil and pulling out her pocket jig.
Taylor measured joints, drilled holes. Each board got a bead of wood glue before being attached to the next with screws. The whole process took maybe an hour. It was nice to work at her own pace and not with deadlines hot on her heels. She cut and framed out the skirting that would hold the legs and got it assembled.
When her phone buzzed, she pulled it out, expecting it to be from Julia. Instead, it was Chris. How’s wingman turned gf life?
Taylor smiled at memories of the night before. Really good.
That’s all I’m going to get?
She looked at the tabletop, considered her options. Details for manual labor?
He replied with an eye roll and Taskmaster, but followed with, Sure. Now?
Whenever. Here all afternoon. She wasn’t in a rush for the table, but it would be nice to keep working on it.
Be there in an hour.
While waiting for Chris to show, she assembled four Adirondack chairs whose pieces she’d cut before. At this point, she could probably put them together in her sleep. She griped from time to time, but it didn’t really bother her. If this was the worst part of her job, she had it pretty good.
At the sound of Chris’s car, Waylon lifted his head but didn’t bother to get up. Family didn’t warrant an official welcome. Chris called a hello and Taylor replied with her location in the shop.
“Happy Saturday, stud.”
Taylor made a face at the moniker but didn’t comment. “Thanks for coming.”
Chris made a show of flexing his muscles. “I’m glad you don’t only love me for my brains.”
“Never.” She gestured to the partially assembled table. “I need to flip this.”
Chris stood on the far end of the newly assembled tabletop and helped her heft it up and over. “So, is it serious?”
So funny he would ask her that now. Or maybe not funny. He always seemed to know her thoughts and feelings, sometimes even before she’d wrapped her own head around them. “I think it…” She paused, letting the reality of it sink in. “She, Julia, might be the one.”
She wasn’t sure what she expected. A look of surprise, perhaps, or a low whistle to note the significance of her declaration. But Chris gave her none of that. Instead he smiled. “Yeah. I thought maybe.”
“You did?”
He shrugged. “Well, to be fair, I kind of thought it the second I heard you were dating.”
Taylor ran her hand over the surface of the table. She’d use some matte poly to protect it, but it wouldn’t even need stain. “Even after the whole wingman fiasco?”
He lifted a finger. “If you recall, I had reservations about that from the get-go.”
He did. She did, too. But it had all sorted itself out. “Yeah.”
“Do you think she feels the same?”
“I’m, let’s say, cautiously optimistic.”
“She’s not dating anyone else anymore?”
They’d not discussed that, but Julia would have told her, right? It hit her that she’d forfeited her wingman role when she became one of the women Julia was seeing. Still. They talked, or were together, pretty much every night. Julia wouldn’t be flirting with her over text while she was out with someone else. “I mean, we didn’t discuss it explicitly, but I feel like we’re there.”
Chris came around to where she stood. “I’m probably the last person you want to take advice from, but do you want my advice?”
She did and she didn’t. “Sure.”
“Talk to her. Don’t assume anything, good or bad.”
“That’s pretty decent advice. When did you get so smart?”
He offered her a “beat’s me” look and lifted a shoulder. “I have my moments.”
The gesture, one he’d been making for as long as she could remember, made her sentimental for all they’d been through together. If she owned it, he’d probably tease her about going soft. So, instead, she asked, “How would you feel about helping me load some chairs?”
He bowed dramatically. “At your service.”
It took all of ten minutes to load ten chairs into her truck. Some things really were better with a second pair of hands. “Thanks, man.”
“It’s the least I can do, especially since you’re going to fix the railing on my deck tomorrow.”
“I am?” She didn’t mind returning favors, especially of the handy variety.
“I mean, I probably could figure it out, but it would take me at least twice as long and not look as good as if you did it.”
She appreciated that he didn’t even pretend to be handy, or take issue with the fact that his sister was. “How about I stop over before lunch at the parents’ and figure out what we need? I can swing by Nuts & Bolts after for supplies.”
“You’re the best.”
Taylor smiled. “Ditto.”
“You want a hand unloading? I don’t have anything until tonight.”
“I’m good, but thanks. What’s tonight?”
Chris lifted a shoulder. “Just a date.”
“Date?” Taylor lifted a brow.
“With a kid in the house more often than not lately, Jack and I decided to make a point of enjoying an evening alone.”
“Dude, that might be the most adorable thing ever.”
“Well, with everything you’ve been up to lately, I’ve got to up my game. I can’t have Jack getting bored with me.”
Although anything was possible, she had a hard time imagining Chris and Jack as anything but besotted with one another. Then again, maybe it was because they made a point of keeping things that way. Something to remember for the long term.
Chris left and she resumed work on the table, giving it one final sand and a wipe down with mineral spirits before applying the first coat of poly. Since it needed at least a couple hours to dry, she decided to deliver the chairs Chris had helped her load. “Waylon, want to go for a ride?”
At the sound of his name, the dog lifted his head. Once he heard “go” and “ride,” he was up and ready. She loved that about him.
On the ride over to FLC, her thoughts wandered from Chris and his romantic adventures to her own. She and Julia were way past third-date stage, but exactly where was hard to say. Given how things between them had started, she didn’t want to be the one pushing for more, but it would be nice to get a confirmation they were moving in the same direction.
Taylor pulled into the lot behind Loretta’s and pulled out her phone. Is it cheesy to say I miss you already?
Knowing Julia was working, she didn’t expect an immediate reply, but one came. If it is, call me cheddar.
The comment, silly and plenty cheesy on its own, made her smile. She sent back the cheese emoji.
