6. Wade

Chapter six

Wade

I hadn't looked at the papers I held in my hands for months. I pulled them out to prepare for a 9 a.m. meeting at the shelter with Holden. The pages were starting to yellow at the edges, and the text was slightly fuzzy. They were photocopies of local coverage of the shelter's history, plus art reviews from Milwaukee papers and even a few preservation guidelines I'd tracked down through interlibrary loan.

A photo caught my eye—one I must have skimmed past dozens of times. The black and white image showed Isabella Harlow at work, her brush capturing another of those magnificent waves. But there, in the background, barely in the frame...

I leaned closer. A small boy sat cross-legged on the shelter floor, a puppet dancing in his hands. The photo quality was too poor to make out his face clearly, but something in the way he held himself, the careful attention he gave the puppet.

"Huh." The sound escaped before I could catch it. The date on the article was right. The boy would have been around five.

It was likely young Holden Harlow, during a summer visit, watching his grandmother paint while he played with the puppets he'd eventually inherit. I traced the edge of the photo with my finger, wondering if he remembered that day. The article mentioned the puppet—an antique European marionette of a wizard that Isabella had brought back from a trip to Prague.

The coffee in my mug had gone cold. Weak sunlight now streamed through the windows, turning the office's institutional white walls pale gold. I couldn't stop staring at the boy in the photo, trying to connect him to the man who looked at broken things and saw beauty waiting for discovery.

"Early research?" Tom's voice made me jump. I hadn't heard him come in.

"Just reviewing the shelter's history. For the blog piece." I started to close the folder.

"Wait." Tom reached past me, tapping the photo. "Is that who I think it is?"

"Maybe." I tried to sound casual. "The timing fits."

Tom studied the image, then me. "Interesting how things circle around in a small town. Almost like—"

"Don't." I shoved the folder back into the file cabinet more forcefully than necessary. "It's just background for the preservation work."

After pouring himself a cup of coffee, Tom returned to me. "You're doing that thing again." His voice cut through my thoughts. He filled the doorway with his solid presence and his weathered face, creased with knowing concern.

"What thing?"

"That thing where you try to sort a person like they're a maintenance request. Pretty sure there's no checkbox for 'photographer with disarming smile' on our standard forms."

I glared at him. "I could create one. Under 'potential park hazards.'"

I shuffled papers that were already perfectly aligned. "The storm shelter inspection is routine. Parker's blog brings attention to the park's preservation efforts."

"Mhmm." Tom settled into the chair across from me. "And you've reorganized these reports four times because of preservation efforts?"

Heat crept up the back of my neck. "Don't you have trails to check?"

"Already done. Stop deflecting." His voice softened. "You know, I was here when Isabella painted those scenes. She'd work for hours in that confined space, adding light to the darkest corners. Said every storm had moments of grace if you knew where to look."

The parallel wasn't subtle. "You should handle the tour then."

"Some stories need to be told by someone who understands both sides of the canvas." Tom set his mug down with quiet purpose. "Someone who's seen both destruction and beauty up close."

My scars twinged, a phantom reminder of Chicago's heat. "It's just a blog piece."

"No, it isn't." Tom stood, bones creaking. "And we both know it." He paused at the door. "Nine o'clock, right?"

At eight-fifty, I stood outside the storm shelter, examining the door's weathered hinges with unnecessary intensity. I had a notebook in one hand and a camp lantern in the other. Morning air wrapped around me, pine-sharp and clean after the storm. Birds had returned to the trees, their songs a counterpoint to my thundering heart.

Footsteps approached, deliberate on the gravel path. I forced myself to breathe normally.

"Good morning." Holden's voice was warm like early sunlight. "Thanks for meeting me."

I turned, keeping my movements measured and professional. He stood in the clearing with his camera, morning light catching the highlights in his chestnut brown hair. His green eyes shone like small puddles reflecting the forest's pine canopy.

His blue plaid shirt fit him well—too well—sleeves rolled up to reveal forearms corded from whatever workout routine kept him looking like that. Twenty-five, I reminded myself firmly. The kid was twenty-five, and I had no business noticing how his jeans fit or the way he moved with unconscious grace.

"Morning." I managed to keep my voice steady. "I came out here late afternoon yesterday. There's some water damage in the northeast corner. We should check that first."

"Is it bad?" Genuine concern shadowed Holden's face. "Gran's section—is it..."

