28

The return trip to Chicago had gone smoother than their trip out to Boston. Matthew opened the drapes in the apartment’s living room to let in sunlight. “What would you like to do for the afternoon?” he asked Shannon. “Jeffery’s not expecting us until seven.”

“Let’s go get my photographs printed, then see if Ellie is busy, get the ‘What are they worth?’ question answered,” she suggested.

“That works for me.”

She carried her gym bag down the hall to the bedroom she was using.

Out of habit, Matthew turned on the television to hear the top of the midday newscast. He watched the summary of the political and sports news, then the lead story of a shooting at a convenience store. Finding nothing that captured his attention, Matthew shut off the television as Shannon rejoined him. “How many pictures did you load onto the laptop last night?”

“Thirteen thousand. I chose thirty-five that best represented the span of what’s there.”

“A useful sample. We can stop for a bite to eat after we see Ellie.”

It was nice to have a plan for the next forty-eight hours. They’d see Ellie this afternoon, meet up with Shannon’s parents tonight, attend early church services tomorrow, spend a few hours with Jeffery and his wife Sunday afternoon, then hunker down for the press conference on Monday.

Shannon picked up her canvas bag, changed her mind, left it on the couch, pushed her phone, cash, and ATM card into her pocket. “Okay, I’m ready to go.”

“Got the photos you want to print?”

She held up a flash drive. “Right here.”

He picked up his keys. “Then we’re off.”

They went to the camera shop first. The shop owner took the flash drive of selected photos to print out. Matthew watched Shannon walk the display cases, looking at camera models and accessories. “You want to put one of these in your hands while you’re here? Feel it out?” The one he had been discussing with the shop owner was center of the middle display case, bottom shelf.

She shook her head. “Cameras are something you carry around when you’ve got something to do with it. There’s barely a tree to be seen around here. I’m not a photographer of buildings or street scenes.”

“You’ve spent a lot of years avoiding taking photographs of people. You might enjoy it.” He stopped beside her. “Indulge me.” He pointed to the camera he had in mind. “Try the used one. If you’re not ready to graduate to people looking back at you, why don’t you practice being an animal photographer with Black? He’s got personality. I think you’d enjoy trying to capture his range of expressions.”

He picked up on the glimmer of interest he saw in her face. “You know you’re going to end up with a camera of your own soon—it’s going to be irresistible. This way you don’t have to make the decision. You can photograph some dog faces while you think about what new, fully featured camera you want to carry around with you for the next five years.” He smiled at her, lightly bumped her shoulder with his. “I know it’s a big decision, which is probably why you haven’t made it yet. So think of this one as a bridge to the one you really want.”

“Yeah, okay,” she said softly. The shop owner rang up the prints and got out the camera, added it to the purchase, located a box of blank memory cards for it. Shannon adjusted the fabric strap to the right length for her. The camera cradled in her hand comfortably.

Matthew signed the charge slip. “Ready?” He picked up the box of photographs and glanced at her. She had the camera aimed at his face, and he ducked away with a laugh. “I get a moratorium on my photo being taken.”

“I’ve got to practice some people shots—might as well be on you.”

She looked back at the owner before they walked out. “Thanks.”

“You take nice photographs,” he replied with a smile.

Shannon didn’t say anything as they walked to the car, but when he unlocked the car and held her door, she gave him a hug before she slid inside.

Shannon walked into the Dance and Covey Gallery with a purposeful stride, her face calm, her nerves under that careful control Matthew had seen in Atlanta and in critical times since. She really was good at hiding what she was feeling when doing so was important to her.

A middle-aged woman with a pleasant smile came to greet them. “Good afternoon, I’m Christine. I work for the gallery. May I help you with something today or would you prefer to browse our collection?”

“I was hoping to speak with Ellie Dance if she is in today,” Shannon replied.

“She is. May I have your names?”

“Shannon, and this is Matthew Dane.”

“Please, look around the gallery while I let her know you’re here.”

The main room was filled with a stunning array of sculptures and watercolors dominating the walls. It looked as though two artists were featured this month.

“Ellie said Charlotte’s work is displayed in the north gallery.” Shannon spotted an archway and walked that direction. Matthew stepped with her into an adjoining, spacious room. Sketches hung at eye level in three rows circling the room—hundreds of them. “These are all Charlotte’s works? Oh my,” Shannon breathed. “They’re exquisite.”

