Page 15 of Perfect Praise

A cloud moves to cover the sunlight, casting everything in a slightly dull shadow, and I suddenly remember what I cameout here to do.

Lifestyle photography is my happy place, no matter how few people will pay me for it.

I take in the shadows: the kids stomping their sandcastle into nothing, a surfer wiping out, the clouds moving across the sky over the ocean. These are the perfect moments of people just being.

I don’t even realize how long I’ve been immersed behind my camera until my phone rings.

My heart flutters stupidly before I remember Locke doesn’t even have my phone number. I’ve been on edge all day, waiting for him to contact me. He didn’t ask for it, and I also realize I have no idea what his schedule is—if he’s here yet, what events he expects me to go to. Which isn’t that surprising. The man expects you to be on the same page as him without communication. I’m sure there’s something in San Diego he wants me to be the face and voice of for him. Russell always had functions or press events or obligations outside of golf.

I assume Locke will just show up randomly at my hotel room door whenever he’s ready like I should’ve been on the same wavelength as him.

“Mom,” I say cheerily when I answer, trying to curb her inevitably hurt feelings before she makes everything about her. “I’m so sorry I didn’t call you when I landed. I’ve been going, going, going since my feet touched the ground.”

“Aw, sweetie,” she says, “I know you’re busy. I just wanted to check that you made it safely. What did they have you doing as soon as you got there?”

Which is code foryou didn’t have five minutes to call when you landed? During your Uber to the hotel? After you checked in?

It’s not that I don’t want to talk to her—okay, it’s a little that—it’s just that every time I do, somehow I end up feeling bad about myself, even when I was happy with myself, and wanting to change to appease her. I recognize I’ve been on a guilt trip my entire life, but I don’t know how to jump off.

She doesn’t give me time to reply. “What are you doing now? It sounds windy.”

“Just at the beach,” I say with a smile before my hair whips into my mouth. “Got a moment away to myself, so I’m taking some photos.”

“That’s wonderful. At least you don’t have to spend every second with Russell. Which reminds me, your dad and I were watching your show the other night, and your hair is getting so long.”

Which is code foryou need a haircut.

“I kind of like it long,” I tell her, softening how much I actually like it. “But I’ll make an appointment to get it cut in a couple weeks.”

I run my fingers through it before twirling it at the end. Why isn’t me liking it long good enough for her? Instead, I care more about what she thinks, even when she should be happy that I’m happy.

“Oh, that’s good. You know how much I like your hair shoulder length,” she says. “Camille’s is too long too. Did she show you a picture of the perfect crib she picked out? I would have loved for you to join us.”

Of course, now it’s perfect since Camille didn’t go with the one my mom wanted.

“She did, and I had work, Mom.”

“Golf. So many hours and tournaments and traveling. Watching it is like watching a sloth move.” My mother chuckles, and my teeth involuntarily grind. “Camille also mentioned you took some maternity photos of her. Please text them to me. I’d love to see them.”

“Well, theyarelifestyle,” I say like I’m the only one in on the inside joke, “but they still came out great. I’ve got to get back now. I love you.”

My stomach instantly untangles. Of course, there’s guilt there for lying, but being out from underneath her criticism makes me feel lighter.

“I love you too!” she sings. “Oh—”

But I’m already in the motion of pressing ‘end,’ and I’m not quick enough to stop.

After I hang up, I text her as many photos as my iPhone will allow in one text and watch the blue bar load.

A second later, I get her read receipt and wait.

I wait for her to finish flipping through. I wait for a response that I don’t get. I wait until I give up. I wonder if she knows her read receipts are on.

Then I’m looking at the pictures I’ve already spent a crazy number of hours editing and muttering to myself like a lunatic, “So beautiful. You’re such a talented photographer, sweetie. Camille looks so happy, and you captured the natural light perfectly, Maren. Wow, I think youcouldbe a professionalnon-sports photographer.”

I jolt when my phone buzzes in my hand, thinking I’m getting what I was hoping for, only to see a text message from someone else.

My stomach swirls then pinches tight, and tangled doesn’t even begin to cover whatever is happening inside my body. I squint at my phone to make sure I read the name right.

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