Shadows In The Mirror. Linda Hall

to the coffee shop. He ordered a house dark roast black and without even asking got me a nonfat latte. He also brought a huge, drippy cinnamon bun to our table with two forks. The two-forks bit seemed a little too chummy to me.

      He paid for the coffees, which made me feel somewhat uncomfortable. I had hired him, so I should be paying, right? What does one do in these situations?

      “Your sales clerk is an interesting woman,” he told me.

      “She’s great. Although she says exactly what’s on her mind. Very blunt, as you may have noticed.”

      “That’s refreshing, though. You’ve got a nice shop there. You’ve fixed it up well.”

      “Thank you,” I said. I looked at his hands again as they deftly cut the cinnamon bun in two with a plastic knife.

      “I was halfway interested in it when it went up for sale,” he said. “I pay rent in the spot I’m in now. It would be nice to own something outright.”

      “It wasn’t cheap.”

      “I know. That’s why I stayed where I am.” He grinned and I wondered what I was doing here making small talk with Johanna’s soul mate. I had a niggling fear that Johanna would walk in and see us like this. The thought made me uneasy.

      He asked me where I was from and all I said was out west. He drank his coffee and said he’d grown up here in Burlington. I thought about the little note of surprise in his eyes when he’d seen the picture for the first time. Even though there was a part of me that still wondered if the picture was my parents, I needed a starting point. Were the couple in the picture connected to me? And why had my aunt lied to me—if she had?

      I looked across at Evan and tried to guess his age. He couldn’t be much older than me. Would he remember the accident that supposedly took my parents’ lives? Should I ask him? I shook off that thought. I was beginning to realize just how big the city of Burlington was. I had no idea if I was even looking in the right section of town. Maybe I needed to be in Colchester, or Winooski, or Essex Junction.

      He took off his glasses and cleaned them with an edge of the paper napkin. I watched him do that, wondering why his every little motion held such interest for me. I asked, “You said you have information about the picture?”

      “I do.”

      I waited while he put his glasses back on and placed the manila envelope with the photograph on the table. I reached for it at the same time he did and our hands touched. I pulled mine away quickly. For an awkward moment, neither of us said anything. I cleared my throat, and finally said, “So what did you find out?”

      “I’m pretty sure it’s a composite.”

      “Come again?”

      “A composite. I’m thinking that the two people may have been superimposed on the backdrop of the lake. That was how they manipulated photos twenty-five years ago. Now, we have computer programs which do the same thing.”

      “So, this might not be Lake Champlain? It might not be here at all?”

      “It might not be.”

      “How do you know that?”

      He pointed. “I’ve enlarged this part of it. Do you see this bush in the foreground? Do you see the shadow it casts? It’s very subtle.”

      I looked. “A bit,” I said. “Maybe.”

      “Have a look at the couple. They cast no shadow. A computer-generated photo manipulation would have taken care of that. Or a good photo manipulator could manually add a very faint shadow here.” He pointed.

      “But…But it looks okay to me. I mean they could be there, couldn’t they? By Lake Champlain?”

      He put one finger in the air. “There’s more. Look at their bare feet. If they were standing on the stones like that, the feet of the man, of the woman, too, for that matter, would be making more of an impression on the ground beneath them. Plus, I can’t see people standing on stones with bare feet anyway. Can you?”

      “But people could, couldn’t they?”

      “Maybe,” he said.

      “So, this is a fake?”

      “Oh no, it’s not a fake. It’s a real photograph. It’s not some sort of a painting or reproduction, if that’s what you mean.”

      That’s not what I meant, but I didn’t tell him what I meant because I wasn’t sure myself.

      “What about these shadows along the side?” I asked.

      “To me they look like some sort of building. I couldn’t figure it out, but Mose is still working on that.”

      I took a drink of my latte. “I have to ask you something. When you first looked at this picture it was like you’d seen it before. Had you?”

      He looked down at his coffee and shook his head.

      “Then why did you flinch when you looked at it? I know I saw you do that.”

      He looked at me. I hadn’t noticed before how blue his eyes were. “I didn’t flinch. I thought it was familiar when I first looked at it, but then I realized I was mistaken.”

      “Familiar, how?” I asked.

      He shrugged. “I’m not sure.”

      “Were the people familiar? Did you think you recognized them?” My hands were clasped so tightly around my paper coffee cup that I was in danger of squishing the cup and spilling coffee all over us. I let up on my grip and repeated my question. “Do you know these people?”

      He looked me square in the eyes. “No, Marylee. I don’t know who they are.”

      I repeated my question. “Then why did you flinch?”

      He shrugged and said, “I don’t know.”

      I looked away from him. Unbidden tears threatened at the edges of my eyes. Finally, I turned back and said, “You mentioned stock photos the last time we talked.”

      “Mose hasn’t found anything yet.”

      I nodded.

      “This photo must mean a lot to you.”

      I didn’t answer him. Instead I took a sip of my coffee. “This photo is connected to Burlington and to me. And I need to find out what the connection is between these people and me.”

      “I’ll continue to look into it. It’ll be my number-one priority.” His voice was gentle when he told me this.

      “I would like that. Thank you very much.”

      We drank our coffees in silence for the next few minutes. He cut another piece of cinnamon bun and said, “I was wondering about something else, Marylee. Would you ever consider going to dinner with me?”

      I blinked. Had I heard him correctly?

      “I…” I looked at my hands. “No. I don’t know. I’m sorry. Things are sort of, well, complicated right now, Evan. I’m really sorry.”

      “That’s okay.”

      “No, really, I’m sorry.”

      “Well then. Have the rest of the cinnamon bun.”

      Suddenly I wanted to be away from here. I made a point of looking at my watch. “I have to get back to my store,” I said. “I’m so sorry.”

      “It’s okay.”

      I got up, grabbed my picture and fled.

      Back at the store, I realized I had my picture. I’d told him to keep working on the picture, and here I’d walked off with it. This meant I’d have to somehow come face-to-face with him again if I wanted him to continue looking into where it came from.

      And then there was the little