Chapter Twenty-Eight
Adam
The fast-spinning motor in my gloved hand whines, and the abrasive, harsh friction of sandpaper against the wood keeps the voices in my head subdued. I’m focused on my task, the continuous, grating, and rhythmic sound keeping me busy on the sweltering summer day. I’m inside the barn with the door wide open, sanding the old varnish off an antique table so I can refinish it with a warm chestnut wood stain. I’ve been keeping myself busy while Keri stays in town on a self-imposed retreat overnight to figure out what she wants to do.
We’re supposed to have a video conference between our legal teams tomorrow. Dan is handling everything. Thank goodness our photo was taken down from the Frenchman’s website, the cease and desist order working like a charm. The man assures us he doesn’t want any legal drama. He just wants Keri.
I’ve had some time to think about a global campaign, and I’m still resolute in my decision. I’m not doing it. I hope and pray Keri decides not to either. Dan and I have come up with an option for Pierre, which includes several poses from our shoot at Feather Falls. He could easily incorporate these images into his campaign, and Keri wouldn’t have to set foot on foreign soil. Pierre could have a heyday with a huge marketing campaign with these photos, his profits skyrocketing.
But this isn’t up to me. It’s totally her decision, and I’ll support her no matter what.
The thought of not having Keri around claws at me. She’s an anchor in my world. What if all of this is fleeting? Love isn’t just sunshine and hikes. I am living proof of its storms. Raw agony, and gut-wrenching grief. Endless nights wrestling with loss. Wondering how to piece your life back together. Sometimes it’s making excruciating choices and putting yourself first, even knowing you’d walk through flames for the one you love.
I stare off at the horizon through the open shed doors. The sun sizzles the golden meadows, the hazy view holding a vantage point of the tree-lined creek. It’s so quiet around here. It’s as if the air itself has gone still. And hasn’t it? I’ve been holding my breath for the last twenty-four hours.
Keri’s disappointment in my decision is clear. When she told me she needed space, suggesting a night at her apartment on Main Street, her words had a careful politeness I hadn’t noticed before. No usual enthusiasm; just a flat tone. Anything, even screaming, crying, or a slap in the face, would have felt better. Instead, her stare told me I’d let her down.
Since before dawn, I’ve been awake. Sleep was impossible. Pale light soaks into the barn interior. Hours ago, my coffee went cold. I keep replaying our heated conversation, her voice breaking when she said, “You’re asking me to choose between my dream and you.”
I hadn’t meant to. I just couldn’t stand the idea of her leaving. The thought of Pierre Jardo swallowing her whole terrifies me. My sweet Angel Face could disappear into someone else’s idea of who she should be.
I ache to see her happy, to support her dreams. But every time I close my eyes, I picture her fading from my world, swallowed up by someone else’s fantasy. I know this business. She’d be nothing but a nameless, perfect face in a crowd that never sees her truth. Not like I do.
After she left, I tried to distract myself by sorting through the last batch of photos I transferred to my laptop, my fingers brushing over the image of her face on the screen again and again. A thousand versions of her, every single one of them beautiful, and yet none of them quite what I was looking for. Beautiful but distant.
Then I rememberedthosephotos. The ones taken between shots—her laughing, her hair wild, her eyes alive. No posing, no pretense. Just her. The real Keri. Not the beauty queen or the potential face ofNouvelle Vie, but the woman who fills my lens with life.
I know what I want. This morning, I stood in the doorframe of our bedroom, gazing at our unmade bed with its twisted sheets and the faint indent from her pillow. The Mason jar of wildflowers on the bedside table and her slippers by the bathroom door. Wanting all of her, every day forever, is selfish and complicated, but it’s what I need.
But I also know she’s held her own dreams and desires since she was an impressionable young woman. I can’t fault her for that. This could be her big break. Or not. Pierre Jardo is a fickle man; I’ve seen it firsthand. If he does anything to upset Keri in our preliminary conversation, I’ll shut him down real quick.
I blink at the pressure building in my eyes from behind my protective eyewear and try to concentrate on my sanding. It was easy to fall in love with Keri. At the bar, with her sunny smile as I spun her around the dance floor at The Twisted Daisy. In my van, with her arm resting on the open window, the wind whipping through her blonde hair. At the precipice of Feather Falls, with my camera lens aimed right at her, pink lighting up her cheeks. In the silence, as she leaned against my shoulder after I told her I was a widower.
Those weeks on the road with her felt like a dream. Returning home was its own joy: the blender whirring, warm muffins from Miss Jenny’s in their sunny yellow box. Molly sprawling on the hideous green couch. Boots drying by the back door. I watched her come down the stairs, face bare of makeup, hair wet after a shower. Her oversized tee slipped off one shoulder, and her bright blue eyes found me. From the moment we met at Miss Jenny’s, I felt a pull toward Keri. Being part of her life means everything, and I hope she feels it too.
I’m not going to love anyone else. I don’t care about anything but Keri. Now that I have closure from losing my wife and child, I know Keri is the most important. But I also know I can’t commit to a global ad campaign with Pierre Jardo. I know this to my core.
I spent years creating photos, sharing pieces of myself with the world, hoping to find meaning or validation. Instead, I’ve only ended up with emptiness: Mia and Evie’s absence, the loss of my home, and now a French man who stole my photo and wants to take my angel. My motivation has always been to create, to heal, and to someday share nature photos and collaborate with Keri on herBeauty and the Beastidea, imagining a peaceful future. But my hope shifted the moment I shared that one photo with Dan—a single decision that could change everything for me.
I snap off the sander and lift my eyewear onto my sweaty head. I rarely get angry. It’s unnatural for me. But now, fury coils in my muscles, begging me to hurl the heavy machine against the wall. I want to flip the antique table, shatter the window with a hammer, and splinter the table legs. My palm trembles across my mouth as I slump into the corner and gulp down water, desperate to smother the heat surging inside me.
As I’m sitting there in the hotness of the day, Molly lifts her head and barks. I listen and can hear the distinct sound of tires over gravel.
“Keri?” I mutter, my heart fluttering back to life.
I toss the eyewear onto the workbench and step out into the blinding sun. I’m thankful for the slight breeze and trot through the tall meadow grasses toward the house. Cupping a hand over my eyes to fend off the glare, I stop in my tracks, disappointed by the strange car parked in the driveway.
Sweat trickles down my face and neck, my hair sticking to my skin. The oppressive summer heat is unbearable. I watch the driver’s side door open and have to blink several times. Either the sun has thoroughly scorched my brain, or I’m seeing an image that looks real but isn’t.
“Hey, cousin.”
My mouth goes dry, and I try to swallow. I must be seeing things because how on earth did Roxy find me in the middle of the country in Heartsboro, Georgia?
***
“Thank goodness you have air conditioning,” Roxy dramatically comments while running a paper towel across her sweaty forehead. I hand her a glass of iced tea I doctored with a few teaspoons of sugar. “Thank you.”
I nod and sit across from her at the kitchen table. The same table where I told Keri about our pirated photo less than twenty-four hours ago. I watch Roxy take a long sip and sigh.
