Chapter 9
Chapter Nine
C harlotte woke to February sunlight streaming through her bedroom windows and Milo's gentle snoring at the foot of her bed. Her tiny rental bungalow, just off the beach, had slowly transformed from a temporary space into something that felt like home. Her photography prints now hung on the walls, and the antique desk she'd found at the island's thrift store sat beneath the window, covered in notes and contact sheets for the coffee table book.
Even the morning light felt different, less like something to capture and more like something to live in. She stretched and climbed out of bed, pulling on thick socks against the cold hardwood floors. Milo raised his head, decided it wasn't quite time to wake up, and promptly went back to sleep.
In the kitchen, Charlotte started the coffee maker, inhaling deeply as the rich aroma filled the small space. She poured her first cup when she heard the familiar sound of Grant's truck in the driveway, followed by his boots on the porch steps.
He didn't knock anymore. Hadn't for days now. The door opened, and there he was, holding a small bunch of bright yellow daffodils from the flower shop.
"Chloe says these mean new beginnings," he said, pressing a kiss to her temple as he handed them to her. "Thought that was fitting."
"They're perfect." Charlotte buried her nose in the flowers, breathing in their fresh scent. She'd never been the type to keep fresh flowers around, but now she had a growing collection of mason jars that served as vases.
Grant moved easily through her kitchen, grabbing his usual mug from the cabinet and pouring his own coffee. He'd brought pastries too, cranberry scones from the bakery, still warm.
"I thought we could tackle the Marshall boathouse today," she said, settling at her small kitchen table. "It's the last location I need for the book."
"Ah, saving the best for last?" Grant's eyes crinkled at the corners as he smiled. "That old place has some stories to tell."
"Care to share them while you help me with my equipment?"
"Trying to get free manual labor out of me, Bennett?"
"Always." She grinned over her coffee cup. "Besides, you love it."
An hour later, they pulled up to the boathouse. It sat at the end of a narrow dirt road, weathered gray wood stark against the winter sky. The structure seemed to lean slightly toward the water, as if listening for long-gone boats.
"Watch your step," Grant said, taking her heaviest camera bag. "The ground's uneven here. Last spring's storms did a number on the shoreline."
Charlotte followed him down the path, careful to avoid the deeper ruts. The boathouse had clearly seen better days, but that's what made it perfect for the book. It was a testament to the island's working history, waiting for its own restoration.
While Charlotte set up her tripod, Grant examined the building's foundation. She loved watching him work, the way his hands moved over old wood with such care and knowledge. He pulled a few tools from his truck and began securing a loose board, the quiet sounds of his work creating a peaceful backdrop to her photography.
"The Marshall family used to run fishing charters from here," he said as she adjusted her lens. "Old photos show dozens of boats lined up at that dock. Course, that was before the hurricane of '47 changed the shoreline."
Charlotte captured the way the morning light hit the weathered walls, highlighting decades of stories in the grain of the wood. "Think it could be restored?"
"Maybe." Grant's voice held that tone she'd come to recognize—the one that meant he was already planning, seeing possibilities in the worn boards and rusty hinges. "The bones are solid. It just needs?—"
A crash behind them made them both jump. Milo had spotted a ghost crab and, in his excitement to chase it, had knocked over Charlotte's equipment bag. Her extra lenses rolled across the wooden dock as Milo bounded after his prey.
"Milo!" they called in unison, then broke into laughter as the dog ignored them completely, still focused on his elusive target.
"I got it," Grant said, already gathering her equipment. "You keep shooting. Light's perfect right now."
Charlotte smiled, watching him carefully check each lens before returning it to her bag. Six weeks ago, she would have panicked at the thought of someone handling her expensive equipment. Now it felt natural, right. Like so many things about being here did.
She turned back to her camera, but not before catching Grant's quiet grin as he watched her work. The morning sun caught the silver in his hair, and something tugged in her chest. This was what she'd been looking for all those years of traveling. Palmar Island wasn’t just a place to belong, but someone to belong with.
"You're staring," Grant said without looking up from the board he was fixing.
"Just admiring the view." She snapped a quick shot of him working, loving the way his cheeks flushed slightly.
"Pretty sure the book's supposed to be about the buildings, not the carpenter."
"My camera, my rules." Charlotte lowered her lens just as Milo returned, looking extremely pleased with himself despite his unsuccessful crab hunt. "Besides, you're part of the island's story too."
Grant stood and crossed to her, brushing sawdust from his hands. "And what story is that?"
"The one about a wandering photographer who found her way home." She rose on her toes to kiss him, tasting coffee and salt air. "Thanks to a very persistent dog and a carpenter who sees the beauty in old things."