“Bryce said she was a good sketch artist, a major understatement about his wife’s talent.” Matthew paused at one of a baseball game in progress, stunned by how much information was conveyed in what were only a few lines of colored pencil against a white background. It was a powerful image full of motion and humor and even pain captured on the runner’s face as he attempted a slide into third base before the outfielder threw him out.

They circled the room together, Shannon pausing occasionally to point out a new favorite drawing. “Charlotte has a wonderful touch with people and places. You can see her walking through life capturing what has her attention. I so admire that.”

“It’s truly amazing the way she captures what she sees on the paper,” Matthew agreed.

Shannon stepped into the next gallery, a long narrow room showcasing six large oil paintings on the facing wall, sweeping landscapes all signed Marie. “This is Wyoming,” Shannon whispered, looking particularly enthralled by the one opposite the entrance. “I’ve been there many times. The artist is practically breathing Wyoming air, it’s so vivid.” She looked at the small accompanying title plate. “Rolling Hills at Sunset. A perfect title.”

“You’re looking at why you’re a true artist, Shannon. Charlotte sketches, Marie paints, you photograph, but you all capture the world around you in a unique way.”

Shannon glanced over with a smile. “Thank you.”

They returned to the room displaying Charlotte’s sketches. “Ellie’s skill is showcased too,” Matthew added, “in what she’s chosen to present together. This wall has a visually stunning impact all its own.”

Shannon stood back to view it in its totality. “I love it.”

Footsteps coming toward them had Shannon turning. “Ms. Dance.”

“Ellie, please,” the woman said with a smile. “Welcome to the gallery, Shannon. Hello, Matthew.”

“So good to see you again, Ellie,” Matthew replied.

“Charlotte’s work is fascinating, don’t you think?” Ellie mentioned. “She lives her life sketching things she enjoys, then hands me the sketches to decide how best to share them with the world.”

“It’s an impressive collection.”

“I enjoy representing her talent. She’s done thousands of drawings over the years, and it’s always a fresh delight to see what she brings me. Have you come today to browse or can I help you with something specific?”

“I was wondering if you could look at something . . . and give me your professional opinion,” Shannon said, sounding shy.

“Of course. I’d be glad to help.”

Shannon held out the box of thirty-five photographs. Ellie glanced inside, smiled, and nodded to her left. “Come this way, please.” Ellie led them through the gallery to an open counter behind the showrooms where items were professionally framed. She closed a laptop and moved aside business printouts, then spread the images across the long surface. “Your work, Shannon?”

“Yes.”

“You’re an excellent photographer.”

“Thank you. I hope to be an even better one with the right direction and representation.”

Ellie laughed. “I like artists who still have some humility. What are you hoping to learn today, Shannon?”

“Do you think they might be . . . well, would they sell?”

Ellie smiled. “Artists are always so uncertain about having something of worth. Yes, these will sell. Photographs have their own revenue formula. Between licensing of images and sales of the originals, there’s a good living to be made by someone who has an artistic view and technical experience. You have both.”

“You’re not just saying that.”

Ellie shook her head. “I never speak lightly on matters of business and art.” She tapped the third photograph. “This one in particular is wonderfully planned. It would sell quickly as an original work of art.” She slid forward another one of the photographs. “This one would be popular under a licensing arrangement. Advertising companies could put this image behind nearly any product they were marketing—use it with print ads, television, posters, you name it. Then there are postcards, greeting cards, calendars, mugs. And on the electronic side of things, computer screen savers and wallpaper, music videos, gaming apps, album covers. The list is endless for where a good image can make an impact.

“There’s an entire industry built around searchable databases of images for license. Of course, it isn’t the revenue stream it was before digital cameras turned everyone into a photographer, so prices have dropped. Photos that used to license for two hundred dollars might now be more like forty. But the number of businesses using photographs in their marketing is now above seventy percent, and the audience willing to pay for very good photographs is increasing in size.” Ellie glanced over at Shannon. “Did I just confuse you more?”

“I think I actually understood that,” Shannon replied. “A license means I’m basically renting out my photographs to someone who wants to use them as part of something else—to put some text across them as an advertisement, have one in a calendar, maybe use one as the background on a song lyric sheet.”

“Exactly.”

“When I want to sell a photograph, what’s involved? Is that a straightforward process?”

“It’s a bit more complex than people realize,” Ellie said, then gestured to the seating in the office next door. “Bring your photographs, and let’s have a seat while I get us something to drink. I enjoy this, Shannon, talking about the business of selling art.” Ellie brought out soft drinks and bottled iced tea. They settled in comfortable chairs around a low, round table.

