Page 59 of Breaking Through

He stared at me like he was seeing past the program proposals and magazine opportunities to something more profound. "Layers. I can try that."

The drive to Grandpa's house felt longer than usual, though Wade knew by heart every curve of the lakeside road. The morning fog had lifted, leaving behind that particular November clarity that made everything feel crisp and fragile. Like the sketches on the visitor center wall, some truths were easier to see in clear light.

Gran's wind chimes greeted us first, their crystal song carrying across the front yard. Through the studio window, I caught a glimpse of Grandpa's silver hair bent over what looked like one of her old journals. Of course, he'd be up there rather than downstairs—where he went to think, surrounded by her creative legacy and the soft morning light she'd loved to paint.

We bypassed the kitchen to greet Grandpa first. He sipped coffee as he read one of the journals.

"Oh, good morning. I noticed you were up bright and early, Match." He looked up with a knowing smile. "And his steadfast ranger. I was reading Belle's notes about balancing ambition with roots." He held up a leather-bound volume. "She had quite a lot to say about that."

I sank into the old wicker chair while Wade stood behind me. "I don't know how to choose."

"Who says you have to?" Grandpa's eyes twinkled. "Belle never did. She had shows in New York and Chicago but always returned here. Said she needed both—the wider recognition and the quiet place where her art began."

He passed me the journal, open to a page covered in Gran's elegant script:Art isn't about choosing between worlds. It'sabout building bridges between them. Every piece carries something of home, no matter where it travels.

I spoke quietly. "The magazine wants to feature my park series. And there's talk of a Portland gallery showing."

"Your parents said as much. Of course, they do. You've captured something real here—not just pretty pictures, but the heart of a place and its people." Grandpa's voice was more robust than it had been in months. "And now Wade's found a way to make that matter even more."

I blinked. "You know about the program?"

Wade spoke up. "Who do you think suggested using the shelter as a centerpiece?" His eyes danced.

"But what if I mess it up?" The words bubbled up and out before I could stop them. "What if I try to do everything and end up doing nothing well? The magazine, the galleries, the therapy program..."

"Match." Grandpa leaned forward, his voice gentle but firm. "Remember what Belle used to say about your puppet shows? How you'd try to control every string at once and end up in knots?"

"She said I needed to learn which strings to pull when." The childhood memory made me smile. "She said the art wasn't in making everything move at once but in knowing when to let certain parts rest while the others danced."

"That's right." Grandpa picked up one of Gran's old marionettes—a wizard with a slightly crooked hat. "Life's like that too. Some moments need gallery spotlights, while others need quiet lakeside dawns. The trick is learning to dance between them."

Wade's hand squeezed my shoulder as my phone buzzed yet again. This time, it was a photo from Sarah—the Little Blue Bean's counter covered in what looked like dozens of experimental pastries, all dusted with gleaming platinumpowder. The caption read: "Artistic achievement requires proper fuel. No arguments."

Grandpa chuckled at my expression. "It must be Sarah. You should have seen what she did when Cole proposed to Parker. There was edible gold leaf involved. We're still finding sparkles in odd corners."

"I just..." I traced the wizard's worn strings. "I don't want to disappoint anyone."

"The only one you need to worry about disappointing is yourself." Grandpa's oxygen tube whistled softly as he shifted. "And from where I'm sitting, you're doing a pretty good job of honoring both your art and your heart."

A noise from downstairs drew our attention—the unmistakable sound of my mother's organizational energy meeting Sarah's baking enthusiasm. Wade's eyes widened slightly.

"Is that...singing?"

I listened closer. Mom's clear soprano mixed with Sarah's alto, carrying up the stairs: "Moon River, wider than a mile..."

"Oh lord." I buried my face in my hands. "They've bonded."

"About time." Grandpa's eyes twinkled. "Your mother's been trying so hard to understand this life you've built here. Maybe she finally sees that success doesn't always look like a seat in a corporate boardroom."

"Sometimes it looks like platinum-dusted pastries and lakeside therapy sessions?" I couldn't help smiling.

"And morning Polaroids of grumpy rangers emerging from the mist." The gentle warmth of Wade's voice made my heart skip a beat. "Speaking of which, you still haven't taken your three shots today."

He was right. My camera hung untouched around my neck, the morning's uncertainty having interrupted my ritual. But now...

The kitchen held an unlikely gathering, each person representing a different version of my future. I raised my camera, focusing first on Mom's hands, arranging pastries with the same precision she once used for corporate presentations. Her wedding ring caught the light as she adjusted a plate's angle exactly three degrees. Next to her, Sarah scattered edible stardust with cheerful abandon. The contrast struck me like a metaphor I couldn't quite grasp.

Click.

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