Read Online Through a Magnolia Filter by Nan Dixon - Free Book Online Page A

slight breeze and dropped into the frame. Click.
    In the next picture he refocused on the bars, giving the photo an ominous feel.
    â€œDepending 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.”
    â€œGood. I was thinking desolate. It would come across better in black and white.”
    Her auburn eyebrows snapped together, shadowing her lovely green eyes. “Yes.”
    â€œAll 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.”
    â€œYou just have to put your soul into your photos.”
    â€œThat’s all.” Her eyes twinkled as she handed back his camera. Their fingers brushed. He pulled away, but he’d felt—something.
    â€œCome 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?”
    â€œI...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.”
    â€œThis 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?”
    â€œNo!” She tried to pull her hand away. “I make sure I don’t.”
    â€œWhat 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.”
    â€œI wish I had your memory.” He slung an arm around her shoulder. “Maybe I need to change your job title to fact checker.”
    â€œI 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.”
    â€œYou want emotions? Let me show you Corrine.”
    She led him toward a river.
    â€œWhere are we?” he asked.
    â€œThe 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.
    â€œThe 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.”
    â€œHow 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