Vision in White
Page 5
“I really don’t think she should drink before the ceremony. She barely ate today, and—”
“Oh, Mrs. McFearson, I’m so glad you’re dressed and ready. You look fabulous. If I could just steal you for a few minutes? I’d love for you to take a look at the Drawing Room before the ceremony. We want to make sure it’s perfect, don’t we? I’ll have her back in no time.” Parker pushed champagne into the MOB’s hand, and steered her out of the room.
Alison said, “Whew!” and laughed.
For the next hour, Mac split herself between the bride’s and groom’s suites. Between perfume and tulle, cuff links and cummerbunds. She eased back into the bride’s domain, circled around the attendants as they dressed and helped one another dress. And found Alison alone, standing in front of her wedding dress.
It was all there, Mac thought as she quietly framed the shot. The wonder, the joy—with just that tiny tug of sorrow. She snapped the image as Alison reached out to brush her fingers over the sparkle of the bodice.
Decisive moment, Mac knew, when everything the woman felt reflected on her face.
Then it passed, and Alison glanced over.
“I didn’t expect to feel this way. I’m so happy. I’m so in love with Rod, so ready to marry him. But there’s this little clutch right here.” She rubbed her fingers just above her heart. “It’s not nerves.”
“Sadness. Just a touch. One phase of your life ends today. You’re allowed to be sad to say good-bye. I know what you need. Wait here.”
A moment later, Mac led Alison’s grandmother over. And once again stepped back.
Youth and age, she thought. Beginnings and endings, connections and constancy. And, love.
She snapped the embrace, but that wasn’t it. She snapped the glitter of tears, and still, no. Then Alison lowered her forehead to her grandmother’s, and even as her lips curved, a single tear slid down her cheek while the dress glowed and glittered behind them.
Perfect. The blue butterfly.
She took candids of the ritual while the bride dressed, then the formal portraits with exquisite natural light. As she’d expected, Alison was game to brave the cold on the terrace.
And Mac ignored Parker’s voice through her headset as she rushed to the Groom’s Suite to repeat the process with Rod.
She passed Parker in the hallway as she strode back to the bride. “I need the groom and party downstairs, Mac. We’re running two minutes behind.”
“Oh my God!” Mac said in mock horror and ducked into the Bride’s Suite.
“Guests are seated,” Parker announced in her ear moments later. “Groom and groomsmen taking position. Emma, gather the bridal party.”
“On it.”
Mac slipped out to take her stand at the bottom of the stairs as Emma organized the bridesmaids.
“Party ready. Cue the music.”
“Cuing music,” Parker said, “start the procession.”
The flower girl would clearly be fine without the nap, Mac decided as the child nearly danced her way down the staircase. She paused like a vet at Laurel’s signal, then continued at a dignified pace in her fairy dress across the foyer, into the enormous parlor, and down the aisle formed by the chairs.
The attendants followed, shimmering silver, and at last, the maid of honor in gold.
Mac crouched to aim up as the bride and her father stood at the top of the stairs, holding hands. As the bride’s music swelled, he lifted his daughter’s hand to his lips, then to his cheek.
Even as she took the shot, Mac’s eyes stung.
Where was her own father? she wondered. Jamaica? Switzerland? Cairo?
She pushed the thought and the ache that came with it aside, and did her job.
Using Emma’s candlelight, she captured joy and tears. The memories. And stayed invisible and separate.
CHAPTER TWO
SHE WORKED AT NIGHT BECAUSE SHE HAD A FULL DAY OF APPOINTMENTS. And because she liked working at night—alone, in her own space, at her own pace. Mornings were for coffee, that first intense, blood-surging hit of it, and days were often for clients, for shoots, for meetings.
Nights, alone in her studio, she could focus entirely on images, how to select, to improve, to enhance. Though she worked almost exclusively digital, she retained the darkroom mind-set when it came to creating the print. She layered, highlighting, shadowing; she removed blemishes or hot spots to create her base for her master print. To this she could refine specific areas, alter density, add contrast. Step-by-step she would shape the print, sharpening or softening to suit the mood, to create an image that expressed that moment in time, until she felt what she hoped the client would feel.
Then, as she did most mornings, Mac sat down at her computer to check her thumbnails and to see if her morning self agreed with her night self.
She huddled over them in her flannels and thick socks, her bright red hair a forest of spikes and tufts. And in the utter quiet. At a wedding she was most often surrounded. By people, by chatter, by emotion. She blocked it or used it as she searched for the right angle, the right tone, the right moment.
But here, she was alone with the images, ones she could perfect. She drank her coffee, ate an apple as a concession to the previous morning’s Pop-Tart, and studied the hundreds of images she’d captured the day before, the dozens she’d finessed during the night session.
Her morning self congratulated her night self on a job well done. More to do yet, she mused, and when she had the best of the best for the clients to consider, she’d give them one more going-over before scheduling an appointment with the newlyweds to view the images in slide-show format and make their choices.
But that was for another day. In case her memory proved faulty, she checked her calendar before going up to shower and dress for her first appointment.
For a studio shoot, jeans and a sweater would do, but then she’d have to change for the consultation scheduled that afternoon at the main house. Vows policy demanded business attire for client consultations.
Mac pushed through her closet for black pants, a black shirt. She could toss on a jacket after the shoot and meet the dress code. She played with jewelry until she found what suited her mood, slapped on some makeup, and considered the job done.
The studio required more attention than the photographer, in her opinion.
Elizabeth and Charles, she thought as she began the setup. Engagement shot. They’d been firm, she recalled, at the consult. Formal, simple, straightforward.
