“Circle of life, and all that?”
“All that,” he agrees. “And what about you, shutterbug?”
I frown at him. “Don’t call me that.”
“Your mom still does.”
Sure. It’s been my nickname since I was old enough to steal her phone and take pictures of my own feet. He knows that. What surprises me is that he’s heard my mom calling me this recently.
“Just how much do you hear, brooding in the back of our shop?”
He threads his fingers together. “I hear some things, figure others out. I have some theories about you.”
“Is that so?” I say. “Enlighten me, then. What are your theories?”
“I think you know that Beauty isn’t your mom’s forever home. So when your grandmother comes back and your mom inevitably hits the road, I think you plan on going out West to crash with your father.”
Every muscle in my body tenses.
His smile is slow and smug. “Knew it.”
“What the hell?” Has he learned some new hacking skills over the past few years? Paranoia skitters down my spine.
“Travel books about Los Angeles,” he explains. “Seen you flipping through them at the Nook when you think no one’s watching and hiding the notes you make from your mom. Your dad’s an LA fashion photographer who has a multimillion-dollar beachfront mansion in Malibu, and you always wanted to go out there. One plus one plus one equals you’re planning a secret trip to California.…”
My stomach twists. “You’re spying on me in the bookshop?”
“I’ve got two eyes, Josie. That’s not spying.”
“It’s exactly spying!”
“If you don’t want people to see, stop doing it in public. You’ve always been terrible at hiding things, so that hasn’t changed, just for the record. You left a printout of Los Angeles airfare comparisons next to the register two weeks ago. I swiped it and dumped it in the trash before your mom found it. You’re welcome.”
I’m stunned—stunned. And furious. “I didn’t ask for your help.”
“Sorry?”
I lower my voice and point at him. “You cannot say anything, okay? This isn’t a joke. This is … I’m just looking at airfare. It’s not a crime to look!”
“Whoa,” he says, dark brows knitting together. “Not accusing you of murder. Jesus.”
“I don’t have firm plans or anything,” I insist. “But you know my parents aren’t friends, right?”
“I remember.”
“Well, my mom would be really upset if she knew I was even thinking about it. Please.”
He straightens his posture and holds up both hands in surrender. “Hey. No judgment. And I won’t say anything. It’s just something I noticed, is all. I wasn’t snooping. I just happened to see it. Okay?”
I nod and scratch my arm, feeling exposed and uncomfortable.
We don’t say anything. Behind the shrubbery, the dance music thumps on.
“Have you gotten to know him better?” Lucky finally asks.
“What? Who?”
Lucky lifts his chin. “Henry Zabka—your dad. He’s gotten a shit-ton of big projects over the last few years. His work is gorgeous.”
“Uh, yeah. He’s amazing. He’s still … tough.”
“Tough,” Lucky repeats.
I’m not sure how else to describe a man I barely know. He’s candid in both his photos and his manner. Interviewers call him rude. “I still don’t get to see him much. Every year or so he visits or we’ll meet up somewhere for the weekend. He took me to see a bunch of photography galleries in New York the year after I left Beauty. I was thirteen. I shook Annie Leibovitz’s hand.”
“Yeah?” He seems impressed.
“It was pretty great,” I say. Truth be told, I was so nervous that it’s hard to remember anything about it other than I felt overwhelmed, and that her hand was cold.
Lucky studies me. It’s hard to read his expression.
I sniffle and scratch my nose. “But, anyway … yeah. Henry—my dad. He’s, still, um … very much a tough-love kind of guy. Nothing for free. He takes on apprentices every year, but you have to earn it. Aspiring photographers fight for those slots.”
“At his home in Malibu?”
“Yeah.”
“And that’s where you plan on going after your grandmother comes back?”
“You do remember what happened the last time my mom and grandma spent more than a few hours together, right?” Ticking time bomb.
Something clicks behind his eyes. “So, that’s why you’re bailing and going to Malibu?”
“I’m not bailing. It’s not a sure thing, but yeah. After I graduate, maybe. I don’t know.”
“You plan to move in with your dad.”
God, he’s nosy. “Maybe. If he’ll have me as his apprentice.”
Lucky makes a funny face. “If? Jesus, Josie. You’re his daughter.”
“So? Just because we share blood doesn’t mean I should get special treatment.”
“Suppose not,” Lucky says, but he doesn’t look convinced.
“I don’t want a handout,” I say, feeling like I have to explain myself. “I want to earn it and prove to him that I’m worth taking on after I finish high school next summer.”
“Like, how?”
“Like, by building up my portfolio. And … I was … hoping to get a photography internship at a magazine.”
“Magazine?” His brow lowers. “You mean … Coast Life?”
“You know it?”
“Only magazine in town. Started up a few years ago.”
Oh.
“Had no idea they offered an internship,” he says.
“Shadowing the photographer who’s shooting Regatta Week at the end of summer,” I confirm. “I think it’s the only photography internship in the area, so getting it would be a huge deal for me. My dad would really respect it,” I tell him, feeling a little despondent but unable to admit that I lost the internship already. Because I’m too young.
“Hey, Regatta Week is a big deal for everyone with status in Beauty. More money is blown in one pointless weekend than on entire wars, and nearly no one gets killed, so hey. Good luck with snagging that, if that’s the kind of thing your dad will respect.”
I think he’s looking down on the internship. Pretty sure. Al-l-lmost positive.
“And I guess it confirms what I suspected,” he adds.
“What’s that?” I say.
“It’s just how it was before,” he says, eyes darkening. “Don’t get too attached to Josie Saint-Martin because she’s just passing through.”
Okay, fair …
But it also feels a little bit like a punch to the gut.
A shout snaps our attention to the French doors of the pool house. Someone’s fighting. Not the kind with fists and punching. The kind with name-calling and crying. Normally, that would be exactly the sort of drama I would try to avoid, but I recognize the tenor of one of the muffled voices beyond the paned doors, and my pulse goes wild.