Gone by Randy Wayne White Page B

one of her mean moods at the time. I wasn’t ready to accept the meanness of what she’d said about Darren—and Nathan’s stupidity—as truth, but I was feeling tense and on my guard more than usual.
    I stared at my hands, which were folded on my knees, and said, “Darren, that didn’t come out right. I don’t know why but I’m still nervous around you. It’s not you, and please don’t fault Nate. It’s my problem. You’re always so kind to me, but then I end up opening my mouth and saying something stupid.”
    “The camera will see that quality in her—that exact quality,” Darren said to Nate, which confused me but didn’t stump my friend for a moment.
    “Hannah’s always had a gift for pissing off people,” Nate agreed yet sounded defensive. “Especially when it comes to putting men in their place. But I’ll always take her side, Darre. It’s the way it’s always been with us and that’s not going to change.”
    Nathan’s warning tone startled me, but Darren appeared to like it. “Her honesty , that’s what I meant, you goose. Match the right camera, the right glass and light, and the lens doesn’t lie. A person’s soul is a robe worn on the outside. Like skin . . . or an aura.”
    “The outside,” Nathan echoed, thinking it over while trying to hide his relief.
    “A camera in the right hands, of course,” Darren added, reaching for ice tongs, then a bottle with a label that read Laphroaig , which was scotch whiskey. “The soul on the other side of the camera has to commit total energy to the moment. All of his . . . well, it’s a childlike quality. Spontaneous. An openhearted love of whatever the lens discovers. I don’t let myself explore why or how it all works, it just does. Photography—art, not Photoshop tripe—has more in common with sorcery than engineering. Spirituality . . . passion . . .”
    The man paused, looking toward the hall gallery where photos of actors and rock stars were hung, individually lighted, one of the most famous, an AC/DC guitarist, shirtless, mouth open wide in the spotlight, his long hair dark with sweat. Then Darren said, “No! Sensuality —that’s the real key. Never underestimate the power of raw sensuality and sexuality. Those two elements, they fire every passion in us. Love, devotion, courage. And also all that’s evil and ugly and weak. Scratch the surface of either, and those two elements come pouring out like blood.”
    Darren had clanked cubes into a rocks glass, poured it half full, now lifted the glass in salute. “The sun’s almost below the yardarm, mateys. Sure neither of you will join me?”
    He and Nathan were on barstools, a lead-sheathed counter supporting an ice bucket, crystal ashtray, plus Nate’s elbow along with a quart of grape Gatorade, most of it gone. Opposite them was a restaurant-quality kitchen, stainless gas burners, a butcher’s block, pans and pots suspended above, polished and orderly as church bells. I’d been sitting off in a corner by myself on one of the sleekest Manhattan-looking chairs I’d ever seen, drinking a bottle of water and texting an update to Lawrence Seasons on what I had learned. I still regretted my stupid words to Darren, but my brain immediately locked onto what he had just said, aware that it might be important. Sex, passion, weakness, and evil. I didn’t understand his meaning—not in my head, anyway—but it did offer some hope that I might yet understand why Mrs. Whitney had behaved as she had with a man half her age who had no solid job or education. I knew I’d have to spend time on the water, or in my bed, to think it through, but the connection alone was enough to give me faith.
    “I’d like to see that magazine,” I said, storing my cell phone and getting to my feet. “Sorry about my rudeness. I should be thanking you instead of interrupting your cocktail hour.”
    Darren sat straighter, watching me cross the room, then said, “Sensuous,” as if the word had