Something in his voice, that genuine care for work done decades ago, made my carefully constructed walls wobble. "Some damage, but the heart of it survived. Here, let me show you."

I pulled out my keys, achingly aware of him standing close enough that I caught hints of coffee and sandalwood. The lock fought me as always, requiring the usual wrestling match.

"Temperamental?" A smile colored his voice.

"Like everything in this park." I jiggled the key harder. "Even the squirrels have attitude problems. Had one throw pine cones at me last week."

"Maybe it's not the squirrels," Holden suggested innocently. "Maybe it's your charming approach."

I shot him a look that made most hikers apologize and back away. He just grinned wider.

I got the door open and gestured for Holden to follow me inside. "Mind your step. The floor's uneven."

My flashlight beam cut through the shadows, finding the wall where Isabella's gentle scenes balanced Marcus Beltran's storms. A water stain crept down from the ceiling like tears, bleeding into the edges of a sunrise.

Crouching down, I lit the lantern, and as soon as its light flooded the space, I attached the flashlight to my work belt.

Holden moved closer to the wall, his camera forgotten. His fingers hovered near the damaged paint, careful not to touch it but close enough to feel its history. "I never saw these finished when she was alive. It took years to complete it. She asked me to visit and see the final product, but by then, I was a teenager and wrapped up in my own world. Too busy planning my future to appreciate her present."

The raw honesty in his voice reached past my defenses, touching something that recognized regret. "She captured moments most people miss." I found myself joining Holden, a mere step apart. "Look here—see how she layered the colors? Most artists focus on the dramatic—crashing waves and lightning strikes. Isabella saw beauty in the quiet spaces between storms."

He turned to me with surprise on his face. "You know her technique well."

"Part of the job. Historical preservation."

"Is that why you're here? At Michigami?"

The question was gentle, but it hit like a body blow. I looked at the wall instead of his too-perceptive eyes and let the question go. "She built the fog through transparency, not heavy oils like Marcus used. Makes it feel alive like it's still rising after all these years."

Holden leaned closer to see where I pointed. "That's amazing. You know, for someone who growls at the morning coffee maker, you're surprisingly poetic about art."

"I don't growl at the coffee maker."

"Maya says you do. Says you treat it like it's personally offended your ancestors."

"She needs to spend less time gossiping and more time checking trail markers."

"See? There's the growling I was talking about."

I realized too late that our shoulders were nearly touching. The proximity sent an electric sensation up my spine, but I couldn't make myself step back.

"She never talked about how she did it." Holden's voice was quiet, intimate in the shelter's close air. "By the time I was old enough to really ask, to understand what she was creating here..."

I pulled my field notebook from my back pocket, needing something to do with my hands. "The technique is actually pretty specific. Here—" Before I could stop myself, I was sketching, my pencil moving in quick, sure strokes across the page. "She built it in layers, like this."

The drawing took shape under my fingers. It recreated a small mural section, showing how the paint layers created depth. I added notation arrows, falling into the familiar rhythm of technical illustration.

"Wait." Holden pushed his shoulder against mine, warmth radiating from his body to mine. "You can draw? Like, really draw?"

I forced my hand not to tighten on the pencil. "Basic skill. From the fire department. Investigation work requires accurate scene documentation."

"This isn't basic anything." His finger hovered over the sketch, not quite touching. "You captured the light exactly how it hits that corner of the mural. See how it creates that glow effect? That's not technical documentation, Wade. That's art."

"It's just—"

"And here." Holden pointed to where I'd detailed the paint layers. "You showed how the colors blend, depicting it in scales of gray. That's exactly how Gran's technique worked. I remember watching her build those fog effects when I was little, but I never understood how until seeing your drawing."

I should have put the notebook away. Should have steered us back to professional distance. Instead, I found myself turning to a fresh page. "The really clever part was how she handled the transitions. Look—"

Another sketch flowed out, showing how Isabella had merged the stormy scenes with the calmer ones. My pencil caught the way light and shadow played across the walls, how the paint created movement even in stillness.

"That's incredible." Holden's surprised appreciation made my chest tighten. "Where did you learn to see light like that?"

I didn't answer because you're not supposed to tell a near-stranger how you spent countless nights sketching Chicago's skyline by streetlight when the nightmares wouldn't let you sleep. Or share how art became therapy when words failed.

"Just observation." I closed the notebook.

"Wait." Holden's hand caught mine, warm and sure. "Please. Show me more."