"Not so old," he murmured against her lips.
"The dog or the carpenter?"
His laugh echoed across the water, and Charlotte caught that too with her camera—the joy of this moment, this place, this life she'd chosen. Some things, she was learning, were worth more than just photographing. They were worth living.
The Roasted Bean glowed like a jewel box in the February evening, its windows steamy from the crowd inside. Charlotte paused at the entrance, taking in the scene. String lights twinkled overhead, and the usual coffee shop scents of espresso and pastries mingled with the warmth of mulled cider they'd prepared specially for tonight.
"Ready?" Grant squeezed her hand.
Inside, it seemed like half the island had turned out. Kenny from the hardware store was chatting with Mary from the diner. Mitch, Roasted Beans' owner, had cleared space for a display of Charlotte's photos. Even Jacob Oswald had traded his work clothes for a sweater and dress pants.
"There's our girl!" Miss Doris appeared, pulling Charlotte into a hug that smelled of lavender and fresh-baked cookies. "We're so proud of you, dear."
"Thank you for coming," Charlotte started, but more voices called out greetings. She found herself wrapped in the kind of welcome she'd never experienced in all her years of traveling.
Milo worked the crowd like a professional, knowing exactly which hands were likely to slip him treats. He'd already charmed a cookie from Mary and was setting his sights on Miss Doris's pocket.
"Charlotte." An elegant woman in her sixties approached, and Charlotte recognized Evelyn Sutton from their previous meetings. "These prints are extraordinary. You've captured exactly what I hoped for—not just the buildings, but their souls."
"Thank you, Mrs. Sutton. That means so much."
"Please, it's Evelyn." She gestured to a photograph of the Carroway Building. "The way you've shown the light through those windows... It's as if you can feel the history breathing through the image."
"She has a gift for that," Grant said quietly, his hand warm against Charlotte's lower back. "Seeing the heart of things."
Charlotte leaned into his touch, remembering that first morning at the Carroway Building. How different things had been then. She'd been focused on deadlines and perfect shots, not realizing she was capturing the first moments of her own story.
"You two," Miss Doris declared, appearing with fresh cups of cider, "are the island's dream team. One preserves the buildings, the other preserves the memories." She raised her cup. "To our very own restoration specialist and his photographer!"
The crowd cheered, and Charlotte felt her cheeks warm as Grant pressed a kiss to her temple. Around them, conversation and laughter flowed easily. These people had become more than subjects for her book. They were neighbors, friends, family.
Later, when the crowd had thinned and Milo had exhausted his treat-gathering opportunities, Charlotte and Grant stepped outside. The night was clear and cold, stars scattered like diamond dust across the sky.
"Walk you home?" Grant asked, though they both knew he'd end up staying, as he had most nights lately.
They strolled down Main Street, their joined hands swinging gently between them. Milo trotted ahead, occasionally stopping to investigate interesting smells.
"I was thinking," Grant said, "about that boathouse."
"What about it?"
"It's got potential. Good bones, like I said. With the right restoration..." He glanced at her. "Could be a nice studio space. For a certain photographer who might need somewhere to work."
Charlotte's heart swelled. "Are you offering to restore a building just for me?"
"Well." His thumb traced patterns on her palm. "I might have ulterior motives. Been wanting to expand my workspace anyway. Could be a good joint project."
"A studio and workshop?" Charlotte smiled. "Very practical, Mr. Lawson."
"I thought so." They stopped at the corner where Main Street met Harbor Drive. "Though I have some less practical ideas too."
"Oh?"
"Been thinking about that lighthouse on the outer island. Needs some work, but..." He pulled her closer. "Might make a nice spot for a wedding someday."
Charlotte's breath caught. They hadn't talked about marriage yet, but the idea settled in her chest like it had always belonged there. "Someday soon?"
Grant's kiss was soft, full of promise. "Whenever you're ready."
They continued their walk, trading ideas about the boathouse renovation and other projects they could tackle together. Charlotte thought about all the places she'd been, all the beautiful things she'd photographed. None of them compared to this—the simple joy of walking home on a winter night, making plans with the man she loved, while their dog ran circles around their feet.
At her front door, Grant pulled her close again. "Proud of you," he murmured into her hair. "The book is going to be amazing."
"It isn’t done yet. And for the record, I couldn't have done it without my tour guide." She pressed closer, breathing in the familiar scent of sawdust and coffee that clung to his sweater. "Or my home."
Above them, stars wheeled in the winter sky, and somewhere in the harbor, bells chimed the hour. Charlotte smiled, knowing that tomorrow would bring more moments worth capturing—not just with her camera, but with her heart.
She had all the time in the world to do both.