“Oh, Mrs. McFearson, I’m so glad you’re dressed and ready. You look fabulous. If I could just steal you for a few minutes? I’d love for you to take a look at the Drawing Room before the ceremony. We want to make sure it’s perfect, don’t we? I’ll have her back in no time.” Parker pushed champagne into the MOB’s hand, and steered her out of the room.
Alison said, “Whew!” and laughed.
For the next hour, Mac split herself between the bride’s and groom’s suites. Between perfume and tulle, cuff links and cummerbunds. She eased back into the bride’s domain, circled around the attendants as they dressed and helped one another dress. And found Alison alone, standing in front of her wedding dress.
It was all there, Mac thought as she quietly framed the shot. The wonder, the joy—with just that tiny tug of sorrow. She snapped the image as Alison reached out to brush her fingers over the sparkle of the bodice.
Decisive moment, Mac knew, when everything the woman felt reflected on her face.
Then it passed, and Alison glanced over.
“I didn’t expect to feel this way. I’m so happy. I’m so in love with Rod, so ready to marry him. But there’s this little clutch right here.” She rubbed her fingers just above her heart. “It’s not nerves.”
“Sadness. Just a touch. One phase of your life ends today. You’re allowed to be sad to say good-bye. I know what you need. Wait here.”
A moment later, Mac led Alison’s grandmother over. And once again stepped back.
Youth and age, she thought. Beginnings and endings, connections and constancy. And, love.
She snapped the embrace, but that wasn’t it. She snapped the glitter of tears, and still, no. Then Alison lowered her forehead to her grandmother’s, and even as her lips curved, a single tear slid down her cheek while the dress glowed and glittered behind them.
Perfect. The blue butterfly.
She took candids of the ritual while the bride dressed, then the formal portraits with exquisite natural light. As she’d expected, Alison was game to brave the cold on the terrace.
And Mac ignored Parker’s voice through her headset as she rushed to the Groom’s Suite to repeat the process with Rod.
She passed Parker in the hallway as she strode back to the bride. “I need the groom and party downstairs, Mac. We’re running two minutes behind.”
“Oh my God!” Mac said in mock horror and ducked into the Bride’s Suite.
“Guests are seated,” Parker announced in her ear moments later. “Groom and groomsmen taking position. Emma, gather the bridal party.”
“On it.”
Mac slipped out to take her stand at the bottom of the stairs as Emma organized the bridesmaids.
“Party ready. Cue the music.”
“Cuing music,” Parker said, “start the procession.”
The flower girl would clearly be fine without the nap, Mac decided as the child nearly danced her way down the staircase. She paused like a vet at Laurel’s signal, then continued at a dignified pace in her fairy dress across the foyer, into the enormous parlor, and down the aisle formed by the chairs.
The attendants followed, shimmering silver, and at last, the maid of honor in gold.
Mac crouched to aim up as the bride and her father stood at the top of the stairs, holding hands. As the bride’s music swelled, he lifted his daughter’s hand to his lips, then to his cheek.
Even as she took the shot, Mac’s eyes stung.
Where was her own father? she wondered. Jamaica? Switzerland? Cairo?
She pushed the thought and the ache that came with it aside, and did her job.
Using Emma’s candlelight, she captured joy and tears. The memories. And stayed invisible and separate.
CHAPTER TWO
SHE WORKED AT NIGHT BECAUSE SHE HAD A FULL DAY OF APPOINTMENTS. And because she liked working at night—alone, in her own space, at her own pace. Mornings were for coffee, that first intense, blood-surging hit of it, and days were often for clients, for shoots, for meetings.
Nights, alone in her studio, she could focus entirely on images, how to select, to improve, to enhance. Though she worked almost exclusively digital, she retained the darkroom mind-set when it came to creating the print. She layered, highlighting, shadowing; she removed blemishes or hot spots to create her base for her master print. To this she could refine specific areas, alter density, add contrast. Step-by-step she would shape the print, sharpening or softening to suit the mood, to create an image that expressed that moment in time, until she felt what she hoped the client would feel.
Then, as she did most mornings, Mac sat down at her computer to check her thumbnails and to see if her morning self agreed with her night self.
She huddled over them in her flannels and thick socks, her bright red hair a forest of spikes and tufts. And in the utter quiet. At a wedding she was most often surrounded. By people, by chatter, by emotion. She blocked it or used it as she searched for the right angle, the right tone, the right moment.
But here, she was alone with the images, ones she could perfect. She drank her coffee, ate an apple as a concession to the previous morning’s Pop-Tart, and studied the hundreds of images she’d captured the day before, the dozens she’d finessed during the night session.
Her morning self congratulated her night self on a job well done. More to do yet, she mused, and when she had the best of the best for the clients to consider, she’d give them one more going-over before scheduling an appointment with the newlyweds to view the images in slide-show format and make their choices.
But that was for another day. In case her memory proved faulty, she checked her calendar before going up to shower and dress for her first appointment.
For a studio shoot, jeans and a sweater would do, but then she’d have to change for the consultation scheduled that afternoon at the main house. Vows policy demanded business attire for client consultations.
Mac pushed through her closet for black pants, a black shirt. She could toss on a jacket after the shoot and meet the dress code. She played with jewelry until she found what suited her mood, slapped on some makeup, and considered the job done.
The studio required more attention than the photographer, in her opinion.
Elizabeth and Charles, she thought as she began the setup. Engagement shot. They’d been firm, she recalled, at the consult. Formal, simple, straightforward.