“To sell a photograph, you have two options,” Ellie began, picking up on Shannon’s question. “You can sell it as an original work of art—one print and one buyer. You agree to never print another copy of that digital file except in an official catalog of your sold works with the buyer’s name and reference number listed. The buyer enjoys the print while he or she owns it, and hopes to sell that photographic print to someone else in the future for a profit.”

Ellie picked up the first three of the photos Shannon had brought in. “Selling your photographs as original works of art is an option you should certainly consider. There’s a ‘voice,’ if you will, beginning to appear in your work that makes it look like your work. That’s a very good thing to see in an artist.”

“A voice?” Shannon said.

“Yes. Did you notice with Charlotte’s display, how the drawings each looked similar to the others, even though there are scores of different subjects on that wall? That’s her voice—the way she draws curves, adds in details, shows movement. In a similar way, you’ve got a voice showing up in these thirty-five photographs. What’s in focus and what is not, how intricate the object is that interests you.” She picked up the top photograph. “You like the wood grain in the driftwood, and how this other piece of driftwood rocks back and forth, half in and half out of the ocean.” She selected another. “See how these waves are propelling pieces of seaweed ashore? You liked this sand crab, and this flower growing up between the rocks. Those are the choices you bring to what you see and care about. You didn’t give me a photograph with everything in focus, but rather showed me the item you cared about—that’s your developing voice, like a signature in the image.”

“Oh.” Shannon sounded surprised. “So that’s good?”

Ellie smiled. “Your voice is unique to you. That’s good. What your voice is doesn’t matter nearly as much as the fact you have one. In your photos, you show what has your interest, rather than give me a scene and let me choose what might interest me. You make your photographs unique by caring about something. That’s why collectors who like your works will continue to buy more of them over time. What will attract them is what you bring to the photograph. Someone else in the same place and time would have taken a different photo.” Ellie picked up another one, a redbird on a tree limb captured in song. “I love this one.”

She looked over at Shannon. “I mentioned there are two ways of selling a photograph. Your other option is to sell it as an image. In doing so you’re selling not only the photograph but the digital file, releasing control of the copyright. You and the buyer agree on a price and what name will be listed as the photographer. The buyer now owns the image and may license the photograph or sell it as they wish. In an image sale, you’re selling both the artistic and commercial potential of the photograph. It’s more lucrative than simply selling the photograph as an original work of art. The drawback is that you lose control of what’s done with the image in the future.”

“I didn’t realize there would be so many possibilities,” Shannon said. “I was thinking I might spend some money to print the best ones, put them in a nice frame, price them for maybe fifty dollars each, and sell them at art shows and street fairs where you can rent a booth.”

Ellie gave a little laugh. “Shannon, you sound very much like Charlotte. There’s a reason she lets me handle the business side of her work. She has no idea how to price and sell her drawings. Charlotte wants to sketch, and the rest she leaves to me. I decide how to maximize the income from her work. Which ones to frame and sell. What price to set. When to produce a show. Charlotte has built up a strong base of loyal collectors. She still produces several hundred images a year now that she’s married, and she makes a solid six-figure income from her art. I deal with the business for her, and I’m paid a percentage of her yearly income after expenses. It works for us as friends as well as business partners.”

Ellie neatly squared the photographs in the stack. “Let me put your mind at ease on one point. You asked for my professional opinion. Your photographs will sell. If you want it, you have a fine career ahead of you as a photographer because you do exceptional work. You have options for how to monetize your art. The questions for you are: What do you need? What do you want? Income, cash flow, recognition as an artist, the most people possible to see your photographs? Those answers influence the direction you should go.”

“I would like . . .” Shannon paused and started over. “It’s important to me not to be dependent on my family financially. I may want to keep my anonymity—I haven’t decided that yet. And I want the freedom to continue to take pictures that interest me.”

Ellie nodded. “That’s a good list, and quite doable. Charlotte signs her work ‘CRM’ and is rarely seen in public. Marie is never seen in public, but her latest oil painting priced at six million, so it’s not hurting sales. You should choose what name you wish to have on your photographs and use that throughout your career. Shannon Bliss if you wish to be a public figure, something else if you want to keep your privacy. As to being financially secure, how many images do you have?”

“Conservatively, one hundred thousand. Possibly as many as triple that.”

Ellie looked over, startled. “Well . . .” Then she laughed. “Mark that financial need off your list, Shannon. Unless your chosen lifestyle requires a fortune, you’re financially secure right now. You have money today in the form of your photographs.”

Matthew, watching Shannon, saw the shift in her expression as she realized what Ellie had just said. Her dream of a career involving her photography had already come true.

