Chapter 1

This is the first true sequel I’ve written. I generally feel that after a romantic story is concluded there’s nothing more interesting to say without adding in breakups or unnecessary drama. I had this sequel in mind while writing Rebirth, however, and I don’t think this new story will make much sense without first reading that. You may also wish to read Casual, which introduces supporting characters Kathryn and Shannon and adds a small continuation to the story of Rebirth.

If you want to listen to the music accompanying the central work, search YouTube for sibelius symphony 7 osmo vanska lahti, which should bring up the version that Mika is using, being one of the best recordings around, and just over 23 minutes long.

I’d been expecting the leap when I’d taken the shot, but I hadn’t expected how perfectly it would capture. With the aperture wide open, the scantily-clad vocalist behind her had both a slight blur and a slight motion blur, while the woman with the guitar was perfectly sharp.

“Perhaps because you haven’t been around much?” I offer. “Lauren says she’s missed you this year. Also,” I glance between Kathryn and her girlfriend, “perhaps you’ve been distracted.”

“I guess you could say that,” she replies.

“You’re going to have to give me a clue,” says Shannon. “I just see a girl with a guitar. Hell of a photo, but you’re all acting like we should recognize it.”

“You’re not from around here,” says Kathryn. “That’s Sidney, the guitarist of ‘Of Darkness.’ The band used the photo for publicity, and it was picked up by local news. I guess that makes you locally famous, Mika,” she adds, turning to me.

“And that’s why this is the right time for the opening,” I say. “Right, Kelea?”

“From my point of view, yes,” the woman answers. “I think there are other reasons for you to let the community know that you’re serious.”

I nod in agreement, then lead the way into the photography room. Shannon continues to glance back to the photo.

“Some of these are from my student days,” I tell them. “Some are from my work, some I set up, some were fortuitous. Those were staged, obviously.” I nod toward a series of nudes I took in Oxford. One had the girl emerging from a pond. Another was posed in a muddy puddle, surrounded by mist. “The model made it very clear she wouldn’t be ‘out here freezing my tits off’ if she wasn’t being paid.”

Shannon grinned. “It doesn’t show in her expression,” she says.

“It does in her gooseflesh, if you look closely,” I say, “but yes, she was a good egg. I was only paying her in beer.”

Shannon tilts her glass toward the right wall. “Now those are both sexy and moving,” she says. “Was it luck, or did you stage them?”

She’s indicating a sequence of three photos, framed as a flat triptych. The first is of two women, one in a red dress, the other in a pale yellow bridesmaid dress, giving each other meaningful looks, both faces slightly flushed.

In the second, the woman in the red dress is cupping the hands of the one in the bridesmaid dress, drinking from a glass of wine the other woman holds.

The third shows the women kissing, wine glass held carefully to the side.

There’s a romantic tension to all three shots, but especially the second. A longing that says that every moment until they could be alone together would be torment.

“Neither, really,” I say, “but more on the luck side. Emphatically not staged. After years as a wedding photographer, I have a sense of what might prove interesting. Those two were clearly new to their feelings for each other, and I admit to stalking them for a good shot. When they moved to have a private conversation I followed. I didn’t even have to hide, they were so focused on each other. The photos were taken only a few feet away from and a few hours earlier than ‘Flying S’.”

An open doorframe leads into the next room. This holds drawings, mostly pencil, charcoal or both, of various sizes, watercolors in a series, and a single marble bust.

Kathryn is studying the watercolors, with a slight frown, why Shannon is looking at the marble sculpture from every angle.

“This is so real,” she says. “Who is it?”

“Nicole,” I say, with a jolt to my heart. I may have moved on, but I’ll probably never be able to say her name without feeling an emotional response. “My wife.” Shannon’s eyes snapped to mine. “She passed a little over five years ago. She deserves a place here. She was always very supportive.”

“I see,” Shannon responds. “I’m… I’m sorry for your loss.”

I give her a soft smile. “Thank you. It’s okay. The fact that she still has a place in my heart doesn’t mean that I’m not Laurel’s, a hundred percent. She knows about Nicole, and has been understanding and patient with me.”

“I saw her expression on Thanksgiving,” she says. “I don’t doubt what the two of you mean to each other.”

“It’s the falls!” Kathryn exclaims. “It’s the river. Downtown!”

“It is,” I say, The watercolors are styled like Japanese landscapes, featuring wooden buildings on the river banks and a few characters in traditional dress, but the geometry of the building layout and the shape of the river are local. The town, reimagined.

“Now that I know, I can see what each one is,” says Kathryn. “These would make great prints. Are you planning to sell them?”

“This is a gallery,” says Kelea. “And it’s my source of income. We’ve agreed to sell these as prints.”

