Chapter 9

nine

JACOB

When Shane told me he was getting married in a barn, I hadn’t known what to expect. I’d imagined bales of hay for seats, cobwebs spun around the rafters, and mice living in the loft. But this barn was beyond anything I expected to see.

The red, two-story building stood tall and proud in the middle of a working ranch. Instead of horse stalls and a tack room, rows of wooden seats decorated with white bows and small bouquets of lavender filled the large, open-plan space.

Garlands of pine wove around the rafters, filling the barn with the sweet scent of the forest. At the front of the room, an arch covered in white roses provided a focal point for the celebration that was about to happen.

I found a seat, said hello to the people beside me, and tried to look as though I belonged.

I’d looked everywhere for Andrew when I arrived, but I couldn’t find him. If I had his cell phone number, I would have called to make sure he was okay. Because, if there was one thing I knew, he wouldn’t want to be late for his friends’ wedding.

“Is anyone sitting beside you?”

I looked at Jenny Cook and smiled. “The seat’s all yours.” Glancing over my shoulder, I looked for Jenny’s husband. “Isn’t Allan coming?”

“He had to keep the store open, but he’ll join us for the reception. Isn’t the barn lovely? I always knew it would make a beautiful wedding venue.”

“Is this the first wedding they’ve held here?”

Jenny shook her head. “No, but it’s the first one I’ve been to.” She opened the wedding program and sighed. “Jonathon and Shane have chosen some lovely readings.”

A door opened at the side of the barn. A man who wasn’t much older than me walked toward the rose-covered arch, followed by Shane and Alex.

Jenny sighed. “Oh, my. I’ve never seen Shane look so nervous. I just hope Alex hasn’t forgotten the rings.”

As if hearing Jenny’s voice, Alex’s hand lifted to his jacket pocket. Even from where I was sitting, I could see the relief on his face.

Another group of people entered the barn. Andrew wasn’t one of them. “Have you seen Andrew?”

Jenny’s eyebrows rose. “I thought he would’ve been here ages ago.”

“So did I.”

“He’s probably waiting at the front of the barn for Jonathon to arrive.”

I had no idea why he’d be waiting outside. Even though the sun was still shining, it was a lot warmer in the barn.

The jazz music that was quietly playing in the background drifted into silence. In its place, the first notes of Nat King Cole’s “When I Fall in Love” filled the barn.

“Jonathon must be here,” Jenny whispered.

The atmosphere inside the barn became electric, then softened to something much gentler as Jonathon stood at the back of the barn with his parents.

As he started walking down the aisle, I turned and watched my friend. Shane was wiping tears from his eyes.

I swallowed the emotions clogging my throat. Shane had been through so much. In the aftermath of Afghanistan, Shane had returned home to find a new kind of normal. Jonathon became his anchor. But it had taken another three years and many miles of separation for them to realize they’d never stopped loving each other.

“There’s Andrew,” Jenny whispered.

I followed the direction of Jenny’s gaze. Andrew stood on a chair, his camera poised in front of him. As Jonathon walked down the aisle, he moved slightly, capturing the moment Shane saw his groom. “I didn’t know he was the official photographer.”

“He doesn’t do many weddings. Jonathon was lucky Andrew was between commissions. Did you realize you’ve got some of his photos in your home?”

The only framed images I’d bought were in my entranceway. I’d found the wildlife prints at a gallery in Boulder. But they couldn’t be Andrew’s. The photos had been taken by A. Clarke…an up-and-coming photographer from Colorado. A sinking feeling hit my stomach.

“The ones beside the stairs,” Jenny whispered. “It’s almost as if Andrew knew where they’d be going. I couldn’t imagine them in anyone else’s home.”

Neither could I. I’d underestimated Andrew. Without seeing his work, I’d pigeon-holed his career into something less than what he’d created.

What I didn’t understand was why he was so secretive about what he did. If my photographs were half as good as Andrew’s, I wouldn’t have changed the subject when we were talking about his work.

But, thankfully, he wasn’t like me.