Preludes, page 8
Wednesday was one of those unusual days. The evening proved to be lovely. The afternoon had been warm but not too hot, and as the day began to drift towards night, the air cooled that little bit further until the temperature was perfect for a ramble in the park. It was still bright daylight when Anne stepped off the subway to meet William at High Park as they had arranged, but it would only be an hour or so before sunset would extend its fingers through the few clouds.
Meeting by the subway station had been her idea. He had offered to drive by her building to pick her up, but she had insisted she was happy to meet him at their destination. Stay cool, stay independent, she reminded herself. She was quite prepared to enjoy William’s company, but Fred was never far from her thoughts—or her heart. She would have to exorcise him eventually, but it was still too raw to make that effort now.
And so, she would just cover her wounds with the balm of a handsome and interesting man’s attention. As long as she made certain he knew she only wished for friendship, there should be no trouble. She hoped.
She stepped out of the subway station and checked in her bag for her equipment. Camera, telephoto lens, tablet, phone, notebook… yes, everything was there. Perhaps, if they tried this again, she might bring a tripod. But tonight was more for enjoyment than any particular artistic effort.
She scanned the street and saw him waiting. He answered her wave, and she hurried in his direction. To her surprise, he leaned in to press a kiss to her cheek. Nothing intimate, more European than familiar, but it took her aback. She didn’t think she said anything, but perhaps she stiffened. He clearly sensed her surprise.
“Oh, forgive me.” He stepped back with an embarrassed laugh. “I forget that we’re still all but strangers. I feel like I’ve known you for so long.” He shuffled his feet. “I promise to be a perfect gentleman! Shall we, my lady?”
Those feet, Anne noticed, were encased in light walking shoes today. Gone were the jacket and tie of last Friday, but even in casual beige chinos and a white polo shirt, William looked like he had stepped off a magazine cover. Give him a sweater draped artistically around his neck, or a tennis racket in his hand, and the image would be complete. Although, Anne considered, the camera around his neck filled the spot rather perfectly, too.
They crossed the street into the park itself and wandered down the main path for a while. High Park was a huge expanse of parkland, about 400 acres, reaching almost two kilometres from Bloor Street to the lakefront. It had something for everyone: picnic grounds, an outdoor theatre, sports facilities, hiking trails, a zoo, and a large pond that was home to all manner of local waterfowl. This pond, as they had discussed by text, would be their destination.
But with that detail already cleared up, Anne felt her social awkwardness around her shoulders, heavier than her camera and backpack. Should there be conversation? Surely, she must think of something witty to say. “Nice camera” was not exactly the sort of thing one said to impress a man like William Barnett.
“That’s a nice camera.” Oh heavens. She couldn’t stop the words in time.
But instead of sneering, he beamed in pride.
“It’s fairly new. I got it a couple of months ago for my niece’s birthday party, but I haven’t put it through its paces yet. I spent so long at the camera shop, looking at every model they had and asking a thousand questions, the poor salesman must have rued the day he first saw me. I think I had him on speed-dial for a while. We discussed different lenses and the relative benefits and disadvantages of DSLR and mirrorless, and how many megapixels I really needed, and eventually I got this little toy.” He cradled it like a newborn babe. “And what have I done? Taken snapshots of a seven-year-old eating cake.”
His laugh was low and appealing, the gentle sounds of a wooden marimba, warm and inviting.
“What equipment do you have?” He gestured to Anne’s bag with his head, and she fished out her own camera as they walked.
“It’s nothing particularly fancy, but it has a rather nice lens and it’s not too heavy. I chose the mirrorless for that reason. I don’t really need too many fancy bells and whistles, and I do a bit of post-production on my computer, anyway. But the lens is what’s important for me. We can always play with the superficial appearance, but unless there’s a good clear core to the picture, there is little point in dressing it up.”
He turned his light eyes on her and cocked his head. “I’d never thought of it that way. You are, of course, correct. You’ve thought a lot about this, haven’t you? Brains and beauty in one package. And talent. So very much talent. I am truly in awe of you.”
How to respond to this? She mumbled something self-deprecating in return and asked where he wanted to start.
“There.” William gestured to one side of the path. “There’s a track there that I think leads down to the pond. The light is lovely now. Shall we see what we can spot? The swans might be out on the water.”
The path they had chosen was narrow and uneven as it led down a hill towards their goal. There was little conversation as they picked their way down, other than the occasional “careful of the branches” or “watch for that root.”
“Wait!” Anne whispered just before they reached the bottom. “There, up in the tree. Do you see him?” A flash of red had caught her eye. “I don’t think he’s close enough to photograph, but let me try. I hope he doesn’t fly away.”
With quick practised motions, she changed her lens to the telephoto and then crept forward. The cardinal was posed perfectly, brilliant red against the deep green of the tree behind him, the sun that slipped through the foliage illuminating him like some chiaroscuro painting. Caravaggio in the wilderness. She raised the camera to find the best angle, praying that the bird would remain posed until she had taken at least one shot.