“After the show, I’ll donate these originals,” I say, “and I’ll create another series for Kelea to sell as originals. These will be better as prints.”

After a few more minutes of exploring, with questions that show they’re both interested in the work, we return to the outer room. I lead them to the sculpture, but Shannon is distracted by a sketch book, which is full of drawings of Lauren. All are nude, but none show anything more revealing than collar bones, the curve of her lower back, or the suggestion of a breast seen from behind.

“She’s okay with you showing these?” Kathryn asked, looking over her girlfriend’s shoulder.

“She is,” I reply. “She has the ones that show a little more skin in her possession.”

Shannon flips through more pages. “Are you going to leave this out, where it could be damaged or stolen?”

“I think it’s good to get a sense of what drawing means to me,” I say. “They’re copies. I had the book made. The original is at home. Having all the drawings duplicated was expensive, and I don’t want to lose it, but I wouldn’t lose the work.”

Shannon nods in understanding. She hands the book to Kathryn, then turns to the assembly beside her. “Is this the new sculpture you mentioned at Thanksgiving?”

A tall bronze spike rises from a wooden base. Thin copper wires hold a wide ring of bronze. Two glass hearts stand upright on the ring. They’re currently on the sides of the creation. In the corner of the room, shielded lights shine on nothing in particular, their brilliance attenuated by an opaque black cloth.

Kathryn has set the book down, and is looking at the object, her hand now in Shannon’s. “Is it moving?” she asks.

The soft trombone theme of Sibelius’s Seventh is playing from hidden speakers. “It’s titled ‘Timezones,'” I say. “It rotates one full turn in twenty-four minutes, representing one day.”

One of the two hearts has gold streaks throughout the glass. The other has streaks of green. They’re solid and quite heavy. I created them for a project I had in mind to share with Nicole, but it never gelled. After her passing they lived as ornamental pieces in our bedroom. The gold heart is slowly circling behind the cloth, into the light.

“When I was with my family in Japan last year,” I say, “it was hard to find times when Lauren and I could be together online, because of the time difference and the different mood of each part of the day.”

“Tell me about it,” gripes Shannon, while Kathryn nods her head in agreement, leaning against her partner.

“The best time for us was afternoon for me, her late evening. Sometimes we would be able to talk to each other alone, and sometimes I took her out exploring with me. Shopping or sightseeing. I would show her Tokyo on my phone, in the brightness of the afternoon. Where I was outdoors or in my parents’ house, Lauren claimed I brought light into darkness. This is modelling that transfer of light, in twenty-four minutes.”

The bronze ring has moved noticeably. The heart that has streaks of gold is beginning to catch the light behind the black cloth. Any moment now… I feel myself smile as I see a glow within the green-streaked heart. The others don’t seem to have noticed yet.

“Oh.” The word is soft, coming from Kathryn, as the glow builds within the green-tinged heart. It begins as blue, then shifts through the spectrum before becoming overwhelmed by white, continuing to change brightness and hue.

“There’s a bundle of flexible light pipes running through the bronze ring,” I say. “The light that passes through is fairly random. Prismatic effects happen within both hearts.”

We watch until the gold heart passes the center of the directed lights. This is where the music ends, despair transforming into hope and triumph. Time zero represents noon for the gold heart – the one representing Lauren – while the green heart is thirteen minutes ahead, or one a.m. in Tokyo. The symphony restarts seamlessly. I don’t confess that the main reason for the choice of music is that it’s just shy of twenty-four minutes long. I had other reasons to consider it perfect for this, but that fact trumped all others.

The green heart begins to fade as the gold glass leaves the illuminated area. We watch the piece through the next half-cycle, the green glass heart refracting into the gold, before Kathryn and Shannon ask for their coats.

“I’m going to be thinking about this on next year’s Europe trip,” says Shannon.

“Hey, honey, you know you’ll still bring light to my evenings this weekend,” Kathryn replies, “even though we’ll only be one hour apart.”

Shannon turns a warm smile to her girlfriend. “Mine too, gorgeous,” Shannon replies. “Though I know you secretly hate me for going to Orlando.”

“Nothing secret about it,” Kathryn responds, primly, then immediately turns to me. “I’d like to put my name down for a set of the watercolor prints. I know exactly where to hang them.” She immediately looks at Shannon, her eyebrows furrowed. “I guess I should ask for your decorating input going forward, shouldn’t I?”

“It’s okay, babe, it’s still your house,” says Shannon. “We can work toward sharing choices. Besides, I like the prints, too.”

I turn to Kelea. “Is there any reason I can’t give them the originals?”

Kelea shrugs. “They’re not for sale, so no. After the show ends.”

“That would be awesome!” offers Kathryn. “When you’re rich and famous I’m going to have to increase my insurance, aren’t I?”