Page 11 of Bargain with the Bachelor
Mirror Mirror
Kristal-- Four months later
My boots sank into the deep snowdrifts, my breath fogging the air in front of me as I trudged across the lawn of Seacliff, my favorite of Eastport Bay’s beautiful Gilded Age mansions.
It was a perfect afternoon—cold, obviously, but I was dressed for it. The sun was shining, the skies blue and clear, the pre-sunset light, perfect.
My camera bag bounced against my side as I got into position in front of the property’s iconic circular fountain and located the ideal postcard angle.
Seacliff, which was modeled on the Grand Trianon of Versailles, rose from the wintry landscape like a spectacular snow-castle, its white glazed terra cotta exterior contributing to the illusion the grand house was liable to melt along with the snow when warmer climes prevailed.
It hosted gorgeous weddings year-round, and I’d always fancied the idea of having my own wedding reception there someday—not that there was anything resembling a groom on the horizon.
Today, I wanted to capture the spectacular beauty of the home and its meticulously landscaped grounds while the snowfall was fresh and perfect, the natural lighting diffused and warm.
It was exactly the kind of shot that would go quickly at the Sandcastle Gallery where I sold most of my work to its owner, Toni, my best customer over the past several years.
The shop was located in Brady’s Wharf and got steady foot traffic from Eastport Bay tourists, many of them seeking a framed photographic memento of their visit to the Village by the Sea, as the town was nicknamed.
Toni had asked me for some new photographs several weeks ago, and I was finally feeling like working again.
For a while my father’s death had sapped my energy, my spirit, and any ability or desire I’d felt to be creative, but it was returning, along with a lifetime of good memories.
As I’d walked down Oceanview Avenue to get to Seacliff, they’d swarmed me like moths around a midnight lamp post—my father chasing me through the snow or pulling me on the sled as a child, pushing me on the swing hung from the massive European beech tree in our yard.
For the first time since he’d been rushed to the hospital with a second stroke and passed away, I thought of my dad without crying.
Actually, I felt quite inspired today. Dad had been the one who’d always encouraged my photography, and like me, he’d loved the winter shots best.
While Harry had always referred to my photography work as my “little hobby,” my father had praised my talent.
“Keep at it, pumpkin,” he’d said. “You’re an artist. You’ve got something special, and you’ll find your audience in time.”
That time hadn’t come—my photography hadn’t earned much money—not yet.
But it made me happy to know there were people out there who were enjoying my work and taking a piece of my beautiful hometown with them when they went back to whatever parts of the world they’d come from.
Late afternoon sunlight fell on the elegant home’s arched windows, ionic pilasters, and balustraded roofline, causing it to glow. They didn’t call this the golden hour for nothing.
Peering through the viewfinder, I clicked off several shots of the mansion then shifted a few steps to one side then the other, capturing a variety of angles.
Eastport Bay had many more visitors in summer than in winter, but in my opinion, this was its most beautiful season—my favorite time to take photographs.
I checked the LCD screen to see what I’d gotten, and my heart hummed with satisfaction. Even in thumbnail, the images sparkled with promise.
Though there was some skill, training, and practice involved, I had to give the subject and the season their due credit. The newly fallen snow lent a sense of magic to everything it touched.
In fact, after photographing the mansion itself, I was drawn to a tree on the property.
Its bare branches looked like they’d been frosted by fairies, and the twiggy ends held plump puffs of snow that resembled mature cotton ready for harvesting.
Pointing the lens, I zoomed in and captured several tight shots then got some wider shots of the majestic tree. The reddish-gold sunset gave the illusion the tree was illuminated from within. These images I might keep for myself.
Dad would have loved them.
Once it got too dark to continue, I walked home, engulfed in a feeling of pleasure and pride in work well done.
Toni would be happy, I’d earn some money, and maybe, just maybe, one of my new shots would be worthy of submitting to the International Photography Awards.