Click. Click. He was still there. Hardly daring to breathe for fear of alerting the bird to her existence, she fiddled with some settings, moved a bit to the side, and tried again. Click. Click.
At last, the bird seemed to realise he was the model in a photoshoot and took wing. But he had remained still for long enough that one of those photos might turn out. She looked forward to getting home to download the images onto her computer.
“You’re very patient.” She had almost forgotten about William, so intent had she been on getting the shot. “What settings do you usually use? How do you compensate for the uneven light?”
They walked down the last section to the wider path that skirted the pond, talking about ISO settings and F-stops and depth of field. A man stood by the water’s edge where a heron perched proudly on a log. The camera in his hand made Anne’s look like a child’s toy, its massive lens a good eighteen inches long.
William hurried her along a bit. “I know they say that it’s skill and not equipment that makes the art.”
He winked at her. Was that some sort of double entendre?
Without missing a beat, he continued, “But I suspect that his snapshots will be better than anything I could ever produce with my camera. Perhaps I should have gone a level up.”
They walked slowly, scanning the area for more things to photograph. A patch of moss on a tree branch, interesting shadows coaxed into existence by the setting sun, an unexpected patch of wildflowers complete with dancing butterflies.
“There. That’s the shot.” Anne put her hand on William’s arm. She pointed towards the pond, where the angled light was hitting the wind-ruffled surface, painting golden ripples across the surface of the spangled water. Two mallards floated on the small crests, black silhouettes against this display of light and water. The scene was made complete by a frame of leafy branches and artistically fallen logs.
He nodded and the two set about the task of selecting apertures and angles to capture the image. This might be one to enlarge and frame, if Anne’s expectations matured into reality. As the ducks floated up and down, in and out of the frame, they snapped dozens of shots each, moving this way and that, playing with angles, exposures, and other settings.
It had been a long time since Anne had felt so comfortable with a stranger.
By the time their walk was over, the sun had all but set. It was a beautiful time in the city. “Let’s get a coffee. My treat. Then, if you wish, I can drive you home.”
The idea was most appealing. “Thanks. That sounds lovely.”
They were soon settled on uncomfortable chairs in a noisy coffee shop, each with a cup of tea steaming in front of them. They discussed photo editing software, what sorts of adjustments and processing they liked, and then talked about setting up a Flickr account to share their finished images. William pulled out his phone and looked up apologetically.
“Do you mind? Normally I would never do this in company, and especially not such charming company, but…” he shrugged, the playful little boy appearing again. “I’m already on Flickr, to share photos with my brother, so this will just take a moment.”
“Of course. Don’t worry about it.”
This man could be very charming. He was attentive, considerate. So many people put their phones ahead of their in-person company and thought little of checking email and texting with others while supposedly out with a friend.
In a minute, he put the phone down and smiled. “There. That was easy. I’ve emailed you the link. Since we took photos of the same things, it will be interesting to see what sorts of differences there are in our pictures.”
“Here’s to photography.” She raised her mug in a toast.
“And to new friends,” he replied.
She beamed at him in response.
Anne set about uploading and tinkering with her photographs the next morning. She was working on a commission for a local choir, but part of the music was not coming together in her head and she knew, from experience, that a change of activity could let the musical ideas coalesce without her conscious intervention. Photoshop was an excellent choice. It kept her creative and thinking, but it involved such different ideas and skills that there was no interference with the burbling notes that tickled the back of her brain.
The photographs of the cardinal were, at first, disappointing. The light was good, but the composition was lacking. It took a great deal of cropping and shifting the focal point of the image before she settled on a result that pleased her. She adjusted the exposure and the black and white settings and played with the channel corrections to bring out the red. There. Now to play with selective focus, to leave the bird itself in sharp relief against a slightly blurred field of greenery, just like a bed of off-beat syncopations in the altos and sopranos would allow the tenor melody to emerge.
“Ha! That’s it.” She abandoned her photos for a while to work on her choir piece. It still needed a lot of work, but this was a good start. It would provide the technical foundation on which to base the rest of the piece. She worked for a couple of hours, then made herself a quick lunch and sat down at the computer again to upload the cardinal to William’s Flickr account.
He had already put up some of his photos. They were good, well-composed and thoughtful. He could still use the abilities of his camera to better advantage, but it was clear he had a good eye. She sat down to jot him a quick email, explaining how the photograph had helped her solve the problem of her choir piece, and returned to the other shots she had taken.
The pictures of the ducks against the bright water of the pond were more promising still, and soon she was lost again in her world of light and contrast and leading lines. At last, she was satisfied and uploaded her pictures, only to see a reply email from William.
Not only lovely and a brilliant composer, but a skilled photographer, too. Anne, my hat is off to you.
