Page 15 of A Small Town Spring

“What kind of camera is that?”

“It’s a Leica.German.It takes lovely pictures.”He raises the camera and looks through the viewfinder at the bookshelf next to him, pushes a button at the top, and I hear a satisfying click.I only use the camera on my phone, and I have to fight the urge to take a picture of him taking pictures.

“It’s not a film camera, right?”

“No, digital.I have a film one, an old-school Pentax.I thought when I first went to art school I’d study photography.It was hell to get them to change my focus once I realized it wasn’t meant to be.But I still love taking pictures.”He takes several more of different parts of the living room.I look around, trying to see what’s so worth capturing on the camera’s memory card.My faux-Tiffany reading lamp?The stack of unread bestsellers I’ll never get around to?

“Why did you pick photography at first?”

“I was trying to differentiate myself from my father, I suppose.He was a painter, therefore I never would be,” he says, sounding rueful.“Silly, but I was young, and I tended to make all my decisions in response to something I didn’t want, when I should have been making them based on something I did want.”

“Very wise.”

“I am a decade older.I’d like to think I have some things figured out.”

“Is your dad famous, then?”I remember Ivy mentioning him like he was a household name.

“In England, he’s pretty well-known.Fairly successful.But difficult.”Toby’s not looking at me, but at the watercolor of a lake I picked up at a Rosedale Art Center show a few years ago.“We’re not—we don’t get along well.What about you?”

There he goes, changing the subject off him again.“What about me?”

“What did you go to school for?”

“I was a business major, actually, with a minor in English.”

“Then you always knew you wanted to be a book agent?”

“I knew I wanted to make money.And I liked books.When I analyzed the publishing industry, I decided it was the job best suited to me.It’s a bonkers industry, really.I’ve made it work.”

“So analytical, Kingston, you surprise me.I thought you were a creative at heart.”

I laugh.“I have good instincts, strong opinions, and flawless taste.None of those I learned in school, but I knew I had to pair my strengths with practicality.”

“You never wanted to write?”Toby asks, lifting the camera again to look out the front window toward his station wagon, rusty and bulky compared to the sleek green machine parked next to it.I arrived late enough last night that I didn’t bother pulling the Beamer onto the slab.

“I write all the time,” I say.“Part of the job.But no, I never wanted to be an author.”

“You’re so impressive,” he murmurs, clicking away without looking my way.“You seem to know exactly what you want.And what you don’t want.I envy that.”

I let myself bask in the compliment, even if I don’t quite understand it.“You consider yourself indecisive?”

He laughs, lowers the camera, and looks at me dead-on.“I’d like to think of myself as unwilling to cut off possibilities.But I don’t know—lately it feels more like cowardice than keeping my options open.”

“Sometimes keeping one’s options open is code for being scared to make a decision,” I say without judgement.

“Ivy accused me of that the other day.She wants me to be excited about setting up a meeting with Pete’s agent, about finally making my debut.And I keep dragging my heels.”

“Why?”

He shrugs one shoulder elegantly.“Fear of failure?”

“But you have to know how good your paintings are.You’re not stupid.”

He looks at me, surprised that I might make such a personal claim.Well, he is being stupid if he thinks his work is lacking.

“I know how good they are,” he says slowly.He looks down at his camera, fiddles with some of the buttons.“Fear of success, then.”

“I’ve heard of such a thing,” I say, folding my arms over my chest and rocking back on my heels, “but I’ve never observed it in real life.”

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