Chapter 9
Chapter Nine
Sierra
The morning light hits the alcove like it's auditioning for a starring role in my emotional breakdown.
I've been standing here for twelve minutes with my camera pressed to my face, pretending I'm just documenting any other architecture.
Professional. Sure. That’s me—just a totally composed adult trying not to cry on historic upholstery.
Angle after angle, the soft clicks of my mother’s Leica M3 camera the only comfort as I capture every crack, every worn edge, every place where generations of Morgans left their fingerprints on this wood.
Raw studs lay exposed like bones beneath skin.
The damage is worse than I expected—dark stains bleeding up from the sill, the kind of rot that doesn't announce itself until it's already halfway to catastrophe.
Kind of like feelings you've been ignoring for eleven years.
Focus, Barrett.
I adjust my aperture and frame the shot. The display cabinet still holds Grammie Bea's forty-seven snowmen—for now.
The one from Reykjavik judges me with its coal eyes as though the little turd has receipts.
Yeah, yeah. I know. I'm a mess. Good thing you can’t talk, you judgy little bastard.
I fire off another shot, hiding behind the click because avoidance is totally in season.
Then another.
The shutter’s click is the only thing keeping me grounded right now—that mechanical rhythm I've known since I was eight years old and my mother first pressed a camera into my hands.
“Light tells stories,” she used to say. “Your job is just to listen.”
The light in this alcove was, is, and will always be pure magic. Morning sun filters through thick glass, casting everything in honey and gold.
It's why Grammie Bea chose this spot for her collection.
Why generations of guests fell asleep on this seat with books in their laps and cocoa going cold on the ledge.
Why I chose this very spot to fall.
God, did I fall hard.
Stop it.
I lower the camera and reach for the subject in front of me—calling it the subject doing nothing to ease the pain—and press my palm flat against the window seat's worn upholstery.
It’s faded to a soft, tired hush under my palm from decades of use, from children climbing up to watch snow fall, couples stealing kisses, from the girl I used to be spending every free moment weaving him into her history, but still the integrity of the fabric holds true.
My throat tightens.
And this—right here—is the trap of preservation work.
You can’t save a damn thing without knowing what it held. What it took from you. What it gave back.
You can't understand what it meant without remembering.
And when you’ve framed your subject into your history, framed yourself into his, remembering fucking hurts.
The front door bangs open somewhere behind me, followed by Caleb's voice at a volume that should be illegal before noon.
“SHUTTERBUG! Where are you? We need your expertise!”
“In here.” I wince. “And for the love of God, use your indoor voice.”
He appears in the doorway, somehow managing to look both exhausted and vibrating with manic energy.
It's a talent, honestly. The human equivalent of a golden retriever jacked up on their owner’s espresso.
“Indoor voice? What are we, ten?” He drops onto the arm of the nearest couch, nearly toppling it.
“Some of us are.”
“You’re funny, but give it up, you’ll never be as funny as me.”
He winks and grins, something I’m sure he learned from the Morgans. Specifically, Uncle Seth. One day, he’s going to turn that on the one and she’s going to go tits up faster than my shutter speed.
“The TV crew's going to be here in like three hours and we still don't have a shot list for the heritage walk.”
“We have a shot list. I emailed it to all of you this morning.”
“You did?” He pulls out his phone, scrolling. “Oh. You did. Huh. That's very... thorough.”
“That's literally my job.”
“Right, right.” He squints at the screen. “What's a 'transitional B-roll opportunity'?”
I pinch the bridge of my nose. He’s going to do this all the way through. Because he’s a fucking sponge for new information who also manages to forget he can Google just like the rest of us.
This is going to be a long day.
A long week.
A long festival that I'm definitely going to survive without committing fratricide.
Probably.
“It means filler footage,” I explain, turning back to my documentation. “Shots of details that help tell the story between the main segments. Crackling fires. Steam rising off hot chocolate. Hands wrapped around mugs.”
“So... vibes.”
“Sure. Vibes.” Gross. May I never have to use that fucking word again.
Holly appears behind him, looking significantly more put-together despite the early hour.
She's got a clipboard—because of course she does—and the focused expression of a woman who has decided chaos will bend to her will today.
“Caleb, I need you. Roman's trying to rearrange the hot chocolate station and Everett's about to strangle him with garland. If he upgrades to string lights, we might actually have to hide a body and I can’t fit anything else on this to-do list.”
“Ooh, festive violence.” He bounces off the couch. “My favorite.”
