Chapter 18 What I See
Silas
I pull the first print from the drawer, and my hands are shaking slightly.
Hundreds of shots. Countless hours editing, printing, re-printing when the colors weren’t quite right or the crop didn’t capture what I wanted.
And Bailey’s the first person who’s going to see it.
I set the first photo on my desk—the mountain at sunrise in January, the ski runs cutting white lines through the trees, the lodge lit up like a beacon in the predawn darkness.
“This is beautiful,” Bailey says softly, leaning closer to examine it.
“Thanks.” I pull out another. “I didn’t really have a plan at first—just started documenting Here through the seasons.”
The second photo is spring—dogwoods in full bloom along the trail to the fire tower, that pink-white explosion of flowers against the green.
Bailey’s quiet, studying each image as I lay them out.
Summer at the swimming hole, Morgan and Kit mid-cannonball contest, their faces frozen in competitive determination.
Fall foliage from the summit, the valley spread out in impossible reds and golds.
Winter again, but this time Main Street during the holiday market, lights strung between buildings, people bundled up and laughing.
“Silas,” she breathes. “These are . . . wow.”
I keep pulling prints. The farmers market in May. Quinn working on an electrical panel at someone’s house, her tool belt slung low on her hips. Jared’s daughter on his shoulders at Sunday Fun Day, her tiny hands covering his eyes while he pretends to stumble around blindly.
“You’re really good at this,” Bailey says, and there’s something in her voice—surprise, maybe, or respect.
“Thanks.” I set down another photo. “Most of my work is commercial. Headshots, real estate listings, family portraits. But this . . .” I gesture at the prints spreading across my desk. “This is what I actually care about.”
She picks up the photo of Jared and his daughter, examining it closely. “This is why you stay.”
It’s not a question.
“Yeah.” I pull out more photos. The Tran family outside Kinnara, three generations together.
Miss Mullins at the Pride parade, rainbow face paint streaked across her cheeks, grinning like she’s never been happier.
The book club gathered at Chapter & Song, their monthly pick in various stages of being read.
“It’s a love letter,” Bailey says quietly. “To Here.”
My throat goes tight. “I guess it is.”
I lay out the final series—the four seasons from the same vantage point at the summit. Winter, spring, summer, fall. The same view, completely transformed each time.
Bailey studies them for a long moment, her expression unreadable.
“What are you going to do with them?” she finally asks.
“I don’t know.” I lean against my desk, watching her face. “I’ve thought about trying to publish them. Or maybe exhibit them somewhere. Or . . .” I shrug. “Maybe they’re just for me.”
“They shouldn’t be just for you.” She looks up, her eyes bright. “Silas, these are really good. Like, gallery-quality good.”
“You think?”
“I know.” She turns back to the photos, picking up the spring dogwoods again. “The composition, the lighting—you’re not just documenting. You’re telling stories.”
Pride warms my chest. “That’s what I was hoping to do.”
She sets the photo down carefully. “There’s a gallery in the city. My coworker’s friend runs it. They do a lot of regional work—photographers from upstate, the Catskills, the Hudson Valley. This would fit perfectly.”
My heart stutters. “You think they’d be interested?”
“I think you should send them your portfolio.” She meets my eyes. “This is too good to keep hidden in a drawer.”
For a moment, we just look at each other. Then she glances back down at the photos, and I see something shift in her expression.
“What is it?” I ask.
“Nothing. Just . . .” She picks up the winter Main Street shot, the one with the holiday lights. “I didn’t think Here could look like this.”
“Like what?”
“Beautiful.” Her voice is almost a whisper. “I spent so long hating this place. Hating the memories. Hating how small it felt.” She looks up at me. “But you see something completely different.”
I step closer. “I see home. Community. People building lives together.”
“I see the place I ran away from.” She sets the photo down, her fingers tracing the edge of the print. “But maybe . . . maybe I’ve been seeing it wrong all this time.”
My breath catches. “What do you mean?”
“I mean . . .” She gestures at the photos spread across my desk.
“I left because I thought Here was small and limiting and full of bad memories. But you’ve been here the whole time, seeing all of this.
” She picks up the photo of Miss Mullins with her rainbow face paint.
“The community that’s grown. The changes.
The people who chose to build something here. ”
“You could visit more,” I say carefully. “See for yourself how much has changed.”
“Maybe.” She meets my eyes, and there’s something tentative there, something fragile. “If I had a reason to.”
“You have a reason.” I step closer, my hand finding hers. “Me.”
Her breath catches. “Silas—”
“I know it’s complicated. I know you have your life in the city and I have mine here. But Bailey . . .” I squeeze her hand. “I want to figure it out. If you do.”
She’s quiet for a long moment, studying our joined hands. Then: “I want to figure it out too.”
Relief floods through me, so intense it’s almost painful. I pull her close, pressing my forehead against hers. “Yeah?”
“Yeah.” She rises on her toes and kisses me, soft and sweet and full of promise.
I respond immediately, my hands finding her waist, pulling her closer. She makes a small sound against my mouth, and suddenly we’re not thinking about geography or logistics or impossible situations.
Her fingers find my belt loops and tug me even closer—the same move I used on her at the dartboard last night. Photos scatter off the edge of my desk as she leans back against it, pulling me with her.
“Silas,” she breathes against my mouth.
“Yeah?”
She nips my lip. “I think you should take your pants off.”
I groan and press her back, back, back until she’s lying down on my desk. Most of the pictures are safely on the other side of the desk, but Bailey’s hair falls over the picture of the autumn leaves.
Smoothing my hands up her thigh, I lift her top and start working on her jeans. “I think we should both get naked.”
I’ve got her waistband around her ankles when her phone rings from the back pocket, which is practically in my hand. I look at the screen.
Hunter.
I show Bailey the phone and she rolls her eyes. “It’s like he knows.”
She takes the phone and hits decline, but I can tell the mood has shifted.
I lean over her, forearms on either side of her torso and pressed into the desktop. “You should go.”
She groans. I love that she’s as reluctant to leave as I am. It gives me hope.
“But later?”
“Later.” I kiss her again, unable to help myself. “Definitely later.”
She straightens her shirt, runs her fingers through her hair. Then she picks up the photo of Miss Mullins with her rainbow face paint, studying it one more time. “Thank you. For showing me these. For letting me see what you see.”
“Thank you for being the first.”
She sets the photo down carefully, then kisses me one more time—quick, sweet, promising more later.
Then she’s gone, her footsteps echoing down the stairs, and I’m alone with my photos and the knowledge that maybe, just maybe, we can figure this out.
I put the photos away carefully, tucking them back into their drawers, and walk home.
Echo gives me her usual greeting at the door and I move the dresser out to the garage to begin the refinishing.
I strip and I sand, and all I can think about is the way she looked at my photos.
The way she said “It’s a love letter to Here.
” The way her hand felt in mine when we walked through town.
Just at the point where my back hurts and my fingers are tired of holding the sanding block, my phone rings.
Monica Schaefer, as in the Schaefers who own Sirens Valley Lodge. My brow wrinkles. Why is she calling me?
“Hello, this is Silas Montgomery.”
“Silas, hi, it’s Monica Schaefer. Do you have a minute?”
“Sure.” I stretch my back and put my phone between my ear and my shoulder. I need to go inside and wash my hands, probably.
“First off, I know I’m not your client—yet—but I need to know that what I tell you today is confidential.”
That makes my eyebrows fly up.
Look, I’d love to tell you what Monica says next. I really would. But she just hit me with the confidentiality card, and I’m already in enough trouble with Hunter.
What I can tell you is this: it’s going to complicate the hell out of everything.