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Rose gives her a comical double take, her expression mirroring her granddaughter’s. “You never said anything about John being auctioned off.”
“I just assumed it’s a given,” Samantha says, the eye roll now in her tone. “We said hot men, and your boyfriend is certainly hot.”
Delores’s eyes gleam with mischief. “Are you worried one of the younger ladies will bid for your man?”
Rose’s eyebrows disappear under white bangs. “Perhaps. What about Fred? Will he be auctioned off too?” Her question is directed to Delores.
“As much as I love my husband, I don’t think he falls into the category of hot men.” Delores pats Rose’s hand. “You have nothing to worry about. I’ve seen how John looks at you. You’re the sun in his sky and the oxygen he breathes.”
“That’s very poetic.” The words stumble over my lips, a dreamy quality to my tone. “It must be nice to have a love like that.” Love is for other people, but it clearly will never be for me.
“I’m sure one day you’ll find the same love,” Rose says. “There are plenty of nice men in Maple Ridge. Some are just a little rougher around the edges than others.”
An abrupt laugh erupts from Zara. “Maybe that should be on the welcome sign when you drive into Maple Ridge. Welcome to Maple Ridge, where some of the men are a little rougher around the edges.”
The other women burst out laughing. I let my lips slide into a wider smile. These women are nothing like the ones in prison.Friendlywasn’t in the vocabulary of the inmates who constantly targeted me. They’d probably combust if they uttered the word.
“Where did you move from, Jess?” Emily asks and takes a sip of her coffee.
“Randolph, Vermont.” I’d randomly picked the name before moving to Maple Ridge. I know nothing about the small town. But mentioning I’m from San Diego isn’t an option.
“I’ve always wanted to go to Vermont. Do you ski?”
“No. I’d always planned on learning but never had the chance. I was always too busy.”
They continue peppering me with questions. I do my best to evade them and redirect the questions to the others. The questions I don’t evade, I answer but keep as close to the truth as possible, making it easier to keep my lies straight.
“Have you had any luck finding a photographer to replace Kim?” Simone asks Emily.
Emily shakes her head, and disappointment surfs on her sigh. “Unfortunately not. It’s hard to find someone as talented as her and who shares a similar vision for wedding photography.”
My gaze drops to Emily’s hands around her coffee. She doesn’t have on an engagement ring. “Are you getting married?”
“Oh, no. Nothing like that. I started a wedding consulting business that specializes in mountain destination weddings. It’s only a side thing for now. Zara provides catering. Simone has special wedding and honeymoon subscription boxes. Kim was our photographer if you were looking for something different than your typical wedding photos.” Emily taps on her phone and turns the screen to me.
The black-and-white image of a bride and groom tugs at something in me. It’s gorgeous, with its light and airy, photojournalistic aesthetic.
It’s the style my husband hated. He called it ugly.
But there’s nothing ugly about the photo. The image is breathtaking. Spontaneous. It captures the spirit of the couple, the special bond between the bride and groom. It isn’t practiced or controlled. The photographer caught the perfect expressions on their faces. The pure joy as they gaze at each other, laughing and smiling, the wind blowing her veil around both of them.
Every detail about the picture is the opposite of my wedding photos. My husband was rigid, unsmiling. He had the stiff, straight-backed appearance of someone in uniform for an official portrait, even though he wasn’t wearing his uniform for the wedding. I was gazing at him, a hopeful expression on my face. He looked dangerous and arrogant. I looked like an innocent lamb oblivious to its upcoming fate.
A reflection of our truth.
Only I hadn’t realized it at the time.
No photographer, no matter how talented, could have made our wedding photos as special as the one on Emily’s phone.
I’ve never taken wedding photos, but I used to experiment with photojournalistic-style portraits. Granny and my friends were the subjects. They were the type of photos that revealed the person’s personality, their strengths, their passions. I’d even won a few awards in college for them.
A deep longing weaves inside me, wraps itself around my organs. I miss experimenting with natural lighting to create different moods. I miss playing with composition to tell a story. Stories that spoke of triumph, of joy, of sadness, of hope.
It’s the same craving that tugs at me every time I read an article that calls to me from one of Iris’s magazines. The photos, the articles…they remind me of why I studied journalism. To tell someone’s story, to share about the challenges they faced and of their courage.
To make a difference in my community, in my world.
But instead of helping me follow my dreams, my husband slowly changed my story. My goal of being a journalist—I gave it all up. Because…because it didn’t fit my perfect husband’s plans for a perfect marriage with his perfect wife.