She sat down to compose a reply, and they chatted back and forth for a while before William suggested another outing the following week. This time, it was an exhibit of street art in an old warehouse near the railway tracks. It was not Anne’s normal style, but the idea was tantalising nonetheless, and she accepted.
Once again, he met her at the closest subway station and they walked the last few blocks together, following a crowd of people heading in the same direction. The area had once been full of light industry and storage facilities; now it was a pocket of old empty buildings surrounded by a gentrifying neighbourhood that had, not so long before, been home to working men and women. Their particular destination had been chosen for its large inner spaces that could house the large pieces the exhibit showed.
“Look at these buildings.” William’s eyes roved from side to side. “So much potential, so much of it untapped. Most people see empty shells that had their best days half a century ago. But imagine, Anne. Imagine these turned into combined ateliers and living spaces? Those ugly windows? Imagine the light they’d let in for a painter. Those dull concrete floors? So easy to soundproof for musicians. They could probably add performance and rehearsal spaces to the ground floor, and leave the upper storeys for studios.”
His eyes were bright with possibilities.
Anne peered at him.
“This is what I do,” he explained. “You haven’t asked, but it will come out soon enough; it’s why I’m on the board, after all. I’m a property developer. That’s the business that drew me away from my clarinet. Most of the time we work on new developments, but retrofitting old spaces is a bit of a passion of mine. The space is there. The buildings are there. They’re cheap and unused, and they have such potential. Infill is what the city needs, rather than this endless sprawl that we’re seeing. I need to look into this area.”
She gave a tight moue.
“I’m boring you. I’m sorry.”
“No, no, I’m not bored. It’s just something I know so little about.”
“It’s like your photographs, I guess. You see beauty in unexpected places in the parks. I see it in unexpected old factories. We have a lot in common, Doctor Elliot, and I’m delighted I’ve met you.”
Chapter Ten
Con Brio
Over the next weeks, Anne found herself more and more in William’s company.
If there was a show on some small stage, he knew about it and was able to get tickets; likewise, he was in the loop for a wider variety of art exhibits than she knew existed. At times he would suggest something more casual, like a stroll along the lakefront or an outing to one of the more interesting parts of town, or a farmer’s market, or another photography excursion. And each time he made a suggestion, Anne was pleased to accept.
He was excellent company. He was intelligent and witty, and his love of the arts was clear. Nor did it hurt that he was a handsome man, one that any woman would be pleased to have walking at her side. Anne was not a vain woman, but she could not help but be satisfied by the glances that others cast in their direction when they were out together. At times she would catch a glimpse of their reflection in some shop window and think, what a lucky couple, before realising she was seeing herself. It went a long way to heal her wounds after Fred’s desertion and to bolster her ego.
She found her horizons expanding as well as her social calendar. As she and William talked, over a stroll or over drinks or a picnic lunch somewhere, she learned more about property development than she ever imagined she would know. He spoke with pride about the high-end condominium and townhouse project he was working on north of the city, up on Lake Simcoe. He boasted about the design of the project and how well it would be incorporated into the local community rather than replacing it, helping to bring new vibrancy to a small moribund town, and promising new custom for the town’s shopkeepers and a revitalisation of the existing school in the area with the new residents’ children.
“The ground floor of the condominium building is set up as a sort of community centre for the development,” he explained, as gazed absently over a marina down at the lake. “There will be a swimming pool and gym, of course, and the expected communal rooms and party space, as well as tennis courts behind the building. We are thinking of opening up membership to the whole town, or possibly building some other facilities in the town itself, where there is space. Perhaps in the empty field behind the high school, or near the library. We want this to benefit everybody. We are also putting in three additional banquet rooms on the first floor, but these will be high end, the sort you would expect to see in a world-class hotel. Crystals, floor to ceiling mirrors, marble, the works. Nothing but the best. And the largest of these rooms will be a full-sized ballroom.”
He executed an elaborate mock bow, ignoring the gulls that shrieked overhead. “Do you wish to recreate your favourite Regency dance, my lady? We’ll have all the space you need for that, and more. We could hire a band and I could be Mr. Darcy to your Miss Bennet!
“In fact,” he dropped his voice conspiratorially, “I have an idea of using the space for orchestra functions. Do we want a gala dinner? The kitchen will be top-flight; any caterer would be thrilled to work there. There can be dining and dancing, and an art auction if we want. Plenty of parking, not too far from the city… We are even discussing setting aside one floor of the building as private hotel space so a select few guests can stay overnight. This is all provisional still, but we are really excited about the possibilities.”
He had the same infectious enthusiasm when he mentioned another development in the Caribbean. This project was further from fruition, but the prospectus had been distributed and they had a healthy group of buyers ready to take possession of their specially designed units as soon as the construction permits were complete.
“The islands, you know…” he shrugged. “Things take time. We expected this, of course. It’s just another way of doing things and I don’t fault them. But I cannot wait until I can invite you to fly down with me for a long weekend at this luxury private beach resort.”
