15. Holden

Chapter fifteen

Holden

" Photogenesis wants to feature your Michigami State Park series."

Parker's words hit me like a gust of October wind. My coffee mug wobbled dangerously in my suddenly numb fingers, and I set it down before I could add another stain to his already mottled desk blotter.

"That's not—" I had to clear my throat to continue. "They're just daily shots. My morning ritual is like practice for bigger and better things."

"Daily shots?" Parker spun his laptop around, displaying my latest uploads. The screen glowed with images I knew by heart: dawn mist rising off Eagle Point, a red fox paused mid-stride on North Trail, Wade's silhouette against storm clouds as he secured the shelter doors. "These aren't mere snapshots, Holden. You've documented the park's soul spring through fall."

"With a Polaroid Now camera," I grumbled. "It's not even professional equipment."

"That's exactly what makes it compelling." Parker's eyes lit up. "It's the immediacy, imperfection, and how you truly see your subject because you only get one chance—" He grinned. "To be honest, that's almost word for word what their editor said in her email."

"You've already had direct contact with them?"

"Nina Chen from Photogenesis followed us on Instagram last month." Parker pulled up the message thread. "I didn't think much of it at first—lots of media people have been following Tales . Then, she started specifically commenting on your park documentation posts."

He scrolled through the comments. "See? She picked up on how you capture the same locations in different seasons and different weather. She called it a masterclass in seeing a place through time.'"

"It comes out that way because I'm there every morning. It's easier to get intriguing shots in the park than downtown."

"No, listen." Parker leaned forward, nearly knocking over his coffee in his enthusiasm. "Last week, she messaged me directly. She wanted to know whether you'd ever considered showing your work professionally. Said something about how using technology accessible to everyone, professional or not, to document environmental changes creates a unique photographic view of our world."

I blinked. "Environmental changes?"

"Your storm damage series, Holden. You had some awesome before and after shots of the north trail reconstruction. You also documented how the park service adapted trails for accessibility." He smiled. "They're not just pretty pictures. They tell a story of how people and wilderness interact. Nina got that immediately."

"So you've been plotting with a magazine editor behind my back?" I tried to sound stern, but Parker's excitement was too infectious.

"I wanted to make sure it was legitimate before saying anything." He had the grace to look slightly sheepish. "Did some research first. Nina's got a solid reputation in the industry. She's known for spotting unconventional talent." His grin widened. "And get this—she grew up in Wisconsin. She spent summers hiking in Michigami State Park with her grandfather. She says your photos capture perfectly what she remembers about discovering the trails as a kid."

I blinked. "She really gets it then."

"She does." Parker continued describing how he helped push the idea forward. "I suggested they do a phone interview with you next week. And then she started talking about a gallery showing in Portland if the feature does well."

Portland. The word echoed in my chest like footsteps in an empty room. Portland, with its artisan coffee shops, gallery walks, and all the dreams I'd packed away when I moved to Blue Harbor.

"You know who this reminds me of?" Parker pulled up an image on his second screen. "I remember when Theo started showing his lake paintings at the Bean. That started not long before you arrived in town. It was an expansion of his gallery near our offices. They were just quick studies he did while Rafe experimented with pastries. Now he's got galleries in Seattle calling."

"And tonight's his big preview," I said, finally understanding why Sarah had been even more excited than usual. A few frames had been hanging on the walls covered with brown paper for days while Theo installed his new series.

"Exactly. From coffee shop walls to Seattle galleries. Sometimes the best opportunities start small." Parker's eyes twinkled. "Though between you and me, I think Rafe's more excited about premiering his new art-inspired pastry line than Theo is about the actual show."

I'd barely taken a breath when my phone chimed. It was a text from Maria.

Surprise visit from your parents. Your father's critiquing my coffee technique, and your mother's alphabetizing the spice rack. Send help.

"Speaking of surprises." I stared at Maria's message, and my hand started to shake. "My parents are supposed to be in London until December. Dad's overseeing the new corporate offices there."

"Wait, what?" Parker leaned across his desk and looked at my phone. "Didn't your mom just post pictures from some fancy Thames River dinner cruise?"

"Three days ago." I rubbed my chin. "They haven't been back to Blue Harbor since..." I swallowed hard. "Since before Gran died."

Parker's excitement about the magazine dimmed slightly. "You okay?"

"Yeah, just..." I ran a hand through my hair. "It's a lot: the magazine, Portland gallery possibilities, and now my parents showing up without warning. Mom never does anything without a detailed itinerary."

"Maybe she wanted to see what we're covering in the blog in person. Your mom's been leaving a lot of comments lately."

That was true. She'd gone from formal monthly check-in calls to engaging with my posts, asking questions about techniques and composition. It was like she was finally seeing me as an artist, not just her wayward son who'd abandoned Portland's gallery scene to care for his grandfather.

"Well, it's perfect timing!" Parker practically bounced in his chair. "They can see the new stats on the blog." His fingers flew across his keyboard. "Our engagement has tripled since your park series started. And for once, it's not just people being nosy about my relationship with Cole."

