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How could this be? How on earth did Rose Calder know Nathaniel Hawkins? And why was Nathaniel Hawkins so far from the campaign trail, here in the cold autumn winds off the Nantucket harbor?

Rhett didn’t know what to think. But he had to act quickly so as not to destroy the prints. Hanging them in a line above, he marveled at how terrible the photographs were compared to his others. Usually, he was pleased with his skill, with all he’d learned over the years. But perhaps seeing Rose had been so emotional that he’d forgotten all his training.

He decided to develop a few more prints, if only to remind himself of all he’d seen the past few days. If only to remind himself that he wasn’t as bad of an artist as these prints suggested.

He continued, seeing the past through his lens. He saw seagulls, abandoned beaches, diners alone at restaurants, their forks swirling pasta. He saw lonely widows, out for glasses of wine, watching the ocean. And then, he came upon the photograph he’d taken of that lonely young woman near the water—a woman who, he saw now as the image came into focus, looked remarkably like Rose Calder.

Rhett remembered how strange it had been to see her there. A strange instinct had suggested he’d fallen back through time, and that he’d arranged to meet Rose Calder here to discuss how they could begin again. Instead, the young woman had looked at him as though he were a creep, out to get her. He’d tried his best to seem like an ordinary travel photographer, out taking pictures of whatever he saw. But as he took her photograph, a shiver ran down his spine.

Rhett reminded himself that the young woman in his photograph had told him she wasn’t from the island. Was it possible that she was Rose’s distant cousin or something? Or was their likeness just “one of those things,” something to laugh about?

Something about the girl’s eyes made Rhett think she was the loneliest person he’d ever seen.

“Those are really something else.” Another photographer in the dark room stepped up to look at Rhett’s pictures, shifting his weight.

Rhett glanced at the guy. He didn’t recognize him, not from the old days nor from his days of wandering around Nantucket. It looked as though he, too, was developing prints a bit farther down. Rhett had been so focused on his own photography that he hadn’t bothered to look at anyone else’s. That, and he’d always wanted to give other artists their privacy.

Still, a compliment was a compliment.

“Thanks,” Rhett said.

“Do you know her?” the man asked.

“No. She’s a tourist here, I think. She said she’s not from around here.”

“Does that mean you’re from around here?” the man asked.

“I used to be,” Rhett said. “I was raised here, but I left when I was eighteen, and nobody in my family stuck around.”

The man nodded. Rhett watched as the man’s eyes shifted from the photograph of the young woman to the photograph of Rose and Nathaniel Hawkins. Rhett wondered if the man would recognize Nathaniel. He flinched, wanting to take the photo down. But taking it down like that, so soon before it was finished, would ruin it.

He told himself it didn’t matter, that this photographer was just curious about his work.

For a little while, Rhett and the man spoke about their cameras, the light there was to work with on Nantucket Island, the various photography exhibitions they’d seen along the East Coast, and their favorite photographers. Most of the man’s favorites were rooted in journalism, rather than art. Rhett admitted that he approached everything from an aesthetic point of view, first and foremost.

“That woman,” the stranger said again, marveling at the photograph of the woman who looked so much like Rose. “She’s beautiful. Really. Do you think she’s still on the island?”

“I don’t know, man,” Rhett said. He remembered how creepy he’d felt, taking her photograph. Now, he felt as though he’d betrayed her by showing her picture to someone else.

“I’d love to take her out,” the man said, shaking his head.

Rhett wanted to say, " You’re too old for her, or you shouldn’t say things like that about people you don’t know. But he didn’t want to embarrass the man.

Rhett asked if he could see the man’s photographs as well, and the man said he needed to tend to them because they were probably not as good as he was used to. Kicking his foot, he said he was embarrassed. Although Rhett told him it didn’t matter, the man began to fight him, raising his voice so much that the other photographers in the darkroom looked over at them, wondering what was going on. Rhett didn’t want to cause a scene.

“Sorry, man,” Rhett said, returning his attention to his prints. He wanted to do another seven or so before he gave up his spot at the dark room. There was a bubbling in his gut that told him that this stranger, this stranger who’d taken such interest in his pictures, was bizarre.

Eventually, Rhett packed up his things and headed for the door. At the front desk, he paid for the materials he’d used, then stepped into the growing darkness outside. As his eyes adjusted, he moved through the streets, his heart ballooning. He was so distracted that he nearly didn’t hear someone call his name.

“Rhett?”

Rhett spun on his heel to find one of his old high school friends staring at him, a bag of groceries in his arms. With that cowlick and that funny, bug-eyed expression, it couldn’t have been anyone but Matt.

“Matt!” Rhett said, feeling jubilant. Somehow, he’d needed to see a friend just then.

“What on earth are you doing here?” Matt asked, coming over to him, adjusting his groceries. From the looks of it, he’d bought eggs and bread and cheese. His wedding band glinted, a reminder of the wedding that Rhett had been invited to but hadn’t attended.

“I’m traveling through,” Rhett explained. He pointed at his camera bag and explained that he was a travel photographer, here taking pictures of Nantucket and the surrounding coastline.