3. Holden

Chapter three

Holden

T he Polaroid shot of the man rising from the lake pulsed in my bag like a secret heart as I fumbled with my grandfather's house keys. I'd looked at it so many times throughout the day that the image burnt itself into my memory: water cascading off broad shoulders, storm-gray eyes meeting mine through the mist.

Parker would've called it a perfect example of Blue Harbor magic. I called it a reminder that I wasn't as settled into my new life as I'd thought.

Gran's wind chimes tinkled softly from the porch eaves—crystal ones that splintered sunlight into rainbow shards across the weathered floorboards. She'd hung them the summer I turned ten when I visited my grandparents for a week.

She declared that every home needed music, even when people were quiet. Now, they played their delicate song to an audience of empty wicker chairs and fading chrysanthemums.

"That you, Match?" Grandpa's voice carried from the living room, more robust than it had been in weeks. The childhood nickname still made me smile. It reminded me of my early childhood, when I was a toddler who couldn't say "magic" but was always searching for it.

"No, it's a burglar who happened to have a key," I called back, our usual exchange bringing a smile to my face. "A burglar who smells something amazing coming from the kitchen."

Maria appeared in the hallway, her silver-streaked dark hair escaping from its bun. She wore one of Gran's old aprons, which had embroidered bluebirds that had faded to barely-there whispers of blue.

She'd been friends with Gran for thirty years before becoming Grandpa's home healthcare worker. Sometimes, I caught her absent-mindedly straightening picture frames the way Gran used to.

"Chicken soup," she announced, wiping her hands. "Isabella Harlow's recipe, not that chemical-laden stuff your grandfather's been hiding in the pantry. I found three more cans this morning, Clark!" she called toward the living room. "Hidden behind the good china!"

"I heard that!" Grandpa protested in a loud voice. He and Maria had perfected a system of shouting to each other instead of showing up in the same room to speak in a softer voice. "And I'll have you know Campbell's has kept me alive for seventy-six years."

"Yes," Maria shot back, "and think how much longer you might live with real food. Though I suppose the sodium content has probably pickled you by now."

I bit back a laugh as I appeared in the living room. "Is that why you never seem to age, Grandpa? Preserved by Campbell's finest?"

"Don't you start," he grumbled, but I caught the smile he tried to hide. "Some people appreciate a classic."

"Classic like that cardigan you've had since 1982?" Maria asked innocently as she appeared in the room.

"It's vintage. Unlike some people's jokes."

He sat with a leather-bound book open in his lap—Frost's collected poems, Gran's favorite. His reading glasses had slipped down his nose, and I noticed how his wedding ring hung loose on his finger. Last week's hospital stay had stolen another few pounds he couldn't afford to lose.

The oxygen machine hummed quietly in the corner, its clear tubing snaking across the floor to where Grandpa sat. He'd tried to convince us he only needed it at night, but the blue tinge around his lips told a different story.

He marked his place with a faded bookmark—one of my childhood attempts at origami he'd kept all these years. His fingers trembled slightly.

"You're late today," Grandpa observed. His sharp brown eyes missed nothing despite the physical changes in the rest of him. "Did Parker keep you overtime?"

"No, I..." I hesitated, not ready to share my morning encounter. "I got caught up taking photos at the lake."

Maria bustled past with a glass of water and the collection of evening medications that had invaded our lives. The pills rattled in their containers like tiny maracas, keeping time with the whirring oxygen machine.

"Speaking of caught up, someone's been distracted all afternoon. Sarah from the Little Blue Bean called. She said you left something important at the coffee shop this morning."

Heat crept up my neck. "It wasn't important. Just some notes for work." I touched my bag where the morning's Polaroids nested between pages of half-finished social media posts for Parker's blog.

"Mhmm." Maria's knowing look made me wonder what Sarah had said. She straightened the framed photo on the side table—my grandparents on their fortieth anniversary, dancing in this very room.

