9. Holden

Chapter nine

Holden

G ran's art studio, a small room on the second floor of the house, still smelled like her—oil paints and lavender sachets, with undertones of the lemon verbena soap she'd always kept by her workstation. I hadn't set foot in the studio since moving to Blue Harbor, but I needed some space to be alone, and it fit the part well.

Her easel stood in the corner, draped with a paint-splattered cloth that had probably been white once. Now, it was a testament to decades of creativity—blues bleeding into greens, with streaks of gold capturing the sunlight streaming through the window.

I remembered watching her work here during childhood summers. She'd tap her bottom lip with one finger while studying a painting, leaving tiny dots of color on her skin. When she caught me copying the gesture, she laughed, saying artists had to wear their work proudly.

My fingers drifted to my own lips for an entirely different reason. The memory of Wade's kiss made my pulse quicken—how his mouth had found mine, warm and sure, and how his hands settled at my waist. I could still taste coffee and vanilla on my tongue and feel the scratch of his uniform shirt against my palms.

Get it together, Holden . I did my best to put those thoughts in the back of my mind, but my hands shook as I opened the first drawer of her supply cabinet. It had a brass handle worn smooth from years of her touch. Inside, paintbrushes nestled in their holders like sleeping children, their bristles still perfectly shaped. She'd always been meticulous about cleaning them thoroughly before putting them away.

Focus. I was in the studio to explore and organize, not daydream about grumpy rangers who kissed like they were drowning, and I was their fresh breath of air.

The second drawer revealed a treasure trove of pencils—graphite, charcoal, and dozens of colors arranged by shade. A sheet of her handwriting caught my eye: When sketching waves, remember they're never just blue. Look for the light breaking through.

"Oh, Gran." My voice cracked. She'd left pieces of herself everywhere like little lessons wrapped in love.

A battered metal box at the back of the third drawer rattled when I lifted it. The lid stuck, probably from years of paint buildup around the edges. Inside lay several leather-bound journals, their spines cracked and pages wavy from watercolor experiments.

The first journal fell open to a detailed sketch of the storm shelter's entrance. Gran's precise handwriting filled the margins: Marcus captured the lake's fury, but these walls need to remember its gentleness, too. Every storm has moments of grace.

My breath caught in my throat. These weren't just restoration notes—these were her private thoughts about the shelter and its stories. Pages and pages of technique notes flowed into philosophical musings about art and preservation. She'd documented everything from which pigments she'd used to why certain scenes needed a lighter touch.

I read the words she'd written. Look for the places where time has softened the edges. Don't try to make them sharp again. Some weathering tells its own story.

My fingers traced her sketches—delicate studies of waves and light, mathematical measurements of wall sections, and miniature portraits of people who'd stopped to watch her work. She'd captured everything, including the sunlight angles against the shelter's walls at different times of day.

I impulsively shoved my hand in my pocket, reaching for my phone. I had a planned meeting with Wade, but I didn't know whether I could wait to share the news.

He'd understood the shelter murals the way I did. I'd seen it in how he looked at them and the way his hands moved when he talked about Gran's techniques.

And if my heart beat faster at the thought of seeing him again and watching his eyes light up when he studied Gran's notes... well, that was just professional enthusiasm.

Yeah, keep telling yourself that. I carefully gathered the journals. My fingers still tingled where they'd brushed against Wade's body during yesterday's kiss, and I knew I was fooling precisely no one about my motivations.

My phone buzzed—a text from Parker:

Where are you? The whiteboard misses you. Also, that permanent marker incident needs to be addressed.

I groaned, remembering the disaster from the previous evening. I'd been so distracted thinking about Wade that I'd grabbed the wrong marker for Parker's expensive whiteboard. My attempt at sharing social media mockups was now a permanent part of his office decor.

At least it was a good layout.

The composition is lovely. Really ties the room together. Also, you're paying for a new whiteboard.

I'll throw in some of those fancy dry-erase markers you like.

Make it the ones with the cushioned grips and we'll call it even. But seriously, you okay? You've been scattered since yesterday.

I stared at the message, unsure how to respond. Truth was probably best.

Found some of Gran's old journals, and I needed a retreat. It's her notes about the storm shelter restoration.

Perfect excuse to see Ranger McGrumpy again. Though based on Maya's gossip, you might not need an excuse anymore...

Heat flooded my cheeks.

I have no idea what you're talking about.

Sure you don't. That's why Tom had to redirect three hikers yesterday morning because someone was "busy with park documentation." ??

I'm turning my phone off now.

Use protection! Preferably not permanent markers!

I shoved my phone into my pocket, but I couldn't stop myself from smiling. I could trust Parker to find humor in my crisis of propriety. Though crisis was probably too strong of a word for something that had felt so right, despite all the reasons it shouldn't have.

