17. Holden

Chapter seventeen

Holden

T he early November sunrise painted Lake Michigan in shades I'd never captured before—coral bleeding into amber with hints of something darker beneath, like my own tangled emotions about everything changing at once. My fingers trembled slightly on the Polaroid as I tried to frame the shot.

"You're up early." Wade's voice carried across the otherwise empty beach, making me jump. He wore his ranger uniform and carried two Little Blue Bean cups, steam curling into the crisp air. "Sarah insisted I deliver these. Something about fueling artistic genius.'"

I lowered the camera without taking the shot. "Did she tell you about—"

"The magazine? Parker filled me in." He handed me one of the cups. The warmth seeped through my cold fingers, and the scents of vanilla and cardamom wrapped around me like a hug. "Though knowing Sarah, she's probably already planning some kind of celebration involving experimental pastries."

"Rafe mentioned something about edible platinum dust." I tried to smile, but it felt wobbly. "Which seems excessive for a few Polaroids of park trails and morning mist."

Wade's hand found mine, steady and warm. "Stop doing that."

"What?"

"Diminishing your work. Acting like capturing beauty is somehow less valuable than other contributions." He wove his fingers together with mine. "You show people things they walk past daily but never really see. That matters."

The lake stretched before us, still wearing its sunrise colors. Morning mist blurred the horizon line where the water met the sky, making it impossible to tell where one ended and the other began. Everything felt like that today—boundaries shifting, familiar lines dissolving.

"My parents called again last night. They want to help set up meetings with galleries in Portland. Mom's already researching apartments near the Alberta Arts District."

Wade's hand tightened on mine for just a moment before relaxing. "That's... that's good, right? They're finally seeing you as an artist."

"Yeah, but—" I broke off the words as my phone chimed. It was another message from the magazine editor:

Your perspective on wild spaces and community connection is exactly what we're looking for. The way you document both preservation and change... When can we discuss the details?

I whispered to Wade like I was worried the editor could hear me through the phone. "I should be excited. This is everything I thought I wanted when I first picked up a camera. So why does it feel like I'm being pulled apart?"

Wade tugged me closer, his body solid and warm against the morning chill. "Because you've got roots now. Real ones, not projections." He pressed his lips to my temple. "Come on. There's something I want to show you."

He led me toward his truck while our coffee cups left trails of steam in our wake. The familiar scent of pine needles and leather filled the cab as Wade drove toward the park. He was unusually quiet, but it wasn't his brooding silence. It was more like he was holding back for an unexpected reveal.

We parked near the visitor center, which was still closed this early. Wade pulled a folder from behind his seat, his hands almost nervous as he handed it to me.

"I've been working on this almost since Chicago." I took the folder. "It started as just a vague idea, but then I talked to Mike Sullivan—a Marine vet who comes up to sketch at Eagle Point most mornings—and things started falling into place."

I opened the folder and began reading. With each page, my eyes opened wider. The proposal outlined an art therapy program combining Wade's experience with trauma recovery and my eye for finding beauty in unexpected places. The shelter would be a centerpiece, using Gran's murals to show how art could preserve memory while processing pain.

"Wade, this is..." I traced the careful diagrams showing outdoor workshop spaces and exhibition areas. "You did all this?"

"Maya helped with the environmental education components. And Tom's got connections at the VA hospital in Milwaukee." His voice was gruff, like when he tried not to show how much something meant to him. "We could start small—weekend workshops, maybe some rotating exhibitions in the visitor center. But eventually..."

He turned to face me fully, and the morning light caught the silver in his hair. "You don't have to choose, Holden. Between your art getting recognition and staying connected here, we can build something that lets you do both."

Tears pricked at my eyes as I studied the plans. Everything was there—spaces for photography workshops, areas for different artistic mediums, and ways to combine healing with creativity. Wade had even sketched possible layouts for gallery spaces in the expanded visitor center.

"But your nightmares..." I touched a sketch showing the shelter's planned renovation. "Using this space for therapy sessions..."

"Are getting better." He caught my hand, pressing it against his chest where I could feel his heartbeat. "Maybe it's time to help others find what you helped me discover—that broken places can become something new."

My phone buzzed again. This time, it was Maria:

Please return at your earliest convenience. Your parents are dangerous when left to their own devices.

A laugh bubbled up through my happy tears. "Everything's happening at once."

"Isn't that the way of the world?" Wade smiled. "Come on. There's more."

The visitor center's back door opened silently—ranger privileges. Wade flipped on just one set of lights, illuminating the mostly empty exhibition space. For the first time in months, it wasn't entirely empty. Sketches covered one wall. Some were in Wade's recognizable precise style, while others were rougher—landscapes and nature studies in various mediums.

"Mike's been sharing his work with other vets," Wade explained softly. "They've been meeting informally, just drawing and talking. When I mentioned the program idea..." He gestured at the wall. "These appeared. They want to be part of it."

I moved closer, studying each piece. Some showed the lake in various moods; others captured trail scenes or wildlife. One particularly striking charcoal drawing showed hands reaching up through pine branches toward light.

I bit my lip. "They're already healing here. Already finding their way back through art."