“Many of the images will be close duplicates,” Shannon clarified, sounding cautious, “sunrises, driftwood, ocean waves. Basically more of what’s here in these thirty-five.”

“You’ll have a useful variety even within those categories,” Ellie reassured. “Every sunrise has been different since the beginning of time, and people still enjoy watching them appear. Those accumulated photographs give you the luxury of deciding what kind of life you wish to have.” Ellie leaned back in her chair with a smile. “Would you like me, as an art dealer, to give you the two extremes and the middle ground?”

“I’d appreciate that, Ellie,” Shannon said, still visibly stunned at what she was hearing.

“At one end of the spectrum, you could have a stress-free life selling a set number of photographs each year as original works of art. A gallery show in the spring and in the fall, some of your photographs for sale in a summer auction. The rest of your year is free of business concerns. You would need to limit how many images are sold each year, so that collectors can gauge how to invest in a living artist. Setting up an art trust means your estate continues releasing new images after you’re gone, keeping your name known among the next generation of collectors. The long-term merit is a legacy you can leave to your children and grandchildren. But limiting sales to around five hundred images a year can feel restrictive over time.

“At the other end of the spectrum,” Ellie continued, “you could sell your collection for a single sum and create a nest egg for yourself. You’d start your new life with money in the bank and a clean slate for whatever you want to do, whether photography or something else.”

For the first time since Matthew had met her, Shannon looked truly startled. “Someone would buy the collection as it is today—unorganized digital files in stacks of memory cards?”

Ellie reached for her bottle of iced tea. “Sure. I’d be willing to buy the entire collection of images from you, Shannon. If this is a representative sample of the work and there are one hundred thousand images, possibly significantly more, I’d pay you between one and two million today depending on the actual number of images. I’d become the owner and would license them or sell them as I choose. It’s a bird-in-the-hand decision for you, Shannon. If you wanted to put the entire collection up for sale with some preparation and organizing, I’m sure it could attract upwards of two and a half, maybe three million in a bidding war.”

“I’m having trouble breathing,” Shannon said with a strangled laugh.

Ellie leaned over and put her hand on Shannon’s arm, smiled. “Art can be worth good money. It’s okay to recognize that. Even if it’s yours.”

Matthew spoke up, breaking his silence for the first time. “Did you sell that painting by Marie you priced at six million?”

Ellie glanced over at him. “Yes. Two days after I announced it for sale.”

“You think Shannon’s collection of photographs is worth a million or more?”

“Even a two-million purchase price is conservatively recouped in eight years, and the images will generate income for twenty years or longer. It’s a good deal for the buyer,” Ellie replied.

Shannon asked carefully, “Deals like this happen, Ellie? You’re not just quoting me this kind of price because I’m going to be somewhat . . . publicly known soon?”

Ellie’s expression smoothed out. “No,” she answered, not sounding offended and quick to assuage the worry. “There would be no marketing gimmick—buy a photo taken during her missing eleven years. If I buy the photographs, it would actually be easier if you chose a pseudonym. But that decision is one only you can make, Shannon.

“I’d do very well on the deal, I don’t mind telling you, and it would be a pleasure to handle your photographs. If you need a clean slate—a before-and-after phase for your photography—selling the collection as a whole is an option to consider.”

Ellie finished her iced tea. “The middle ground would be for you to retain ownership of the photographs, sell some as original works of art, license others, and use that to generate an income stream. It would involve more of your time, but would defer any significant decision on how to handle the body of work.”

“Thanks for that, Ellie, the range of options,” Shannon said. “You’ve given me a lot to think about. I really like the discipline of choosing the best five hundred photos to sell each year. And there’s also an enormous appeal to simply putting a bow around the last eleven years and handing this entire collection over in a single sale. I know you represent Charlotte and Marie. Whichever way I go, would you be willing to take me on as a client?”

Ellie nodded. “I’d be happy to have you as a client in whatever capacity you’d like me to consider, Shannon. I know I’d enjoy working with you. Go talk about this, brainstorm, play what-if. It’s been a pleasure to see these and to talk with you. My offer to buy your current set of photographs isn’t about to go away.” Ellie took a last look at the photos and held them out to Shannon. “I look forward to talking with you again whenever you have a question or wish to explore any of the options.”

“Likewise, Ellie.” Shannon stood and accepted the photos, slipped them into the box.

Minutes later, Matthew held the gallery door open, caught Shannon’s hand as he could see the tremor in it.

