Chapter 6
Chapter Six
Connor
"I think that's the last customer," I say, flipping the sign on the door to 'Closed.' The sun is setting over Main Street, casting long shadows through the bakery windows.
It's been a week since the storm, since finding Sarah on that trail, since something shifted between us that I still can't name. I've been stopping by the bakery more often. Not just Tuesdays now, but almost daily. At first, I told myself it was just to check on her ankle. Then to help while she was on crutches. Today, I ran out of excuses and simply showed up.
Sarah looks up from wiping down the counter, a loose strand of hair falling across her cheek. She tucks it behind her ear, leaving a smudge of flour on her temple.
"Thanks," she says. "You really don't have to stay and help close up."
"I know." It's become our refrain over the past week. I know. I want to.
She moves with more confidence now, the limp barely noticeable. But I've caught her wincing when she thinks no one is looking, the long hours on her feet taking their toll.
"How's the ankle?" I ask, gathering empty plates from the last table.
"Better." She empties the register, counting bills with practiced efficiency. "Dr. Wagner says I can probably ditch the brace in another week."
I nod, secretly wondering what excuse I'll have to keep showing up once she's fully healed. The thought unsettles me. When did Sarah Miller become someone I look for reasons to see?
"Almost done," she says. "Just need to finish up the day's paperwork in the back, then we can lock up."
I follow her into the office behind the kitchen, a small space cramped with filing cabinets, a desk covered with papers, and a bulletin board plastered with recipes torn from magazines. It's organized chaos, much like her house. Everything in its own strange order that somehow makes sense to her.
"Can I get you anything before you go?" she asks, shifting a stack of papers to make room for the day's receipts. "There's half a loaf of sourdough left. Or some of those chocolate chip cookies you pretend not to like but always eat three of."
I laugh. "I don't pretend not to like them."
"Connor, every time I offer you one, you say 'maybe just one' and then eat at least three."
She knows my habits. The realization warms something in my chest.
"Fine. I'll take some cookies."
She smiles, that real smile that reaches her eyes, not the polite one she gives customers. "There are napkins on the shelf. Grab some and I'll wrap them up."
I reach for the napkins, my elbow catching the edge of a folder. It tips, sending papers cascading across the desk and onto the floor.
"Sorry," I mutter, crouching to gather them.
"Don't worry about it," she says, kneeling beside me despite her ankle.
That's when I see them. Photos. Not the digital prints most people have nowadays, but proper photographs, developed with care on high-quality paper. I pick one up. It’s of an elderly couple sitting on a bench in the town square, holding hands. The composition is perfect, the light catching the woman's silver hair like a halo. Another shows a child leaping through a puddle, suspended in mid-air, joy captured in motion.
"These are really good," I say, gathering more. There's Kathryn, laughing behind the counter at The Coffee Loft. The mayor feeding pigeons. Mrs. Henderson arranging flowers in her shop window.
Then I find one that stops my breath.
It's me. Standing near the lodge, my back to the camera, silhouetted against the light. But it's not just a silhouette. Somehow, Sarah has captured the moment just as I turned slightly, my profile visible, eyes closed, face tilted toward the sun. The shot catches my features in a way that shows peace. Contentment. A stillness I didn't know my face could reveal.
I've seen countless photos of myself over the years—family pictures, promotional shots for the lodge's website, selfies with hiking groups. But I've never seen myself like this. Never known I could look like this.
"When did you take this?" My voice comes out rougher than intended.
Sarah freezes, her eyes widening when she sees what I'm holding. "I—that's—" She reaches for it, but I move it just beyond her grasp, still staring.
"Sarah."
A blush rises on her cheeks. "Last summer. I was making a delivery and took a couple of pictures of the garden."
But she hadn't photographed the lodge’s garden that morning. She'd photographed me.
"You never showed me this."
Her blush deepens. "It's nothing. Just something I was practicing with light and shadow techniques. I should have asked permission."
I look back at the photo. It's not just technically good. It's intimate somehow. Like she saw something in me that no one else bothers to look for.
"You're really talented," I say, finally meeting her eyes. "All of these…they're amazing."
She ducks her head, gathering the other photos quickly. "It’s only a hobby."
"A serious hobby, from the looks of it." I gesture to the dozens of photos. "How long have you been doing this?"
"Since high school. My mom gave me my first camera for my sixteenth birthday." She takes the photos from my hands, but I keep hold of the one of me. "You can, um, keep that if you want. Or I can get rid of it. I know it's weird that I?—"
"I'd like to keep it," I interrupt, surprising both of us.
Sarah stills, her eyes meeting mine with a question in them I'm not sure how to answer. Why would I want this photo? What does it mean that she took it in the first place?
"Okay," she says softly.
* * *
I'm sitting on my cabin's porch, staring at the photo for what must be the twentieth time tonight. The lodge is quiet, guests settled in for the evening. A light breeze rustles through the pines, carrying the scent of approaching summer.
But I barely notice any of it. All I can see is this image. Me, caught in a moment of complete peace. The kind of moment I rarely allow myself to have, much less show to others.
And Sarah saw it. Captured it. Kept it.
"You're going to wear that photo out if you keep staring at it like that."
I look up to find my mother standing at the bottom of the porch steps, a thermos in her hand. Even in the dim light, I can see the knowing look in her eyes.
"Just checking my good side," I joke weakly, making no move to put the photo away.
Mom doesn't miss much. She climbs the steps with the grace of a woman half her age and settles into the chair beside mine, setting the thermos between us.
"Chamomile," she says, nodding toward it. "You look like you could use it."
"I'm fine."
"Mmm." She doesn't contradict me, just waits in that patient way of hers.
I sigh, giving in. "Sarah took it. Sarah Miller."
"The baker." There's no question in her voice.
"Yeah." I pass her the photo. "She has this whole collection. Street photography. People around town. They're really good."
My mother studies the image, her expression softening. "She captured something special here."
"That's what bothers me," I admit. "I didn't know I ever looked like that."
"Like what?" she prompts.
"I don't know. At peace, maybe?" I run a hand through my hair. "The thing is, she took this last summer. And the way she looked when I found it... like I'd discovered some secret."
My mother hands the photo back, her eyes too perceptive. "Maybe you did."
The implication hangs in the air between us. I've suspected for days now, but haven't allowed myself to fully form the thought.
"She's always been there," I say finally. "At the bakery. At town events. Just... there. And I never really saw her. Not the way she apparently saw me."
"And now?" My mother's voice is gentle.
"Now I can't stop seeing her." The admission feels like letting go of something I've been clutching too tightly. "How long has she felt this way? How did I miss it?"
Evie pats my knee. "Sometimes the things we're looking for are right in front of us all along."
"I wasn't looking for anything."
"Weren't you?" She stands, pressing a kiss to the top of my head like she did when I was small. "Drink your tea, Connor. And maybe consider that Sarah Miller might be exactly what you've been needing without realizing it."
She leaves me with that thought, her footsteps fading as she returns to the main lodge.
I look back at the photo, seeing it differently now. It's not just how Sarah sees me. It's evidence of how long she's been seeing me. The real me. Not the guide, the brother, the Callahan son that everyone else knows.
And I've been blind. Coming to her bakery week after week, brushing past her like she was just part of the scenery. Never noticing how her eyes followed me, how she remembered exactly how I took my coffee, how she always had blueberry scones on Tuesdays.
Sarah Miller has known me—really known me—all this time.