Chapter Eight

Children will tell you what they do, men what they think, and older people what they have seen and heard.

Season plunged back into her summer curriculum with marked disinterest. The classes that once sounded so compelling—Digital Imaging, Studio Lighting and Photo Editing II—failed to lift the mental lethargy shrouding her.

She had difficulty focusing on the lectures, like the one her instructor droned on about this morning. "If anyone in my class thinks to narrow down photography to two words, think again. No, my little shutter-bugs, it isn't merely about taking pictures. To become a professional photographer, with any hope of making a good living, a wide range of life skills are required."

The sissy-boy dweeb with thick, black glasses and faux hawk haircut, who happened to sit behind her, whispered, "Yeah, like how to find the best pornographic images on the Internet."

"Mr. Tomkins, did you have a question?"

A chuckle. "Yes, Mr. Carlson, exactly what kind of life skills are you referring to?"

"Critical thinking and problem-solving to name two. Effective written and oral communication and an ability to demonstrate curiosity and imagination. Now, can anyone think of any other skills?" Mr. Carlson glanced to the wall clock. "Guess we'll have to save that question for another day. See you Wednesday."

In the parking lot, Season patted Pearl on the hood before unlocking the door and climbing behind the wheel. She knew what her problem was, and it came in the form of a six-foot hunk named Rann Brogan. He'd be back in Chicago now, up to his duplicitous eyeballs in shady land deals. So why couldn't she stop thinking about the incredible thrill of his mouth on hers, the lure of his hypnotic smile, and the blue-spoked eyes? I'm toast, screwed to the max, Pearl.

When she pulled into the driveway, Duna gave her a wave and returned to weeding the flower bed near the shed. After tossing her backpack onto the kitchen table, she slapped a ham and cheese sandwich together, grabbed a Coke from the fridge and bounded up the stairs to her bedroom. Maybe she could muster up enough interest to finish her essay on Product and Fashion Photography this afternoon.

She opened her laptop and pushed the power button. Since procrastination was one of her strong suits, she decided to hang out on Facebook, add a few photos to her Tumbler page and check her emails. Nothing new on Facebook and the new images she took in the woods the other day looked great on her Tumbler profile. Arabians galloped in her chest when she opened her email and saw the handle: surveyyourdreams@xmail.com She clicked on the message.

• Rann Brogan

To: naturefreak94@xmail.com

Hope school is going well.

The Red-tailed hawk I promised.

Enjoy!

ps: What does Veshengo mean?

She opened the attachment and tears brimmed in her eyes. Not from the image of the most beautiful hawk in flight she'd ever seen, but because seeing his name flooded her with thoughts and memories she'd rather forget. Correction…had to forget.

She tapped her foot against the wood floor and took another bite of her sandwich. She had to acknowledge the email, thank him for the photo. Didn't she?

• Season Scrimshaw

To: surveyyourdreams@xmail.com

School is fine. Essays suck.

He is a beauty. Thank you, I did enjoy it.

I forgot about Duna calling you Veshengo that day.

Veshengo = Romani word for man of the forest

She hit send and imagined him seated behind an enormous mahogany desk with floor-to-ceiling windows and Chicago's skyline as a backdrop. Oil and water. Urban elite and country bumpkin. Fire and ice. She slammed her laptop shut and decided to join Duna in the garden, take out her frustration on the weeds.

"Hey, ghel, glad you decided to join me. There's another pair of gloves in the shed."

"Thanks, but I need to feel the earth between my fingers today."

Duna caught her out of the corner of his eye but kept on yanking stranglers from the ground. "How's school going?"

"Choking me, like the wild Sarsaparilla and Hoary Alyssa at your knees."

"What's that about, do you reckon?"

She sat back on her haunches and emitted a puff of air. "Wish I knew. Maybe I'm chasing an elusive dream."

"You've wanted to be a photographer since you were twelve."

"I know, but now I want to be the best photographer in the world and I'm not sure I have it in me. Some days I think my camera broke for a reason."

"Hmm."

"That's it…hmm, no prophetic words of wisdom? Your Romani arsenal out of ammo today?"

Duna laughed, and she felt better. She'd always loved the deep, rich rumble of his laughter. And the wild swirl of tattoos inking his large, sure hands. "You want a quip, ghel?"

"Well give me something."

"All right. How about this one: Burn your enemies' caravans and you burn your future."

She tipped her head to the side as if by doing so, she could better process the words. The seconds ticked by. "What does that have to do with my dilemma about school?"

"Nothin'."

She narrowed her eyes. "You did that on purpose, switched topics on me."

"Nope. You asked for words of wisdom. I gave you ones that are pertinent to your troubles."

"How so?"

"School isn't your problem. That's a caravan you can walk away from and join again later." He stopped plucking weeds and looked into her eyes. "He's not the enemy, Season. You walk away and you could be burning your fate, your destiny. That's something you can never recapture."

"A kiss, Duna, that's all it was. Yes, maybe he likes what he sees, but that's not what I'm looking for."

"What would that be?"

"Real love, half a dozen kids, a dozen cats and dogs…the whole enchilada."

"That's what Veshengo is looking for too."

"Stop calling him that. It makes it sound as if…well, like you have a real fondness for him."

"I do."

"Worship him all you want but you have no idea what he's searching for."

"I'll say it again, 'I do.'"

"You're letting your gypsy intuition overrule facts here."

"Am not. My dear old Day, God rest her soul, said I came into the world at night but not last night. I know because I saw the way he looked at you."

"How?"

"As if you were the only woman in the world who can make him be the best version of himself."

A tear slid down her cheek. "I want to trust him but I don't know how to." She sniffled. "And now I've gone and messed it all up."

Coming to his feet, he stepped forward and embraced her. She inhaled his familiar scent, surrendered to the shelter and strength she'd always found in his arms. His quiet mumble against the side of her head calmed her. "I s'pect you'll hear from him again."

She jerked her neck back. "You suspect or you know?"

"What am I now, a soothsayer?"

"Damn closest thing I ever saw to one."

"If I tell you I know you'll hear from him again, will you help me finish weeding the flower bed?"

"Only if it's the truth."

"You will hear from him again." He shook his head. "Now start at that end," he pointed. "I'll meet you in the middle."

Her heart lighter, the tears swiped from her cheeks, she walked to the end of the sunflowers, asters and cone flowers and dropped to her knees. "I love you, Duna," she called out.

"Love ya more," he said without missing a beat.