“She said one to two million,” Shannon whispered. “I didn’t hear her wrong?”

“One to two million, for those shoeboxes of memory cards and miscellaneous cards in envelopes,” Matthew confirmed.

“I think I’m going to have a heart attack.”

“Please, not on my watch,” he teased. He put an arm around her shoulders, gave her a hug. “I admit, it was unexpected.”

“She’s overpaying, I’m sure of it.”

Matthew had been thinking through the details. “No, I think she’s being very fair to both of you. Selling five hundred photos a year for five hundred dollars apiece recoups a two-million purchase price in eight years. Ellie’s calculating that she can build your images into a powerful collectors’ brand. She knows her market and her business. She was being fair to both of you.”

“What would you do if you were me?”

“Not my decision,” he replied firmly.

“Please, I’m asking.”

He drew in a long breath, let it out, decided he did want to put something on the table for her to consider. “That camera fit naturally in your hand this afternoon, Shannon. You’re not done taking pictures. You could sell what you’ve already taken to Ellie, get on about the business of taking more pictures. You’re too close to your work to evaluate which five hundred photographs are the best ones to sell each year, and you don’t need the hassle of a staff working for you. Leave the marketing of your work to an expert. That camera is your future. When you’ve got another twenty thousand photographs you think are excellent, sell her those images too.”

Shannon’s laughter bubbled. “Oh, Matthew, you make it sound so easy. Let’s go get ice cream to celebrate.”

Matthew loved hearing the joy in her voice. “I seem to remember I owe you an ice-cream cone,” he agreed.

Shannon had to eat fast to keep ahead of the melting ice cream. They were perched on a picnic table outside the shop, so if her cone dripped it would fall on concrete rather than her outfit. “Would you like me more or less if I was wealthy?” she asked around a bite.

Matthew, startled, paused mid-bite with his more pedestrian sundae. “An interesting question. A complicated one.” He sorted it out in his mind. “I would like you about the same, I think,” he decided. “Wealth means you have no debt, have a steady income from your work, can choose—within reason—a lifestyle you want. If you chose an extravagant lifestyle, I probably would like you less. I’m pretty much an upper-middle-class, stay-out-of-debt kind of guy. If you’re planning to be a photographer, do some traveling, buy the occasional nice pair of shoes, you’re still very likable. The money is some security for you, which should make it easier to relax about the day-to-day decisions of your life, and that I would also find attractive.”

“Are you wealthy?”

“I’m . . . comfortably well-off with the continuing ability to earn a good living,” Matthew answered, going to the heart of the matter. “I like the level I’m at, but I’ve found that college is expensive,” he added with a small laugh.

She smiled. “It’s a nice thing you’re doing—letting Becky go away to college rather than asking her to live at home, attend one locally, be safer as well as not have the extra expense.”

“She needs the roommate and living away from home. She needs the confidence that she really has healed to where she can make it without me. She knows that, but she needs to experience that truth for herself. And I wanted my daughter to have something better than I had, like the freedom to focus on school without worrying about the bills, not to have to work a job while trying to study and get good grades.”

“She’s going to make you proud.”

“She already has.”

Shannon finished her cone. “I want a clean slate,” she said, glancing over to meet his gaze. “I didn’t realize how much I wanted that until Ellie put the option out there. What I really want to do is go get those shoeboxes and envelopes and take them back to Ellie and tell her the offer she made is fair, that she has a deal. How about you hold on to the cards in your safe while we do the paperwork?”

Matthew looked at his watch. He wasn’t into impulsive decisions, particularly when it came to big ones, but sometimes one option was simply and obviously right. “Let’s go do that,” he said.

“Yeah?”

“You can change your mind between now and us getting back to the gallery with the photos, and I’ll be okay with that. But it does mean a clean slate, it provides a career, and it gives you financial flexibility. When God hands you what you need, say yes.” He passed over to her the last of his sundae. “Here, finish this while I drive. I don’t want good ice cream to go to waste.”

She slid off her perch. “I’m going to be a photographer and rich—this has been one very nice day.”

He just laughed. He thought he was seeing one of God’s gifts to her unfold. The fact she’d been able to carry a camera during those years, that her pictures had survived, had helped Shannon to endure. Now they would help her heal. God was rebuilding something very important for Shannon now by providing for her financially, but also affirming she had talent and a career she could enjoy. One of the five items on that personal list of hers was being fulfilled.

He couldn’t be more pleased for her. Shannon was getting one bright spot in her life in the midst of what could be a crushing set of truths still to come. She needed this, and it couldn’t have come at a better time.