"Well, the soup needs another hour. Clark, remember what Dr. Matthews said about moving around more?"

"Yes, yes." Grandpa sighed dramatically. "Holden, help your old grandfather up. We can walk to the kitchen together."

I offered my arm, noting how much of his weight he needed me to support. The distance to the kitchen seemed to grow longer each day, marked by the slight wheeze in his breathing that he tried to hide. The oxygen tubing dragged behind us like a reluctant pet on a leash.

The kitchen still bore Gran's touches everywhere—the hand-painted tile backsplash where she'd hidden tiny dragonflies among the flowers, the collection of mismatched teacups that held both coffee and memories, and the copper pots hanging above the island that rang like bells when you bumped them. We made it to the table, where Maria had already set out water glasses and warm rolls that smelled like childhood Sundays.

"Tell me about your day." Grandpa settled into his chair, adjusting the oxygen tube behind his ear. "And don't leave out whatever's making your eyes sparkle like your grandmother's used to when she was plotting something."

I nearly choked on my water. "I don't know what you're talking about."

"Please." He waved off my denial. "I was a high school principal for thirty years. I know that look. It's the same one Belle had when discovering a new puppet design or meeting someone interesting. Remember the time she saw that Italian marionette maker at the craft fair? She talked about nothing else for weeks."

The mention of Gran's puppets made my chest tight. Puppetry was still a hobby when I had time, but I couldn't match her talents.

I glanced toward the glass cabinet in the corner where her collection of antique European marionettes still hung, waiting for the hands that would never animate them again. Pinocchio's strings had tangled a couple of months back, and I'd never fixed them. The puppet's painted smile looked sad, as if he, too, missed Gran's gentle touch.

"It's nothing, really," I said, but my hand drifted to my bag again, where the photo burned like a secret. "Just... I might have met someone. Or not met exactly. More like saw someone."

While stirring the soup that filled the kitchen with memories of Gran's Tuesday night dinners, Maria didn't even pretend not to listen. The wooden spoon clinked against the pot in rhythm with the wall clock's ticking.

"At the lake," I continued, the words tumbling out. "He was swimming. He looked... he seemed..." I struggled to find words that wouldn't give away how thunderstruck I'd been.

"Ah." Grandpa's eyes softened, crinkling at the corners the way they did when he used to read me bedtime stories. "And did this mysterious swimmer have a name?"

"No. I mean, he barely spoke to me. Just said 'morning' and left." I pulled out my journal, hesitating before opening to the photo. "But I got this."

Grandpa studied the Polaroid, his expression thoughtful. His oxygen tube whistled softly with each breath. "Quite a composition. The mist gives it an otherworldly quality." He paused, squinting. "Wait a minute. Isn't that Wade Forrester?"

My heart stuttered. "You know him?"

"The park ranger? Of course. Everyone knows Wade." Grandpa handed the photo back, his fingers brushing mine with familiar warmth.

"He keeps to himself mostly, but he's done wonders for the state park. Helped design that new trail system that's easier for older folks to navigate. He also had them buy a specialized wheelchair to take into the woods. It has treads like a tank. Though I don't think I've ever seen him smile. Not since he came here, anyway."

"Actually," I said, trying to steer the conversation back to safer ground, "Parker was pretty excited today. He's planning this whole series about hidden places around Blue Harbor. You know how he gets when he has a new idea."

"Oh lord," Maria chuckled from the stove. "Like a dog with a bone?"

"Worse. He had three laptops going at once and about fifty sticky notes everywhere. He wants me to photograph all these secret spots most tourists never find." I smiled, remembering Parker's enthusiastic gestures. " He mentioned the hidden cave behind Miller's Point, the old lighthouse keeper's garden that's all overgrown now, and the storm shelter at Michigami State Park that some local artist covered in murals back in the seventies..."

Grandpa's eyes lit up. "The storm shelter? I haven't thought about those murals in years. Your grandmother helped restore them; it must have been 1978 or so. She always said that the artist captured the soul of Lake Michigan better than any photograph could."