***

When I arrived, the ranger station looked the same as the day before, and my pulse quickened as I approached. Wade's truck sat in its usual spot, forest green paint dusty from trail work. I clutched Gran's journals like a shield, with their leather covers warm and smooth against my palms.

"Hello?" My voice echoed in the front office. "Wade?"

Footsteps approached—heavy boots. Each step sent vibrations through the old floorboards. He appeared in his office doorway, and my jaw dropped as I looked at him. He wore his uniform shirt stretched taut across his muscular chest with the sleeves rolled up to his elbows. It revealed corded forearms dusted with dark hair.

"Holden." He only said my name, but how he said it made my skin tingle. His eyes darted to my lips before meeting my gaze, and I knew he was remembering, too.

I held up the journals. "Found something you might want to see."

He stepped back, inviting me into his office. Electricity crackled between us. I settled into the chair across from his desk, spreading out Gran's notebooks.

"These are Isabella's restoration notes," I explained, proud that my voice stayed steady. "Everything she executed in the shelter, including all her techniques and observations."

Wade leaned forward, his fingers hovering over a remarkably detailed page. "These are incredible. Look at how she layered the colors here." His voice softened with genuine appreciation. "She understood light like few artists do."

The rough pad of his index finger traced the air above Gran's sketches, and my skin prickled, remembering the grip of those hands on my waist. The chair's arms were smooth under my white-knuckled grip.

"Speaking of understanding light..." I grinned. "Want to hear how I ruined Parker's favorite whiteboard?"

The story spilled out—how I'd been so lost in thoughts of our kiss that I'd grabbed permanent markers instead of dry-erase ones. By the time I described Parker's face when he realized what had happened, Wade's lips curved into a genuine smile. It transformed his whole face, softening the usually stern lines.

"You should do that more often," I said without thinking.

"What, follow your example and ruin office supplies?"

"Smile. It suits you."

Wade's eyes darkened, and for a moment, I thought he might press closer and kiss me again. Instead, he cleared his throat and looked down at Gran's journals.

"These notes about water damage prevention..." His voice was rougher than usual. "They could help us preserve what's left."

My phone chose that moment to buzz with an incoming video call—my parents' faces on the screen. I declined it, but it shattered the air of intimacy between us.

"I should go." I stood. "You can keep the journals for now. Study them properly."

Wade nodded, but his hand moved like he might reach for me before dropping back to his desk. "Tomorrow? For the formal shelter assessment?"

"Tomorrow."

The walk home was slow and deliberate. My mind replayed every moment—how Wade's eyes had lit up studying Gran's notes and the careful distance we'd maintained while wanting to be closer.

When I returned home, Grandpa was awake and looking better than he had in days. He sat in his usual chair by the window, but something about his posture was different—more alert, almost mischievous.

"There's Blue Harbor's top photographer. You look different today. Lighter somehow."

I touched my cheeks, wondering if I was that obvious. "Just found some of Gran's old art supplies. They brought back good memories."

"Mhmm." He adjusted his oxygen tube with knowing eyes. "And I suppose those memories explain why you're practically floating?"

Heat crept up my neck. "What do you mean?"

"That blush tells me everything I need to know." He patted the arm of the chair next to his. "Come and sit. Tell your old grandfather what's got you glowing like one of Belle's sunset paintings."

I settled into the chair, the old leather creaking. "I found her restoration journals. They had all her notes about the shelter murals."

"Ah, yes. She worked on those for months." He stared into the distance, lost in his memories for a moment. "Some days, she'd come home covered in paint, babbling about how the light hit the waves just right. I'd never seen her so excited about a project." He reached over and squeezed my hand. "She had the same look you get when you've had a good day taking your morning photos."

"I wish..." My throat constricted. "I wish I'd asked her more about her work and really listened when she tried to tell me about it."

"Match." He shook his head. "She knew you were listening, even when you thought you weren't. That's how love works—it sinks in even when we're not paying attention." He studied my face. "Just like you're starting to understand pieces of her now, through sharing her art with someone who sees its value."

"Wade, he... he gets it, Grandpa. He has this way of—'

My phone's harsh buzz interrupted the moment. Mom's face appeared on the screen. She wore her FaceTime smile, already set in a way that meant she had news she thought was good but believed I wouldn't like.

"I should take this." Grandpa reached out and caught my wrist.

He lowered his voice to a whisper. "Remember what Belle used to say about timing?" His eyes crinkled. "Sometimes interruptions are the universe's way of letting us catch our breath before the next big wave."

"Since when did you get so philosophical?"

