Pamela Hearon - Out of the Depths

“Crap. I’ve done it again.” She watched their guarded looks of amusement as she thrust the second sheet toward them and sighed dramatically. “Third time’s a charm, right?”

Another keystroke sent the correct command, and the 8x10 slid from the printer. “She really is a doll.” Kyndal checked the finished product before handing it over. “Sorry for the inconvenience.”

The lights blinked, indicating five minutes until closing time. The couple moved toward the exit, the young mother clutching the photographs to her chest.

Kyndal watched until they were out of earshot. “And that’s why I have to get back to a job where I can shoot golden eagles instead of golden-haired toddlers.” The hope that tomorrow would bring that dream job back was never far from the surface. She let it rise to the top as she disassembled the gear and lugged everything to her car.

Tomorrow will bring the perfect shot that will make me somebody. Tomorrow will bring the perfect shot that will make me somebody. The mantra couldn’t block out the sluggish start of the old Jeep’s engine, but if she said it often enough, it had to come true. That’s what affirmations were for.

When she reached her apartment, fatigue convinced her to leave everything in the car except her laptop. Dover, Tennessee, wasn’t a hot spot for crime. In fact, Dover, Tennessee, wasn’t a hot spot for anything. But it was centrally located between the other two towns where she took family portraits on Wednesdays and Thursdays, and the apartment she rented was clean. And cheap.

She’d tossed a package of ramen noodles into some water before she saw the message light blinking on the phone.

The light always brought the same thought to her mind. This could be the big one. Her hand shook as she pressed the voice mail button.

“Kyn. It’s Mom. Going on a little road trip with Lloyd for a few days. Talk to you later.”

Lloyd who? When did a Lloyd come into the picture? And “a few days” meant she’d quit her job at the dog kennel. Or gotten fired. Kyndal swallowed her frustration and sent a mental warning to the little girl she had photographed at closing time: Being a parent to your forty-four-year-old mother is not an easy row to hoe.

She deleted the message, but the light blinked again, indicating a second message.

“Hey, Kyndal.” Mike Sloan’s southern drawl oozed from the handset. “Heard about a tourism magazine startin’ up in your hometown. Sounds like a good fit for you. Gimme a call.”

A job opportunity? In Paducah? She grabbed the phone and had half of Mike’s number punched in before logic reared its head. Would it be wise to trust the man whose dumb-ass moves had caused her to be blacklisted for the past six months? He and his shady contacts ultimately caused the lawsuit that became the demise of the True Tennessee website—and her own reputation by association.

But his intentions had been good. She punched another button. He was trying to make things up to her.

Four years of eye-opening, truth-seeking public awareness of pollution in the Cumberland River brought down by an asinine lawsuit over a totally unnecessary hack job. Her stomach tightened at the memory.

But it turned completely over at the thought of many more ramen noodle suppers. The ten-cent price had made them a staple when she was growing up, but she’d always dreamed adulthood would bring better fare. And it had for a few short years. Then it was back to ramen noodles—just like Mom used to fix.

But someday her luck would change when she found that perfect shot.

The lure of landing a magazine job and splurging on a carry-out pizza won out over the anxiety of talking with Mike. She dialed the rest of his number, keeping one eye on the pot on the stove.

“Hel-lo?” he drawled.

“Hey, Mike. It’s Kyndal. Got your message.” She hurried on, trying to move the conversation directly to the point. “So, you’ve heard about a new magazine starting up?”

“Hey, Kyndal darlin’. How you been?”

“I’m still getting by. Not getting rich, but paying the bills.” Thanks to the savings she’d put away during the four

good years at True Tennessee. “A tourism magazine out of Paducah, huh?”

“Yep. Outdoor magazine about your beloved old Kentucky home.”

Her heart beat faster. Four years of Nashville had been exciting and fun, but city life wasn’t her thing, and it was way too expensive after the website went under. Dover was too far at the other end of the spectrum, though. Moving back to Paducah and Kentucky Lake…now that was a dream worth having.

“You still shootin’ brats at the five-and-dime?” His words came out slightly garbled by the cigar he inevitably kept in his mouth.

“Well, I’ve wanted to shoot a few, but so far, all I’ve done is photograph them. You still smoking those cheap-ass cigars?”

Mike’s laughed turned into a vicious cough. She waited for it to subside then launched her next tactic to get him on the subject.

“Tell me about the magazine quick before those things kill you.”

“Okay, darlin’, don’t go gittin’ your bowels in an uproar. Here’s the deal. You remember Charlie Short?”

Kyndal dredged up a memory of a squatty fellow with a bad toupee. “Yeah, I remember him.”

“The state’s contracted with him for a quarterly tourism deal showin’ the natural wonders of Kentucky. Now, while I think that means its women, the guys callin’ the shots are looking more for landscape. Seasonal photos and whatnot. I thought of you. On both accounts.”

“I’m sure you did, you old codger.” Sixty-eight years old with four divorces under his belt and a huge beer belly over it, Mike Sloan would forever be a player in his own mind. “Quit flirting and stick to business. What’s Charlie Short wanting? Anything particular I can impress him with?” She stirred the flavor powder into the noodles.

“Caves.”

She stopped stirring. Had she heard him right? “Caves?” She moved the pot away from the heat and turned off the burner.

“Yep. Apparently, Kentucky’s loaded with them. Not well-known ones like Mammoth Cave. Small caves. Ones that might have had historical significance or are just interesting in formation. Know of any you could shoot, like quick? He’s wantin’ to make a decision pretty soon. Maybe the next week or so.”

Kyndal’s chest tightened, and she took a deep breath, letting it out slow and controlled. “Yeah.” Her voice cracked, and she cleared her throat. “I know of one. I can go shoot it tomorrow.”

“You’re not workin’ tomorrow?”

She responded to the sadness in his voice with enthusiasm in her own. “Five to nine, Tuesday. Nine to nine, Wednesday, Thursday and Friday. A forty-hour week with time left for freelance work. Or days at other Shop-a-Lots if I can find some that want me.”

Mike sighed, which led into a loud cough followed by a wheeze that probably saved her from further comments. “Here’s his email address.”

She took down the information. “Does Charlie know about…”

“Yes, darlin’, he knows about the lawsuit and that you had nothing to do with any of the shenanigans…just got caught in the cross fire. Says he doesn’t give a damn as long as your shots are good. So this may be the chance to get your good name back.”

“Your lips to God’s ears, Mike.” Hope flickered at his words. “Thanks. I owe you one”

“No.” He gave another long, remorseful sigh. “I owe you one, and I hope this is it. See ya.”

“Bye.” He was already gone.

She poured the noodles into a colander to drain and checked the fridge for nonexistent butter.

So the cave was drawing her back. Chance’s special place. Their special place. The place he’d taken her after his brother Hank’s funeral. The place where they cried out all their anguish, clung to each other for hours and finally lost their virginity. Tears stung her eyes at the bittersweet memory.