I couldn't resist the request. I turned another page and started sketching the sunrise scene that needed restoration, trying to ignore how his presence at my shoulder made my skin hum.

"It's like you're having a conversation with Gran's work. Like you understand exactly what she was trying to say."

I glanced up and found him watching my hands move across the paper, that sunrise smile playing at the corners of his mouth before he spoke. "I'm good with advertising graphics and such, but this is art. It's a different animal."

"I could show you." The words escaped before I could stop them. "How to restore this section, I mean. I've studied the techniques for park preservation."

He turned sharply, hope lighting his face. "Really? You'd do that?"

A flee response fluttered inside my chest, but his expression made retreat impossible. "The damage isn't severe. With the right approach, we could preserve what's left, maybe..." I swallowed hard. "Maybe honor what she created here."

"Wade." Just my name, but the way he said it made my pulse race. "You helping restore this would mean everything."

"It's only maintenance." I grunted out the words and tried desperately to begin rebuilding my walls. "Park service responsibility."

"No." He shook his head slowly. "It's more than that. You understand what this place means and what she was trying to say with these scenes. That's rare."

Holden turned to take photos, and I watched his careful movements and reverence in approaching each angle. He treated the space like a sanctuary, like he felt the weight of all the stories the walls held.

"She used to say art was how we talk to the future." He adjusted his lens. "That beauty was a conversation across time. I think I'm finally starting to understand what she meant."

The shelter felt different with Holden in it. The air had more oxygen, and the walls reflected light instead of casting shadows. His presence made the space feel less like a bunker and more like what it was meant to be—a refuge.

I heard the soft whir of the Polaroid before I saw it. I continued to sketch while he documented the damage.

"Oh—" A few minutes later, a single print slipped from his stack, diving for the damp floor. I caught it instinctively, years of handling delicate evidence kicking in.

It wasn't the murals.

It was me, caught in profile against Isabella's waves. Light from the vent fell across my face as I explained something, pencil poised over paper. I looked... intent. Alive. Like I belonged there with the art instead of hiding in my ranger station.

"Sorry." Holden reached for the photo. "That one wasn't for the blog."

Our fingers met over the Polaroid. Neither of us let go.

"Keep it," he said. "You look... you look like you've found something you lost."

The photo trembled slightly between us. "I don't collect personal photos."

"It may be time to start."

I slipped the photo into my notebook before I could think better of it. We both pretended not to notice.

"The park service has research files." I heard myself speaking, encouraging future cooperation. "Original technique documentation, color samples. They might help with the restoration. If you want to see them."

"Fair warning," I added, "they're filed under 'M' for 'Murals' and 'T' for 'Things.' Tom can't organize properly.'"

"The park's filing system sounds unique."

"Tom creates new categories based on his mood. Last week he filed incident reports under 'W' for 'Why do people do these things?'"

Holden lowered his camera, his smile breaking through again. "I'd like to see what's there. For historical accuracy, of course."

"Of course."

We stood in charged silence, like the moment before lightning strikes. Finally, I cleared my throat. "I should check the camping sites."

"Right, yes." Holden gathered his gear but paused at the door. "Wade?"

"Yeah?"

"Thank you. Not just for this but for understanding why it matters. For seeing what she saw here."

Something shifted inside me, a foundation stone moving after years of motionless service. "Nine tomorrow? To start the restoration assessment?"

"Nine tomorrow." Holden stepped out of the shelter and into the morning light.

I watched him walk away, his camera swinging gently at his side. The shelter felt colder without him, but Isabella's waves still rippled on the wall, a reminder that some storms brought gifts in their wake.

I tried to focus on closing the shelter instead of how Holden bit his lower lip when concentrating or how his throat moved when he swallowed. I was old enough to know better. Old enough to be his... well, not quite father, but definitely not someone who should be cataloging how his smile transformed his whole face.

Tom was waiting when I returned to the ranger station.

"Not a word," I warned.

"Wasn't going to say anything. Just thinking about what Isabella used to say—how some kinds of beauty need darkness to be seen properly."

I snorted. "You trying to tell me age is just darkness, Tom?"

"I'm trying to tell you that maybe you're not as ancient as you think, and he's not as young as you fear." His eyes crinkled. "But sure, let's pretend this is about art restoration."

I didn't answer. As I drove back to the station, I found myself thinking about layers of paint, transparency, and trust and how sometimes the most important restorations had nothing to do with art at all.