I sighed. "Everything's happening at once."

"That's usually how it goes." Parker pushed a stack of papers to a corner of his desk. "Hey, did I mention Wade stopped by earlier? He found something at the shelter he thought you'd want to see."

That was good news. Since Chicago, Wade had started sharing more of himself—little pieces of his past tucked between trail maintenance reports and weather updates. Just the day before, he'd shown me a sketch of the firehouse garden, the first time he'd drawn anything from before.

"I should..." I gestured vaguely at the door.

"Go." Parker shooed me away. "Process. Take photos. Remember—whatever you decide, Blue Harbor's got your back." He paused. "Though fair warning: Sarah and Rafe are planning some celebratory pastry experiment. I heard her muttering about Artistic Inspiration Scones this morning."

On the drive home, I marveled at the late October colors—maples burned scarlet against the gray sky. When I arrived, my hand trembled slightly on the front door handle.

Through the window, I saw my parents in the kitchen with Grandpa. Mom wore jeans—actual denim, though obviously designer—instead of her usual corporate armor. Dad had abandoned his suit jacket somewhere, his tablet propped against the cookie jar Gran painted with wildflowers.

They looked... different, softer somehow. Mom gestured animatedly at my latest lighthouse photos spread across the table while Dad nodded along, his usual data-driven expression warmed by something I hadn't seen in years.

The screen door's creak announced my arrival. Mom turned and smiled.

"There's my wandering artist!" She wrapped me in a crushing hug before I could dodge it. Her perfume had changed from the powerful boardroom scent she'd worn for decades to something lighter—citrus and wildflowers, like Gran's garden in summer.

"You're supposed to be in London," I managed, still caught in her embrace. "What happened to the corporate expansion?"

"Some things are more important." Dad set his tablet aside—actually set it aside, something I'd never seen him do during business hours. "The blog's analytics are remarkable. You've built quite a following."

They all launched into conversation so quickly that I didn't have a chance to ask about when my parents decided to visit in the first place. I was happy to see them, but the unexpected arrival added to my sense that the earth was wobbling oddly on its axis.

"We're all going to the art show tonight," Grandpa announced, looking pleased with himself. His oxygen tube remained, but it seemed less intrusive now, more like an old friend than a medical necessity.

"The whole town's buzzing about it," Mom added. "That lovely Sarah at the coffee shop insisted we try special scones baked for the occasion. Though I'm concerned about the amount of glitter in the frosting."

"It's edible glitter," Grandpa assured her. "Probably."

I chuckled. "And I just found out the details of the show hours ago."

"Theo was there setting up, and he commented on your Polaroids," Grandpa added. "He thinks they'd complement his painted landscapes perfectly. It was something about different mediums capturing the same soul of a place. I suspect he and Rafe have been plotting with Parker about getting your work seen by the right people."

"Oh!" Mom disappeared into the living room and returned with a stack of leather-bound albums I remembered from childhood. "We found these while packing up the London office shipment. They've been in storage since..." She paused, emotion flickering across her face. "Since Belle asked us to keep them safe for you."

"You mean these are—" My fingers traced the worn leather spine of the top album.

"Your grandmother's exhibition portfolios." Dad's voice was unexpectedly gentle. "From her early shows in Milwaukee, Chicago, New York. She always said they'd mean more to you than anyone else."

"We should have brought them sooner." Mom's hand shook slightly as she opened the first album. "I think... I think we were afraid of facing her artistic legacy. It was easier to focus on corporate strategies and retirement facilities than to remember how she lit up a room with her creativity." She looked directly at me. "The same way you do."

Before I could process the comment, my phone chimed again. It was Wade.

Found more of your grandmother's sketches behind a loose panel. Some early studies of the lake I think you'll want to see.

The text landed like a stone in still water, ripples spreading outward. Everything I thought I wanted—recognition, artistic validation, my parents' approval—had arrived. So why did I feel like I was standing on the edge of Eagle Point during a storm, unsure if my next step would land on solid rock or empty air?

"Go on." Grandpa encouraged me to join Wade. "We'll see you tonight at the show. Some conversations can't wait."

I had news to share, but it could wait. I kissed his cheek, breathing in the familiar mix of coffee and aftershave that meant home. Still, as I headed for my car, Portland's galleries and Photogenesis's pages beckoned like distant lighthouses, promising different versions of home.

The shelter's door creaked open, revealing Wade surrounded by Gran's preliminary sketches. Thin rays of October sunlight turned his salt-and-pepper hair to starfire. He looked up, and his smile hit me like that first morning on the beach.

"You'll never believe what Parker told me today."

Wade set the sketches down with careful hands. "Try me."

" Photogenesis magazine wants my park photos." The words tumbled out. "They're doing a feature on unconventional nature photography. And there's talk of a gallery showing in Portland."

"That's incredible." Wade's voice was warm and congratulatory. "Your eye for this place, the way you capture its spirit—they'd be crazy not to notice."