"Really?" I leaned forward. "Parker didn't mention that part."

"Oh yes. Beautiful work. It's a bunch of scenes of the lake in different moods. Storms and sunrises, winter ice, and summer sailing." He paused, taking a careful sip of water. "Though I suppose they might be pretty faded now. Nobody's maintained them since... well, it's been a while."

"That's what Parker wants to document—these pieces of Blue Harbor history in danger of disappearing completely." I pulled out my phone to make a note about Gran's connection to the murals. "Though I'll need permission from the park service to photograph inside the shelter."

"Ah," Grandpa's eyes twinkled. "So you'll need to talk to Wade Forrester after all."

I dropped my phone onto the table with a clatter. Maria didn't even try to hide her laugh.

"I walked right into that one, didn't I?" Heat rose in my cheeks again.

"Match, you always did have a gift for finding magic in unexpected places." Grandpa reached over to pat my hand. "Just like your grandmother. She used to say the best stories are the ones that sneak up on you when you're busy looking for something else."

Maria joined us at the table, bringing the scent of herbs with her. The wooden chair creaked as she sat. "Wade Forrester? Sarah mentioned him when she called. Said something about a morning swim?" Her eyes danced with amusement.

"What? You knew?"

"Small towns, honey. News travels faster than light around here."

"Einstein would be fascinated," I deadpanned. "Forget relativity—he should have studied the Blue Harbor gossip network. Sarah probably knew about my lake encounter before it even happened."

Grandpa smirked. "Don't be ridiculous. She knew about it yesterday when Mrs. Peterson's second cousin's neighbor's dog walker spotted Wade heading toward the lake."

"That's... oddly specific."

"Welcome to small-town living. It's where everyone knows your business before you do."

I groaned, letting my head fall into my hands. "Is there anyone in Blue Harbor who doesn't know about this morning?"

"Probably not," Grandpa chuckled, then winced as he shifted in his chair. The sound turned into a cough that he tried to stifle. I pretended not to notice, but my stomach clenched.

"You should rest," I said, standing to help him up. "The doctor said—"

"The doctor says a lot of things." But he accepted my help without further protest, which worried me more than if he'd argued. "I suppose I could use a nap before dinner."

I supported him back to his chair in the living room, trying to memorize his weight against my side. He settled in with a soft grunt, and I adjusted the blanket—one of Gran's quilts—over his legs.

"Holden," he said as I turned to leave. "About Wade..."

I paused. "Yes?"

"He's been through a lot, more than most people know. That fire in Chicago—" He stopped himself. "Just... be gentle with him if your paths cross again. Some people are like your grandmother's puppets—they need careful handling to return to life."

I thought about those storm-gray eyes and the scars I'd glimpsed on his skin. "I will."

Later, after Maria left and Grandpa was asleep in his chair, I sat at the kitchen table with my camera. I would start a new film cartridge in the morning and needed to get it loaded. Through the window, stars began to appear in the deepening blue sky, and Gran's wind chimes sang softly in the evening breeze.

I touched the Polaroid photo one last time before tucking it away. Wade Forrester. His name sounded like something out of a story. It had a rough edge that hid a deeper, darker side of his personality.

The soup bubbled softly on the stove, and a clock ticked away seconds somewhere in the house. The oxygen machine added its steady rhythm, a reminder of all I stood to lose. I had responsibilities in Blue Harbor—my grandfather, my job, and the new life I was still building. I couldn't afford to get lost in daydreams about mysterious swimmers with sad eyes.

Still, as I prepared my camera for the next morning's shoot, I couldn't help hoping I'd see him again. After all, Parker always said Blue Harbor had a way of bringing people together when they needed each other most.

The question was, who needed it more—Wade Forrester or me? And what would Gran say about the strange magic of finding something you weren't looking for right at that crucial moment?

Above me, the wind chimes answered with their crystal song, and for a moment, I could have sworn I heard her laugh.