Through A Magnolia Filter. Nan Dixon
if it would ruffle in the breeze. Her hair curled around her shoulders, and her eyes were magnetic.
“She was six when she died from pneumonia. A beloved fixture at Pulaski House Hotel, near Johnson Square.” Dolley’s smile was pensive. “The statue was made from a photograph.”
“It’s lovely.” The little girl’s face was sweet.
“There are rumors her ghost haunted the last people to live on the cemetery property. Of course that story could be made up for visitors.” Her smile was just this side of cheeky. In a deep voice she said, “They say her statue stays warm at night, as though it’s alive.”
Liam had a healthy respect for the spirits. “So you’ve been here at night?”
“Kids in high school would sneak over the fences.”
“Did you?”
“I was pretty studious, and we all needed to help Mamma with the B and B.” She shook her head. “I wish we could get inside the fence, but with so many people visiting her grave, they needed to protect Gracie.”
She pulled out her camera, squatting next to him. Her shutter clicked several times.
“Let me see,” he said.
She handed him a good quality Nikon. Her photos were nicely composed, clear.
“What emotion were you trying to evoke?” he asked.
She winced. “I wasn’t thinking about emotions.”
He tapped her nose, and she blinked. “Always think about what you want a viewer to feel. Even when shooting pictures of inanimate objects.”
“No one ever said that in any of my classes.”
He raised his eyebrows. “Do you see that branch?”
She nodded.
He pulled out his camera, squatted, angling his body, and waited. The branch swung in the slight breeze and dropped into the frame. Click.
In the next picture he refocused on the bars, giving the photo an ominous feel.
“Depending on whether you’re going for eerie or happy, I’d suggest using black and white or color.” He handed Dolley his camera. “Especially if the branches behind Gracie flower.”
She scrolled through the ones he’d taken. “Your pictures are—sad. Bleak.”
“Good. I was thinking desolate. It would come across better in black and white.”
Her auburn eyebrows snapped together, shadowing her lovely green eyes. “Yes.”
“All great photographs evoke emotions, even when you’re looking at a landscape or cityscape.”
She looked up at him and sighed. “I have a lot to learn.”
“You just have to put your soul into your photos.”
“That’s all.” Her eyes twinkled as she handed back his camera. Their fingers brushed. He pulled away, but he’d felt—something.
“Come on.” She replaced her lens cap and slung the camera over her shoulder. “There’s more to see.”
Dolley kept up a stream of interesting facts, talking about the cemetery and graves they passed and the statues created for the interred Savannahians.
When she talked about bodies that had been moved from another cemetery, he finally asked, “How do you retain all this information?”
“I...just remember things.” She wouldn’t look him in the eye.
He pulled her to a stop and made her face him, holding her hand so she didn’t escape. “You have a photographic memory.”
She stared at their dusty shoes. “Not quite.”
“This is fantastic.” He thought of all the notes he had to take to retain everything she stored easily in her brain. “Do you remember my credit card number?”
“No!” She tried to pull her hand away. “I make sure I don’t.”
“What do you remember of my particulars?” He was really curious.
She bit her lower lip, changing the color from pink to red. “Your phone number.” She rattled it off. And then added his address and the date he’d first called. “It’s kind of a pain.”
“I wish I had your memory.” He slung an arm around her shoulder. “Maybe I need to change your job title to fact checker.”
“I don’t think so.” She nudged his arm away. “I’m hoping you’ll teach me how to be a better photographer.”
Either she didn’t like to be touched or didn’t like him touching her. He forced a professorial tone into his voice. “And your first lesson was emotions.”
“You want emotions? Let me show you Corrine.”
She led him toward a river.
“Where are we?” he asked.
“The Wilmington River. This is where my great-grandmamma would picnic.”
She stopped in front of a large plot. Lawton. The statue was a beautiful woman sitting in front of her headstone. “Corrine was in love with a man who was not of her class. Her family insisted she marry a man she did not love.”
He checked the date of her death, 1877. There would have been class issues at that time.
“The day of her wedding she rode to the Savannah River and drowned herself.” She raised a graceful hand, pointing to the statue of Jesus at the back of the plot. “Her family was so upset, they buried her with her back to Jesus.”
“How sad.”
She grinned. “It’s a ghost teller’s story. Corrine wasn’t engaged. Her parents weren’t forcing her to marry. Based on letters and her obituary, she was ill, possibly yellow fever since Savannah had an epidemic that started in 1876 and continued into 1877. The statue was carved in Sicily.”
She bumped her shoulder into his chest. “I told you the fake story because I want you to be aware that the tales told in our fine city are not always the truth.”
Dolley pulled the lens cap off her camera. “She’s my favorite statue.”
Liam moved next to her, trying to see what she was framing. In the distance, faint streams of lavender and pink threaded through the clouds. He pulled his camera up to his eye. Would the sunset be too far away?
Dolley waited. And waited. Finally, the sky flooded with color. Her camera clicked away. It was a joy to watch her concentration.
He knelt behind her, wanting to see what she’d done.
Pulling the camera away from her eye, she replayed her photos, tipping it so he could look over her shoulder.
The statue was swathed by the soft sunset as if Corrine were an angel caught in the clouds.
“Peace,” he whispered. “I feel it.”
“Yes.” She stared into his eyes. “That’s what I wanted.”
Dolley was talented and took direction.
But Kieran had been talented, too. Kieran’s problem had been insatiable ambition.
A fiery curl blew across Dolley’s eyes. He brushed it away, but his fingers lingered, fingering the silky texture.
Her green eyes grew as big as saucers.
A cart drove up next to them. “Cemetery’s closing, folks.”
He yanked his hand away as she jumped up.
“I lost track of the time.” Dolley stuffed her camera in her bag, her actions clumsy with haste. “I’m sorry. It’s after five? Really?”