"Like I did. Like your grandmother helped others do with the shelter murals." Wade's hand settled onto my lower back. "You don't have to turn down the magazine or the galleries. This could be a home base—somewhere your art could help others while still reaching wider audiences."

"I need..." My voice cracked as I stared at the veterans' sketches, thinking about what it meant to heal in the same place that once held your deepest wounds. The shelter could become something new for Wade, but at what cost? "I need to see Grandpa."

Wade's hand settled on my lower back, steady despite everything. "He'll know what to say. He always does, but one stop first, if that's okay?"

I nodded. "Sure."

Wade pulled away from the visitor center. He took the fork toward Eagle Point, where morning fog clung to the limestone cliffs. His hands were steady on the wheel.

The trail had changed considerably since summer. A November frost created treacherous slick patches between the tree roots. Wade's boots found each step with practiced ease while I followed, the camera bouncing against my chest. Neither of us spoke.

We heard Mike before we saw him—the soft scratch of charcoal on paper audible through the still air. He sat on a boulder, thermos propped between his feet, working on something larger than the sketches on the visitor center wall.

Wade cleared his throat to announce our presence, mindful of startling another veteran.

Mike didn't look up. "Caught the sunrise, Forrester?"

"Lake was good this morning." Wade's voice was flat and emotionless, careful to not create an undue disturbance. "Holden caught it on film."

Mike glanced up, his dark eyes finding mine before sliding to the folder visible in my bag. Understanding dawned. "Ah. You're showing him the plans."

"We thought—" Wade started, but Mike cut him off with a gentle head shake.

"Come see this first." He turned his sketchpad toward us. The drawing stretched across both pages—hands reaching through darkness toward light, but not like his previous work. These hands weren't only reaching. Some pulled back while others pushed forward. A few gripped each other. The light above them wasn't pure or clean—it included a dance of dark shadows.

Wade spoke. "It's different."

Mike laughed. "Yeah, well, been thinking about what it means to heal in front of witnesses. Not sure I'm ready for that kind of spotlight." He stared directly at Wade. "Are you?"

I watched Wade's shoulders tighten. He moved closer to examine the drawing, and I raised my camera instinctively.

"Don't." Mike's voice was firm. "Not this one. It's not finished. Might never be."

I lowered the camera. "Like the program?"

"The program's a good idea." The charcoal scratched as Mike added another shadow to the corner of his drawing. "But good ideas can still hurt like hell. You know that, don't you, Forrester?"

Wade's hand drifted to his left side, where I knew a network of scars lay hidden under his uniform. "It's just a program."

"And these are just sketches." Mike's charcoal moved faster, darkening the spaces between the reaching hands. "But we both know better."

A gust of wind carried the bite of the coming winter. Below us, Lake Michigan stretched steel-gray to the horizon. I thought about the program proposal, full of careful diagrams and optimistic projections. Nothing in those pages captured this moment—three men on a cliff edge, each carrying the marks of past wounds.

I did my best to sound upbeat. "It doesn't have to be all at once. Gran painted her murals in layers. Built up the light gradually."

Mike's charcoal stopped moving. Wade turned to look at me, something shifting in his expression.

"Layers." Mike repeated the word thoughtfully, letting it roll around in his mouth. He studied his drawing. "Could work. Start with the sketches on display. No names. No stories. Anonymous art existing in the space."

Wade added a thought. "Build trust slowly like the lake in spring. Ice melting one day at a time."

Mike nodded. He tore the page carefully from his sketchbook and held it out. "Add this to your proposal. Show them what it means—not only the healing but also its cost—the fear."

Wade took the drawing with careful hands. His fingers trembled slightly.

"You know where to find me." Mike started a new sketch. "When you're ready. When it's time."

On the walk back to the truck, Wade held Mike's drawing like a fragile object that might shatter. He stopped before we reached the parking lot.

"Maybe we're crazy to think—"

"We're not." I touched his arm. "But maybe we need to heal in layers, too."

He stared at me like he was seeing past the program proposals and magazine opportunities to something more profound. "Layers. I can try that."

The drive to Grandpa's house felt longer than usual, though Wade knew by heart every curve of the lakeside road. The morning fog had lifted, leaving behind that particular November clarity that made everything feel crisp and fragile. Like the sketches on the visitor center wall, some truths were easier to see in clear light.

Gran's wind chimes greeted us first, their crystal song carrying across the front yard. Through the studio window, I caught a glimpse of Grandpa's silver hair bent over what looked like one of her old journals. Of course, he'd be up there rather than downstairs—where he went to think, surrounded by her creative legacy and the soft morning light she'd loved to paint.

We bypassed the kitchen to greet Grandpa first. He sipped coffee as he read one of the journals.

"Oh, good morning. I noticed you were up bright and early, Match." He looked up with a knowing smile. "And his steadfast ranger. I was reading Belle's notes about balancing ambition with roots." He held up a leather-bound volume. "She had quite a lot to say about that."

I sank into the old wicker chair while Wade stood behind me. "I don't know how to choose."

