Chapter 4: The Shot List

Emmett opened the front door before Hugh could knock a second time.

"Mr. Alden," he said. "You're early. I'm not due to show you the proofs until Friday."

"I'm not here for the proofs."

Hugh walked in with his leather folder and stopped in the middle of the studio.

His eyes went over the long oak table, the coffee cups, the camera bag, the red bulb glowing above the darkroom door.

Then they came to me.

"Why is your phone on West Fulton at nine in the morning?" he said. "You never leave the shop before noon."

"I came to look at the engagement prints," I said. "Emmett said they were ready."

"At nine."

"I'm getting married in twenty-four days, Hugh. I wanted to see the pictures."

He studied my face.

I made it soft. I had spent fourteen months learning exactly how soft he liked it.

"You've got flour in your hair," he said finally, and picked a pale thread out of my curls with two fingers.

"My mother's expecting us at one for lunch. I'll send a car. Go and change."

"Of course."

"That dress, the green one, not the work clothes." He glanced around the studio with a small smile. "Voigt. A word about the album."

"Go ahead."

"No photographs of the license table."

Emmett's face did not change at all.

"Nobody wants the paperwork in the album," Hugh said.

"The pen, the clerk, the little forms. It's dull, and it ages a wedding."

He nodded at me. "Frame the vows, the kiss, the cake. My fiancee's cake, which she's making herself, God help us."

"I'll shoot what you want," Emmett said.

"Good."

"I'll shoot it the way I shoot everything," Emmett said. "From the left, with a long lens."

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