He takes off as quickly as he spun in, leaving Holly and me in the golden peacefulness of the alcove.
She stays quiet, watching me with that too-knowing stare that makes my skin itch.
If she doesn’t stop it, she’s getting the flash treatment I gave Everett.
“You okay?” she finally asks.
“Documenting,” I say, way too sharp for the lie it is.
“Mmhmm.” She moves closer, running her fingers along the edge of the display cabinet.
“You know, when Chance and I first got together. Together, together. I spent about three months convinced I was going to destroy everything. His friendship with Nick. My relationship with my brother. The entire delicate ecosystem of our families.”
And she’s laying down full Little House on the Prairie energy
Subtle.
Sooooo fucking subtle.
I’d laugh if she wasn’t tiptoeing straight toward the landmine I pretend doesn’t exist. I lower my camera and keep from choking her because she means well. “Did you?”
“Destroy everything?” She laughs softly. “No. We’re definitely good now. There were some tense moments. Nick threatened to murder Chance at least twice. But mostly...” She shrugs. “Mostly, the people who love you just want you to be happy. Even when it's complicated.”
“Complicated. Too bad I’m far past complicated, it's not even a compatible upgrade anymore.”
“Yeah, I don’t know about that.” Her gaze lands on my camera. My 1954 Lecia M3 with what’s becoming one of my favorite lenses… newly released last year.
Because this model’s such a steady classic, it blends old soul with new tech like it was born for it.
Shit.
Make that double shit.
There’s no clean answer—just a mess of ones I don’t dare unwrap.
Holly squeezes my arm. “I'm not going to push. Just… don't shut the door on yourself, okay? Sometimes the thing that terrifies you is the thing that fits.”
Before I can respond, Nolan's voice cuts through from the lobby.
“They’re here.” Classic Nolan—calm voice, doomsday energy.
Holly and I exchange a look before heading toward the front of the lodge. Through the windows, I watch the production van pulling up the drive, followed by a glossy black SUV that practically hands out business cards and a media kit.
The crew piles out first—cameras, equipment cases, enough cables to rig a small arena. They move with the terrifying coordination of people who run on caffeine, deadlines, and emotional voids.
Then the SUV door opens.
Tara Greene is smaller than I expected. Petite, with sharp cheekbones and a smile that's two degrees too bright. She's dressed in cream cashmere and cognac boots, looking like she just stepped out of a holiday catalog—the kind of catalog where everyone’s laughing at nothing and clutching artisanal wreaths they definitely don’t have storage space for.
“The Morgan Lodge!” She spreads her arms like she's embracing the whole mountain. “Even more charming than the photos. I can already feel the story here.”
Everett steps forward to meet her, and I watch his shoulders set into that careful posture he gets when he's preparing for battle. Basically, every conversation with his dad that I’ve witnessed since he returned home.
Polite. Controlled. Revealing nothing.
“Ms. Greene. Welcome to Morgan Lodge.”
“Tara, please.” She takes his hand in both of hers, holding it a beat too long. “And you must be Everett. Fourth generation, right? I love that. There's nothing more compelling than legacy.”
Her eyes scan past him, cataloging faces like she's already editing the footage in her head. Roman. Caleb. Nolan. Holly. Chance.
Then they land on me.
Something flickers—interest? Calculation? A producer smelling blood in the water?—then she clicks her charm back into place like a slow-close toilet lid—quiet, controlled, and undeniably plastic.
“And you must be our heritage expert.” She glides over, extending a hand. “Sierra Barrett. I did my research. Your preservation work on the Pemaquid estate was beautiful. Very...” She tilts her head. “...thorough.”
There’s that fucking word again.
“Thank you. And it’s fifth. Everett is the fifth generation lodge owner.” I shake her hand, noting her perfectly manicured grip, the way her eyes flick over me like she’s labeling files in her head.
“Five,” she repeats slowly. “Of course.” Her smile sharpens at the edges. “Anyway, the lodge's history is genuinely remarkable. You know, I've always found that the best stories aren't the ones in the history books. They're the ones people are trying not to tell.”
Tara’s gaze flicks between us with the speed of a hawk spotting movement in tall grass.
A cold spike knifes down my spine. “I'm sorry?” I manage.
“Oh, nothing ominous.” She laughs—a practiced tinkle that doesn't reach her eyes. “Just an observation. Families are fascinating. The tensions, the loyalties, the secrets. That's what makes heritage so compelling, isn't it? The weight of what came before.”