"Who says you have to?" Grandpa's eyes twinkled. "Belle never did. She had shows in New York and Chicago but always returned here. Said she needed both—the wider recognition and the quiet place where her art began."

He passed me the journal, open to a page covered in Gran's elegant script: Art isn't about choosing between worlds. It's about building bridges between them. Every piece carries something of home, no matter where it travels.

I spoke quietly. "The magazine wants to feature my park series. And there's talk of a Portland gallery showing."

"Your parents said as much. Of course, they do. You've captured something real here—not just pretty pictures, but the heart of a place and its people." Grandpa's voice was more robust than it had been in months. "And now Wade's found a way to make that matter even more."

I blinked. "You know about the program?"

Wade spoke up. "Who do you think suggested using the shelter as a centerpiece?" His eyes danced.

"But what if I mess it up?" The words bubbled up and out before I could stop them. "What if I try to do everything and end up doing nothing well? The magazine, the galleries, the therapy program..."

"Match." Grandpa leaned forward, his voice gentle but firm. "Remember what Belle used to say about your puppet shows? How you'd try to control every string at once and end up in knots?"

"She said I needed to learn which strings to pull when." The childhood memory made me smile. "She said the art wasn't in making everything move at once but in knowing when to let certain parts rest while the others danced."

"That's right." Grandpa picked up one of Gran's old marionettes—a wizard with a slightly crooked hat. "Life's like that too. Some moments need gallery spotlights, while others need quiet lakeside dawns. The trick is learning to dance between them."

Wade's hand squeezed my shoulder as my phone buzzed yet again. This time, it was a photo from Sarah—the Little Blue Bean's counter covered in what looked like dozens of experimental pastries, all dusted with gleaming platinum powder. The caption read: "Artistic achievement requires proper fuel. No arguments."

Grandpa chuckled at my expression. "It must be Sarah. You should have seen what she did when Cole proposed to Parker. There was edible gold leaf involved. We're still finding sparkles in odd corners."

"I just..." I traced the wizard's worn strings. "I don't want to disappoint anyone."

"The only one you need to worry about disappointing is yourself." Grandpa's oxygen tube whistled softly as he shifted. "And from where I'm sitting, you're doing a pretty good job of honoring both your art and your heart."

A noise from downstairs drew our attention—the unmistakable sound of my mother's organizational energy meeting Sarah's baking enthusiasm. Wade's eyes widened slightly.

"Is that...singing?"

I listened closer. Mom's clear soprano mixed with Sarah's alto, carrying up the stairs: "Moon River, wider than a mile..."

"Oh lord." I buried my face in my hands. "They've bonded."

"About time." Grandpa's eyes twinkled. "Your mother's been trying so hard to understand this life you've built here. Maybe she finally sees that success doesn't always look like a seat in a corporate boardroom."

"Sometimes it looks like platinum-dusted pastries and lakeside therapy sessions?" I couldn't help smiling.

"And morning Polaroids of grumpy rangers emerging from the mist." The gentle warmth of Wade's voice made my heart skip a beat. "Speaking of which, you still haven't taken your three shots today."

He was right. My camera hung untouched around my neck, the morning's uncertainty having interrupted my ritual. But now...

The kitchen held an unlikely gathering, each person representing a different version of my future. I raised my camera, focusing first on Mom's hands, arranging pastries with the same precision she once used for corporate presentations. Her wedding ring caught the light as she adjusted a plate's angle exactly three degrees. Next to her, Sarah scattered edible stardust with cheerful abandon. The contrast struck me like a metaphor I couldn't quite grasp.

Click.

The first photo would capture that tension—order versus chaos, old dreams versus new ones.

Wade stood apart, shoulder braced against the doorframe as if unsure whether to fully enter the domestic scene. Light from the window carved shadows beneath his eyes, reminding me of that first morning on the beach. When he reached for one of Rafe's creations, his hand hesitated, just for a moment. It was the same hesitation I'd seen when he'd shown me the therapy program plans.

I raised the camera again.

Click.

The second photo would preserve the moment of his uncertainty—the former firefighter who'd fled human connection now reaching out, one careful gesture at a time.

The morning sun shifted, painting long shadows across Gran's kitchen floor. Dad's laptop screen reflected in his glasses as he studied numbers that couldn't quantify what was happening. Mom's smile was fragile, with signs of worry at the edges.

Sarah's boundless enthusiasm faltered when she glanced at the calendar on the wall, with its empty squares waiting to be filled. And Wade... Wade watched me watching them all, questions in his eyes neither of us was ready to answer.

I lifted the camera one final time, hands steady despite everything.

Click.

The third photo would show what wasn't there—the spaces between heartbeats, the silent costs of change, and the thread of connection stretching thin but refusing to break.

With the three images, I did my best to capture what words couldn't express: what we risk by staying, what we lose by leaving, and the impossible space between where love somehow has to find its way.

The magazine editor's card sat propped against Dad's database printouts. Sarah was already planning the celebration, Mom was researching Portland sublets, and somewhere in Milwaukee, veterans waited to share their stories. Wade's hand found mine under the table, his grip carrying that familiar tension between holding on and letting go.

"I should head back to the station," he said softly, but he didn't move.

Neither did I.