Page 49 of Breaking Through

"Well, it's perfect timing!" Parker practically bounced in his chair. "They can see the new stats on the blog." His fingers flewacross his keyboard. "Our engagement has tripled since your park series started. And for once, it's not just people being nosy about my relationship with Cole."

I sighed. "Everything's happening at once."

"That's usually how it goes." Parker pushed a stack of papers to a corner of his desk. "Hey, did I mention Wade stopped by earlier? He found something at the shelter he thought you'd want to see."

That was good news. Since Chicago, Wade had started sharing more of himself—little pieces of his past tucked between trail maintenance reports and weather updates. Just the day before, he'd shown me a sketch of the firehouse garden, the first time he'd drawn anything from before.

"I should..." I gestured vaguely at the door.

"Go." Parker shooed me away. "Process. Take photos. Remember—whatever you decide, Blue Harbor's got your back." He paused. "Though fair warning: Sarah and Rafe are planning some celebratory pastry experiment. I heard her muttering about Artistic Inspiration Scones this morning."

On the drive home, I marveled at the late October colors—maples burned scarlet against the gray sky. When I arrived, my hand trembled slightly on the front door handle.

Through the window, I saw my parents in the kitchen with Grandpa. Mom wore jeans—actual denim, though obviously designer—instead of her usual corporate armor. Dad had abandoned his suit jacket somewhere, his tablet propped against the cookie jar Gran painted with wildflowers.

They looked... different, softer somehow. Mom gestured animatedly at my latest lighthouse photos spread across the table while Dad nodded along, his usual data-driven expression warmed by something I hadn't seen in years.

The screen door's creak announced my arrival. Mom turned and smiled.

"There's my wandering artist!" She wrapped me in a crushing hug before I could dodge it. Her perfume had changed from the powerful boardroom scent she'd worn for decades to something lighter—citrus and wildflowers, like Gran's garden in summer.

"You're supposed to be in London," I managed, still caught in her embrace. "What happened to the corporate expansion?"

"Some things are more important." Dad set his tablet aside—actually set it aside, something I'd never seen him do during business hours. "The blog's analytics are remarkable. You've built quite a following."

They all launched into conversation so quickly that I didn't have a chance to ask about when my parents decided to visit in the first place. I was happy to see them, but the unexpected arrival added to my sense that the earth was wobbling oddly on its axis.

"We're all going to the art show tonight," Grandpa announced, looking pleased with himself. His oxygen tube remained, but it seemed less intrusive now, more like an old friend than a medical necessity.

"The whole town's buzzing about it," Mom added. "That lovely Sarah at the coffee shop insisted we try special scones baked for the occasion. Though I'm concerned about the amount of glitter in the frosting."

"It's edible glitter," Grandpa assured her. "Probably."

I chuckled. "And I just found out the details of the show hours ago."

"Theo was there setting up, and he commented on your Polaroids," Grandpa added. "He thinks they'd complement his painted landscapes perfectly. It was something about different mediums capturing the same soul of a place. I suspect he and Rafe have been plotting with Parker about getting your work seen by the right people."

"Oh!" Mom disappeared into the living room and returned with a stack of leather-bound albums I remembered from childhood. "We found these while packing up the London office shipment. They've been in storage since..." She paused, emotion flickering across her face. "Since Belle asked us to keep them safe for you."

"You mean these are—" My fingers traced the worn leather spine of the top album.

"Your grandmother's exhibition portfolios." Dad's voice was unexpectedly gentle. "From her early shows in Milwaukee, Chicago, New York. She always said they'd mean more to you than anyone else."

"We should have brought them sooner." Mom's hand shook slightly as she opened the first album. "I think... I think we were afraid of facing her artistic legacy. It was easier to focus on corporate strategies and retirement facilities than to remember how she lit up a room with her creativity." She looked directly at me. "The same way you do."

Before I could process the comment, my phone chimed again. It was Wade.

Found more of your grandmother's sketches behind a loose panel. Some early studies of the lake I think you'll want to see.

The text landed like a stone in still water, ripples spreading outward. Everything I thought I wanted—recognition, artistic validation, my parents' approval—had arrived. So why did I feel like I was standing on the edge of Eagle Point during a storm, unsure if my next step would land on solid rock or empty air?

"Go on." Grandpa encouraged me to join Wade. "We'll see you tonight at the show. Some conversations can't wait."

I had news to share, but it could wait. I kissed his cheek, breathing in the familiar mix of coffee and aftershave that meant home. Still, as I headed for my car, Portland's galleries andPhotogenesis'spages beckoned like distant lighthouses, promising different versions of home.

The shelter's door creaked open, revealing Wade surrounded by Gran's preliminary sketches. Thin rays of October sunlight turned his salt-and-pepper hair to starfire. He looked up, and his smile hit me like that first morning on the beach.

"You'll never believe what Parker told me today."

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