"But it's just my morning ritual. Three shots a day with a Polaroid Now, nothing special—"

"Stop." He crossed to where I stood. "Remember what you told me in Chicago? About not diminishing parts of ourselves?"

I did. It was before his speech when he thought his scars spoke only of failure.

"That's different."

"Is it?" His hands settled on my shoulders. "Your art matters, Holden. It's not just pretty pictures—you show people how to cut through the unnecessary noise and see things. Like those shots of the storm damage last month. You didn't focus solely on the destruction; you caught all those moments of neighbors helping neighbors."

"The Portland gallery thing, though." I swallowed hard. "It would mean traveling. I'd build new connections out there. Maybe even—"

"Maybe even remembering why you dreamed of working in arts and culture before Blue Harbor?" His voice was gentle but firm. "That's allowed, you know."

I stepped back, needing space to breathe. Pushing through the ventilation shaft, late afternoon light painted patterns on the floor. My camera hung heavy around my neck, its familiar weight suddenly as comforting as Wade's hand in mine. The viewfinder called to me—that small square window where chaos always seemed to resolve itself into meaning.

Wade must have read my expression. Without a word, he moved back, giving me space to work. That's what I loved about photographing him—he understood the language of light and composition almost instinctively. He never posed, just existed in the moment, letting me find the shot.

He spoke softly. "The light's doing that thing you love where it catches the dust motes."

He was right. The autumn sun slanting through the shaft had turned the air itself into art, tiny particles dancing like stars in slow motion. They drifted over Gran's sketches where they lay scattered across his work table, creating halos around the edges of her careful pencil strokes.

I raised the camera, but lowered it again. "Would you... could you lean in a bit? Over the drawings?"

Wade moved with deliberate grace, the kind he usually reserved for approaching injured wildlife on the trails. He bent slightly over the table, one hand resting near Gran's studies of waves.

Perfect. But not quite...

"Can you look at that sketch you were holding earlier? The one with her notes about light?"

His fingers found the paper without hesitation. The way he handled Gran's art—gentle and respectful as if he understood how precious these fragments of her process were—made my fingers tingle.

Through the viewfinder, everything aligned: Wade's strong hands cradling Gran's delicate work, sunbeams turning ordinary air into magic, and the shelter's shadowed walls holding a decades-old artistic legacy. Past and present, strength and tenderness, darkness and light—all contained in one frame.

The camera's mechanical whir echoed off the concrete walls. I loved that about my camera—how it announced each capture like a small celebration or maybe a promise: Here is a moment worth keeping, something you'll want to remember.

The image developed slowly, with whites and grays emerging from chemical darkness like dawn breaking over the lake. First, Wade's hands came into focus, then the papers beneath them, and finally, the light itself seemed to leak from the frame's edges.

It wasn't the kind of photo that would impress magazine editors. It wasn't even technically good. But it captured exactly how I felt—suspended between what was and what could be, watching someone I loved handle pieces of my past with unexpected care while future possibilities swirled around us.

"You know what your grandmother wrote here?" Wade picked up one of the sketches. "'Light changes everything it touches. The trick is learning to change with it.'" He paused. "She was talking about painting technique, but—"

"But it's never just about technique with Gran." I stared at the developed photo and then at the shelter walls where her work still spoke to anyone willing to listen. "She had offers, you know. From galleries in Chicago, Milwaukee, and even New York. Grandpa told me about that last week."

"What did she do?"

"She accepted some and rejected others, but her focus always returned here." The weight of my upcoming decisions pressed against my chest. "I just don't know how to balance it all: the magazine, the gallery possibilities, and everything we've built here."

"With your grandfather's health improving? With the blog taking off? With us?" Wade's question hung in the air between us.

"Yeah." My voice cracked. "Everything's shifting at once, and I can't—I don't know how to—"

The shelter door opened, spilling more light across the floor. Maya spoke from outside: "Wade? We've got hikers stuck up on Eagle Point. A little whip of a storm's coming in fast."

Wade squeezed my hand once before duty called him away. I watched him go, remembering all the times he'd had to balance his past and present.

Alone in the shelter, I studied Gran's sketches—all those careful studies of light and shadow, moments caught in the process of transformation. The Polaroid in my hands showed similar patterns: illumination and darkness, clarity and uncertainty.

My phone chimed. It was the Photogenesis editor:

Looking forward to discussing your unique perspective on wild areas. Your work captures something raw and immediate that our readers crave.

Outside, the wind picked up, announcing that rain was on its way. Somewhere in Blue Harbor, my parents unpacked Gran's old albums while Grandpa probably critiqued the latest baked goods from the coffee shop.

Wade was heading up to Eagle Point, strong and steadier than he'd been in years. And I stood in the shelter, surrounded by various kinds of light, unsure which beams to follow.

I slipped the photo into my journal, between pages of half-formed thoughts about art, home, and choice. The future stretched out like one of Gran's endless horizons, full of possibilities I hadn't even known were options.

Everything was changing. I just wasn't sure I was ready to change with it.