Read Online Terrible Tide by Charlotte MacLeod - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Charlotte MacLeod
Ads: Link
charcoal. It was remarkably good toast, when you managed it right. Holly was working on her third slice when Earl Stoodley’s Ford and Geoffrey Cawne’s gray Jaguar swished up to the front portico.
Both men jumped out and started lugging in a great deal of equipment. Stoodley tripped over the leg of a tripod and almost went flying on his fat face. That brightened Holly’s morning a little. Puttering around with things she knew and understood was fun, too, even with Earl making inane comments and the floodlights giving her the creeps every time she got too close to one.
Geoffrey Cawne hadn’t just been modest about calling himself an amateur with a camera, she found. He didn’t know the first thing about rigging reflectors to eliminate shadows or other technicalities.
Holly tried to persuade him that the little galleried table would be a good subject to start on, both because of its historical interest and because it was small enough to give few problems photographically. Like a typical amateur, though, Geoffrey set his heart on an immense armoire that stood in a next-to-impossible location, was too heavy to move, and had stacks of assorted junk piled in front of it. They spent half the morning just clearing away debris, sweeping the floor, dusting and polishing the armoire, and draping a white bedsheet behind it to provide a less distracting background than the dismal, stained wallpaper.
Earl Stoodley toiled gamely, keeping up a brave pretense of knowing what the activity was all about. Annie Blodgett hovered wherever she’d be most in the way chirping, “When are you going to take the picture?” over and over like an elderly parakeet until Holly shooed her away to make them all a nice cup of tea. She for one desperately needed it.
Then they had to drink the tea. Then they had to focus the camera. Then they had to figure out why Geoffrey’s expensive strobe flash wouldn’t go off when it was supposed to. Then at last they took the picture.
Once he’d got rolling, Geoffrey took a great many exposures: with the cabinet doors closed, with them open, with one open and the other shut, then the closed door open and the open one shut. He shot from the front, the right, the left, from a high angle, from a low angle. Annie wondered how many pictures of that old wardrobe he was going to put in his book, for the land’s sake.
“One,” Cawne replied cheerfully.
“Then why in tarnation didn’t you take just one?”
“That’s not how it’s done,” Earl Stoodley told her.
“Cat’s foot, Earl! You know no more about it than I do.”
Annie was really perking this morning, no more the cringing little crone who’d peered so timorously at them through the curtains only a day ago.
“Earl’s right, Mrs. Blodgett,” said Cawne. “The idea is to take a great many different pictures, then pick out the one that shows the subject to best advantage. That’s how professional photographers work. Right, Holly?”
“Absolutely. Sometimes they may take as many as thirty or forty shots just to get one that’s right in every way. We’re not doing too badly on shooting time compared to some sessions I’ve been involved with. Of course a lot of the time the model’s just sitting around trying not to chew her fingernails no matter how frustrated she gets.”
She held out grubby hands with two nails already broken off. “Good thing I’ve retired from modeling, or you’d have to find yourself another prop girl.”
“I’d hate that.” Geoffrey’s smile was worth the loss of a few fingernails.
By now it was well past noon. Holly expected Annie to offer the men a bite to eat but she didn’t, not even when Earl started croaking about how his stomach told him it was dinnertime.
“So it is,” said Cawne in apparent surprise. “I must get along or my housekeeper will be annoyed. Is there any chance of coming back and taking another shot or two this afternoon, do you think?”
“You come right ahead,
Both men jumped out and started lugging in a great deal of equipment. Stoodley tripped over the leg of a tripod and almost went flying on his fat face. That brightened Holly’s morning a little. Puttering around with things she knew and understood was fun, too, even with Earl making inane comments and the floodlights giving her the creeps every time she got too close to one.
Geoffrey Cawne hadn’t just been modest about calling himself an amateur with a camera, she found. He didn’t know the first thing about rigging reflectors to eliminate shadows or other technicalities.
Holly tried to persuade him that the little galleried table would be a good subject to start on, both because of its historical interest and because it was small enough to give few problems photographically. Like a typical amateur, though, Geoffrey set his heart on an immense armoire that stood in a next-to-impossible location, was too heavy to move, and had stacks of assorted junk piled in front of it. They spent half the morning just clearing away debris, sweeping the floor, dusting and polishing the armoire, and draping a white bedsheet behind it to provide a less distracting background than the dismal, stained wallpaper.
Earl Stoodley toiled gamely, keeping up a brave pretense of knowing what the activity was all about. Annie Blodgett hovered wherever she’d be most in the way chirping, “When are you going to take the picture?” over and over like an elderly parakeet until Holly shooed her away to make them all a nice cup of tea. She for one desperately needed it.
Then they had to drink the tea. Then they had to focus the camera. Then they had to figure out why Geoffrey’s expensive strobe flash wouldn’t go off when it was supposed to. Then at last they took the picture.
Once he’d got rolling, Geoffrey took a great many exposures: with the cabinet doors closed, with them open, with one open and the other shut, then the closed door open and the open one shut. He shot from the front, the right, the left, from a high angle, from a low angle. Annie wondered how many pictures of that old wardrobe he was going to put in his book, for the land’s sake.
“One,” Cawne replied cheerfully.
“Then why in tarnation didn’t you take just one?”
“That’s not how it’s done,” Earl Stoodley told her.
“Cat’s foot, Earl! You know no more about it than I do.”
Annie was really perking this morning, no more the cringing little crone who’d peered so timorously at them through the curtains only a day ago.
“Earl’s right, Mrs. Blodgett,” said Cawne. “The idea is to take a great many different pictures, then pick out the one that shows the subject to best advantage. That’s how professional photographers work. Right, Holly?”
“Absolutely. Sometimes they may take as many as thirty or forty shots just to get one that’s right in every way. We’re not doing too badly on shooting time compared to some sessions I’ve been involved with. Of course a lot of the time the model’s just sitting around trying not to chew her fingernails no matter how frustrated she gets.”
She held out grubby hands with two nails already broken off. “Good thing I’ve retired from modeling, or you’d have to find yourself another prop girl.”
“I’d hate that.” Geoffrey’s smile was worth the loss of a few fingernails.
By now it was well past noon. Holly expected Annie to offer the men a bite to eat but she didn’t, not even when Earl started croaking about how his stomach told him it was dinnertime.
“So it is,” said Cawne in apparent surprise. “I must get along or my housekeeper will be annoyed. Is there any chance of coming back and taking another shot or two this afternoon, do you think?”
“You come right ahead,
Similar Books