Julia’s response was anything but cheesy. I can think of a thousand places I’d rather be right now, but with you is at the top of the list.
She hadn’t planned on inviting Julia to do another delivery with her, but the idea popped into her head and took root. She imagined holding Julia’s hand across the bench seat of her truck, singing along to the radio. Since it was even farther than Lake Placid, they could find a romantic spot for dinner, stay over at a B&B. What are you doing next Tuesday? Please don’t say working.
Not working, but other plans. What’s up?
A twinge of paranoia lodged in Taylor’s brain. She pushed it to the far recesses. Doing a delivery to Vermont. Was going to invite you along.
Bummer. Next time?
Julia had friends and family and a life, and Taylor supported that. She wasn’t some kind of possessive creeper. Still, it was a bummer. Of course.
Perfect. The bubble indicated more was coming. Maybe she was asking when next time might happen. Or if Taylor could move it by a day so they could go together. But when the follow up text appeared, all it said was, Buses! Talk later.
The level of her disappointment wasn’t justified, or even rational. It had to be tied to her conversation with Chris and his comment about being on the same page. And her thinking a romantic night away would be the perfect time to solidify they were. But Julia couldn’t possibly know that. It didn’t mean they weren’t in the same place.
* * *
The morning of her interview, Julia pulled out of her driveway just after five. The sky had taken on the soft grays of early morning. She probably didn’t need to leave this early, but better safe than sorry. And this lessened the chance she’d pass anyone she knew on her way out of town. It was slightly surreal, sneaking away, not quite under the cover of darkness.
No. Julia shook her head, as if doing so would deny entry to the thoughts lurking in the back of her mind. She wasn’t sneaking anywhere. She was being private about something deeply personal that, for the moment, had only to do with her. She didn’t owe anyone anything.
She loosened her grip on the steering wheel and turned the music up, drowning out her worries with the defiant songs of her independent women playlist. She belted out sentiments of getting what she wanted, playing her favorite records, and not needing anybody. By the time she reached Scranton, she was wide awake, pumped, and in need of something to drink.
After getting a Diet Coke and filling her tank, she switched to country music. It had this strangely calming effect on her, like a long-lost security blanket whose powers had shifted over time, but somehow remained. She sang along to those songs, too, both the old ones she remembered and the new ones she’d learned in the last few months.
It was all well and good until a song she and Taylor had danced to in the kitchen came on. Her heart thudded, and a desire to turn the car around and forget the whole thing swept through her. She flipped to Top 40 and told herself, out loud, that going on this interview didn’t have anything to do with Taylor or her feelings for Taylor or where their relationship might be going. It was fine. She probably wouldn’t even make it far enough in this process to have to think about the what-ifs.
She hit the Lincoln Tunnel around ten. The worst of the rush hour traffic had cleared, but it still took half an hour to make it the last few miles into the city. She navigated to the garage she’d scoped out online and handed over her keys. The sight of Meemaw’s Buick being driven into the impossibly narrow underground tunnel gave her a chuckle. If only Meemaw could see her now.
She had an hour to kill before the interview, so she walked slowly, taking in the sights and sounds and smells. All the edges seemed sharper, the noise harsher. How could a place that was home for a decade feel so jarring?
Despite her intentionally slow pace, she arrived with over thirty minutes to spare. She loitered until the twenty-minute mark, then headed inside. The building had the feel of a converted warehouse, with exposed ductwork and scarred floors. The education space of the CAC occupied the fourth floor, so she took the barely modified freight elevator up. On the short ride, she managed ten calming breaths, complete with her “you are enough” mantra. It might be hokey, but it worked and she wasn’t about to turn her nose up at anything that worked.
There was a reception area of sorts, but no receptionist. Julia hovered awkwardly for a moment, oscillating between waiting and going in search of the director with whom she was supposed to meet. While waffling, she studied the art covering two of the walls. There were photographs—really stunning photographs—but also paintings and some collages. It had to be student work, which she found both inspiring and humbling. The nerves she’d sort of managed to tame kicked back into high gear.
“Julia?”
She turned. The woman who’d called her name looked to be about her age. She looked to be mixed race, though, and her purple dreads made Julia feel ancient and painfully square. “Yes.”
“I’m Sasha Niang. It’s so great to meet you.”
It would be hard not to relax at least a little at the warm greeting. Julia shook the extended hand. “Same. I’m excited to be here.”
“Drive okay? It didn’t take you too long, I hope.”
“It was very easy, thank you.” So easy, it gave her a pang of guilt for not going home more often during the years she lived in the city.
“Good, good. I thought we could start with a chat in my office. Is that okay?”
Julia had no idea what to expect coming in, so she was, theoretically at least, prepared for anything. “Absolutely.”
She followed Sasha down a narrow hall to a tidy office with big windows overlooking the street. She took a seat in one of the mismatched wing chairs and tried to channel confidence and poise.
Sasha offered an encouraging smile. “So, tell me about yourself and how you came to apply for this position.”
Was it really going to be that kind of job interview? “Well…” Julia drew out the word while scrambling to collect her thoughts. “I grew up in the Finger Lakes and live there now, but I spent close to ten years in Manhattan. I dabbled in photography as a teenager and only recently began to pursue it in earnest. But I’ve dedicated a lot of time to developing an eye and a feel for things. A voice, if you will.”
“It’s interesting you use the term ‘voice,’ as not everyone who practices photography would.”
She might be killing her chances, but she couldn’t bring herself to be anything but honest. “I don’t have formal training, and I don’t want to pretend otherwise. But, for me, taking pictures is telling a story. Whether I’m in my grandmother’s house or a forest, there’s a narrative.”