"Since my grandson started looking at a certain ranger like I used to look at your grandmother." He released my wrist with a gentle pat. "Go on. Take the call. But Holden?" He waited until I looked back into his eyes. "Don't let anyone else's waves knock you off course."

The phone buzzed again, more insistent this time. I answered, and Mom's worried face filled the screen. "Holden, sweetheart. We've been trying to reach you. The facility in Milwaukee has an opening, and we've started the paperwork..."

I heard Dad shuffling actual papers behind her, probably printouts of spreadsheets comparing care facilities or cost analyses of home healthcare versus institutional care. They'd reduced Grandpa's life—his stories, connection to Blue Harbor, and gentle philosophy about timing and waves—to numbers in columns.

I looked over at him while Mom detailed their plans. He'd closed his eyes, but his finger tapped against his armrest, letting me know he was listening to everything. The oxygen machine hummed, but it couldn't drown out Mom's voice as she outlined how they'd already arranged everything.

Her voice faded when I ended the call, but her words echoed in the quiet house. "We've already arranged everything ." Like Grandpa's life—our lives—were just items on a checklist waiting to be marked off.

"Well." He opened his eyes. "That was about as much fun as the time your grandmother tried to teach the minister's wife watercolor. Poor woman kept painting everything brown."

I moved to help him up, my hands steady even though my insides felt like lake water stirred up by a storm. "I seem to remember that story ending with the minister's wife becoming an amazing sculptor instead."

"Found her own path." He gripped my arm as he rose, his hand still strong even if his balance wavered. "Much to Belle's delight. She always said art finds its proper medium, just like people find their proper place."

The oxygen tube tangled as he turned. I untangled it with the practiced ease of months of caregiving, noting how the simple movement had left him slightly breathless. Still, his eyes remained bright, watching me with that particular mix of love and concern that parents probably spent years perfecting.

"They mean well." We slowly made our way down the hall. The house creaked around us.

I agreed. "They mean to help." I steadied him as he navigated the turn into his bedroom. "But they're helping from thousands of miles away, making decisions about your life—our lives—based on numbers on a page."

"Numbers have their place." He sat heavily on the bed's edge while I checked his oxygen levels. "But they don't tell the whole story, do they? Like that gauge there—it measures oxygen, but not how it feels to breathe the air coming off the lake at sunrise."

I adjusted his pillows, making sure the tubes wouldn't kink during the night. "Or how the light hits the water just right some mornings, making everything look like it's made of gold."

"Or how certain ranger trucks always seem to be parked at the best spots for watching that light." His eyes twinkled despite his fatigue.

"Grandpa..."

"What? I may be old, but I'm not blind." He caught my hand as I fussed with his blanket. "Match, do you remember what Belle used to say about restoration?"

"Which part? She had opinions about everything."

"About how you can't restore something to what it was before." He settled back against the pillows. "How the point isn't to erase the damage but to find beauty in the healing."

Understanding bloomed warmly in my chest. "Like Wade's sketches of the fire. They're not just about the trauma; they're about surviving it."

"Exactly." His voice softened. "Some things crack us open, but that's how the light gets in. Belle understood that. I think you do, too."

I checked his water glass and made sure his phone was charging within reach. Each small task carried more meaning than usual. "I'm not letting them take you to Milwaukee."

"No." He smiled, looking suddenly more like himself than he had in weeks. "You're not. Now go on—I can hear your grandmother's studio calling. She always did her best thinking in there after difficult conversations."

"You sure you'll be okay?"

"I've got my oxygen, my crossword, and a house full of memories keeping watch." He shooed me toward the door. "Go find whatever it is you're looking for in those journals of hers. Just remember—"

"I know, I know. Call if you need anything."

"Actually, I was going to say remember that art isn't the only thing worth preserving." He gave me a meaningful look. "Sometimes the most important restorations have nothing to do with paint and canvas."

I paused in the doorway, watching him settle in with his puzzle book. The oxygen machine hummed its steady rhythm, but it wasn't the sound of illness anymore. It was the sound of home, of choices made and lines drawn in the sand.

"Love you, Grandpa."

"Love you too, Match."

A few minutes later, I returned to Gran's studio. The moon painted silver stripes across her easel, and the night air carried the scent of pine through the open window. At the bottom of the metal box, I found a loose page in Gran's handwriting:

Some things are worth preserving, no matter how damaged they might seem. The trick is knowing which ones will flourish with care and which ones must be let go. The heart usually knows the difference, even when the head argues otherwise.

I pressed the paper to my chest, thinking about Wade's smile and Grandpa's knowing eyes. Gran had always said love was worth preserving. Looking at her careful notes about restoration and renewal, I was starting to understand exactly what she meant.