“Have you always been this devout?” she asked curiously.
He shook his head. “I didn’t see the light until I was locked up in a Cuban jail. There was a Bible in my cell, and I read it cover to cover half a dozen times. There wasn’t much else to do. That time was brutal, but I thank God for it now. It forced me to take a good look at my life, and I didn’t like what I saw. I wanted to become a better man.”
“All from reading the Bible?” She didn’t want to be disrespectful, but the Bible had always seemed a weighty, convoluted book. She couldn’t imagine a daredevil like Luke becoming sucked in to it.
The humor drained from him, replaced by a serious, inscrutable look. “The Bible helped, but it was more than that,” he finally said. “It took a while for the words to sink in, but when they did, I felt the enveloping love of God, even in that stinking jail cell. I accepted that even a miserable rat like me was unconditionally forgiven if only I would open my heart to salvation. For the first time in my life, I experienced the love of God, but I also felt the fist of God, the crushing sense that I had squandered so much of my life. I needed to tame the wildness inside and turn it toward the good. And then there was a third feeling, a powerful mystic force surrounding me even in the darkest nights when I felt alone and abandoned. I knew there was a God, and I wanted to escape back out into the world where I could shout the good news from the mountaintops. So how about it, Marianne? Would you like to come to church with me tomorrow?”
She pulled away. With each new facet of his personality, Luke grew in complexity and fascination. He was like a lodestone drawing her into dangerous territory, and this was moving too fast. For one thing, she couldn’t trust him.
“Tell me the reason you have those five men pinned to your bulletin board, and I’ll consider it.”
The gleam in Luke’s eyes faded. He sighed and looked away before he spoke. “It’s just politics, Marianne. Don’t go making it bigger than it needs to be.”
“My father’s name is on that list. I can’t help it.” She buckled her camera back into its case. Coming here was a mistake. No matter how much fun it was toying with the idea of running off to San Francisco to live like bohemian artists, she endangered her relationship with her father each time she saw Luke.
Clyde had taken her in as an infant even though it rocked the boat with her mother. He had loved and supported her for all these years, but she wasn’t so naive as to think his love was unconditional. He had banished his own sister from the family after Aunt Stella fell in love with an unsuitable man, and Marianne couldn’t be certain it wouldn’t happen to her as well. She owed her father everything, including her loyalty.
She walked to the list on the bulletin board and unpinned it, holding it up to Luke’s face. “Why is my father’s name on this list?”
He kept his eyes locked on her and said only a single word. “Politics.”
It was time for her to leave. If she had to choose between her father and Luke, her father won every time, but her heart still felt heavy as she set the list down and retrieved the camera.
“I’ll send you copies of the photographs and the negatives within a week,” she said. “Feel free to use them as you like.”
She left the office without a backward glance.
It was Friday, which meant Luke would be able to find Marianne at the darkroom. He needed to apologize for being so curt when she visited his office. Their families didn’t get along, but that didn’t mean they couldn’t.
He shared the washroom sink with Princeton while they shaved, carefully drawing the razor along his jaw. It didn’t matter that he felt crummy from food tainted with chemicals. He was going to see Marianne and wanted to look sharp.
He arrived an hour ahead of her regular appointment at the photography studio, and the moment the darkroom was vacant, he slipped inside to wait and surprise her.
Trouble started the moment he closed the door. It was suffocating in here. Small, cramped, and tight. He stepped to the window to yank the heavy drape aside. Light filled the room, and he breathed a sigh of relief as the panic began to fade. He turned the lever on the window to crank it open and let cold air pour into the room. He held on to the lever, willing the last of the panic to drain away.
Strange. This crawling sensation of dread hadn’t happened the first time he’d been in this room; it only started after his visit to the jail.
He wouldn’t let it get the better of him. He needed to see Marianne but couldn’t knock on Clyde Magruder’s front door and ask permission. A darkroom was the ideal place to sneak a visit, and he wouldn’t let these perplexing anxieties stand in his way.
It took several minutes for his heart to resume its normal rate, but he got there. He was still standing beside the open window when the door opened and Marianne entered. She was bundled up, and her cheeks were flushed with the winter’s chill, and in her arms she carried a large satchel with her supplies.
“What are you doing here?” She looked surprised and pleased and impossibly pretty. Had he ever seen eyes that blue? They reminded him of the violet shade of forget-me-nots, which had always been his favorite flower.
“I was short-tempered in my office the other day and needed to see you again and apologize. I was in a lousy mood, but that wasn’t your fault. Here, let me help you with those.” He took the bulky satchel from her arms.
“Not to worry,” she said. “It’s freezing in here. Why is the window open?”
He set the satchel down, then cranked the window shut. “The stink of silver nitrate was pretty strong when I got here.”
He was glad she didn’t continue to push, and even happier when she invited him to stay and help develop pictures. It was as if their momentary tiff in his office never happened as he set out the bathing trays in the same pattern she used last time. He watched as she poured the chemicals and began developing the first roll of film. He braced himself for the moment she pulled the drapes closed and plunged the room into darkness, but the panic only tugged at his nerves without overwhelming him. She turned on the arc lamp, and if she noticed his unease, she made no comment.
“How is the Don Quixote translation coming?” she asked.
“It still needs work. I’m not sure how long it will take.” His headaches in the evenings led to eye strain, but someday he’d be off the Poison Squad and would be able to make more progress.
“Can I read it?”
He straightened. “I don’t know. I already warned you it’s turning into an overblown torrent of emotionalism.”
She turned around and propped a hand on her hip. Even in the dim orange-hued light, she looked amused. “Are you afraid to let me read it?”
“Terrified.” How easily she could see through him. He’d rather risk his neck out on the ice than show her that manuscript and lay bare his overly emotional heart. What the college professors thought of his translation couldn’t hurt him. What Marianne thought could. “I’ve put a lot of heart into it, but it’s not a traditional translation and will probably ruffle some feathers.”
“Then why are you doing it?” Her back was to him as she worked. How delicate her fingers looked as she lifted, tipped, and rinsed the developing photograph, but at the same time she had her ear turned to let him know she was listening to every word.