Читать книгу New Beginnings - Jill Barnett, Jill Barnett - Страница 12

March gave Molly her old Brownie camera when she was barely ten and bought her a good thirty-five millimeter when she was in junior high and planning a trip to Washington DC with her class. By high school, Mike had built a darkroom for Molly in the back corner of one of the garages and she was chronicling Cantrell life moments in both black and white and color.

One Sunday afternoon, post Forty-Niners’ football, Molly dragged Mike and her out with the excuse that she had an assignment to do a family portrait for a photography project in school.

Indian summer burned through most of California in early October, days where the temperature in the city was still seventy-five degrees at four in the afternoon and the later sunsets would turn the western skies red and purple. It was that warm when Molly insisted they travel across town to the hillside where March and Mike were married, and she took a couple rolls of film of them all over that hillside.

There were moments that afternoon, sitting on a rock or leaning against a twisted cypress tree when March looked up and caught a certain look in Mike’s eye.

He squeezed her shoulder. “I think this was where we were standing when May dumped that Singapore Sling on Rob.”

March began to laugh and ruined their pose.

“Mother! I can’t get a good shot with you bent over.”

“Sorry. Your father’s making trouble.”

“Daddy…please.”

“Okay, shortcake.” Mike leaned in and said, “I can still see your mother swatting bees with that huge straw hat.”

March tried not to laugh again but failed at the image of her mother hitting Mike’s dad in the back of his bald head. “Your father looked pretty dumbfounded when he turned around and saw it was her. I felt sorry for her, standing there embarrassed. She was just so scared of bees.”

“After your mother smacked him a good one, my first thought was to find some way to paint honey all over his head. Figured your mother could get even for the crap he’d put me through.”

March looked at him and patted his hand. “I know. I don’t think he knew how to be any other way.”

“Hel-lo. Earth to parents.” Molly stood in front of them, clearly annoyed. “Would you two please pay attention to me? I need you to look at the camera before I lose the perfect light.”

Mike looked at her. “You need to stop making jokes, sunshine. You heard your daughter. We need to look in the camera before she loses the perfect light.”

March jabbed him in the ribs.

Molly walked back, muttering, “You two are such a problem.”

Mike looked at her. “We’re a problem.”

“Good,” March whispered.

So they spent a Sunday on a hillside, smiling into a camera lens, Mike goosing her or poking her, and annoying their daughter when they laughed too hard. Later, whenever March asked to see the shots, Molly was always too busy. She showed them one or two shots that were not as good as March knew Molly could produce. When March said as much, Molly told her she had turned her only good prints in to her teacher and she would make more copies when she had time.

They spent Christmas that year at their house in Lake Tahoe. On Christmas morning under the tree was the best gift March could ever remember. The photo Molly took of Mike and her was amazing. Their daughter had caught all the love and humor between them as they looked at each—best they each could be because they had each other—captured forever in celluloid.