Page 1 of The Maverick of the Mountain
Chapter 1
Corinne
I have a love/haterelationship with wedding photography. I love that it pays me money, but I hate that I have to photograph yet another wedding.
Don’t get me wrong. I don’t hate weddings, far from it. I love capturing the first look. Watching generations mingling. Old love and new love. Awkward speeches and dancing. Navigating the venue like I’m an anthropologist on location. I think I’ve attended enough weddings by now that I could easily write a dissertation on them.
…Focusing primarily on how they can bring out the absolute worst in human beings.
Sometimes that’s the bride. Tyrannical and exacting—a force of nature that requires a delicate hand. Sometimes it’s a drunk uncle (…or groom) who won’t stop hitting on me. Old family feuds revived and relitigated, compliments of an open bar and an enclosed space. Couples complaining to me because, god forbid, I spend more time photographing the bride and groom than them. And on and on and on.
But sometimes my clients and their guests aren’t completely horrible. They aren’t micromanaging Bridezillas with unrealistic expectations. They tell me what they want, understand mylimitations, and most importantly, let me do my job. They even feed me during the wedding, which might be the most important part, really.
But those clients have been rare, which is why I’m more hesitant to book weddings even though they comprise the bulk of my income. I think Forest Gump’s iconic line is appropriate not only for life, but for weddings. You never know what you’re going to get.
But from the moment I read Mackenzie’s hand-written changes to our contract, I knew exactly what kind of wedding I was in for—the kind I’d regret accepting.
However, the pay was more than three times my going rate. And since my attempt to pivot toward the kind of photography I love and hoped to make a living on had failed miserably, I needed the money.
I sigh, staring at my phone as I let another call from Mackenzie go to voicemail. They started before the sun was up and haven’t let up my entire drive to Whispering Winds.
There’s nothing to talk about. We’ve talked it outad nauseamover the last few months, and in even finer detail last week when I started to lose my mind at the 3 AM emails requesting urgent meetings to discuss the latest images she’d included on her Pinterest board.
“This was not what I signed up for, Candy,” I mutter, glancing at my trusty camera, tucked safely inside her case in the passenger seat. Her silence is a little too judgmental, but not unusual, given that she’s an inanimate object inside a zipped-up case. Even so, I can feel that disapproving lens burning a hole in my soul right now, calling me out.
“Okay, fine,” I huff, sighing as I glance back at the road. “It kinda was what I signed up for.” I tap my thumbs against the steering wheel as I take the exit to Whispering Winds. It’s a three-hour drive to get here, but I don’t mind. The views arestunning, way better than my claustrophobic studio apartment offers me.
“The money isreallygood. You have to admit that.”
She doesn’t. Go figure. But I have to admit that I’m probably losing my mind, venting to my camera.
That’s why I’m heading to Whispering Winds three days before the wedding. I’m going off the grid, taking a mental health break before tackling the wedding that will either make or break me. With all my wedding preparations finished, I’m forgetting all about it, so I can take the photographs I want to take.
Landscapes. Nature. Anything that’s not human.
The wedding venue is out of the city proper, halfway between Whispering Winds and Cherry Ridge. I’ve always passed through Whispering Winds on my way to the venue, but never stopped until now. I’m hoping that staying here will prevent any unwanted run-ins with Mackenzie and the rest of her crew. And honestly, I’m just in love with this town because it’s ridiculously photogenic. Eclectic bungalows with architectural flourishes and gardens that would make Martha Stewart salivate dot cozy, tree-lined streets. Parks that look more like pristine nature reserves—a far cry from the rusted metal death traps I grew up on and somehow survived. And their downtown Main Street?
It belongs on a postcard.
I’ve always wanted to take a picture that ended up on a postcard. A little bucket list item of mine. Maybe I’ll take a shot in the next few days that would be postcard-worthy, but the storm clouds rolling in from the west might throw a little wrench in those plans.
And possibly the wedding.
But, I’m not thinking about that or the inevitable breakdown from Mackenzie that I’ll have to manage because I’m not some weather-witch with the power to control the elements.
“Well,” I mutter to Candy as I find a parking spot off Main Street. “Let’s go see what this town has to offer.”
I slipinside the closest building as the first drops of rain begin to fall. After ensuring that Candy’s dry, I take in my surroundings.
I blink a few times because this was not what I was expecting. I spent the last half hour or so wandering around Whispering Winds, entering shops, the bakery, and the cozy bookstore, most of which were tastefully updated with modern flourishes. Shiplap. Metal accents. Lighting that doesn’t sear retinas. This restaurant, however, doesn’t quite fit the mold. Its decor is eclectic to say the least, although I think eccentric is closer to the mark.
There’s a collection of sticks lined up on the half-wall divider behind what appears to be a bench that has been repurposed (stolen?) from a ski lift. The sign next to the sticks, scrawled in crayon on the back of what appears to be a kids’ menu, reads “FREE STICKS (FOR HIKING). ”
As I turn my attention to the dining room, I’m not sure where to look. Everything is drawing and repelling my eyes all at once. The table tops are covered in flannel of all colors and sizes. Mason jars are being used in ways I’d never thought possible or necessary. The walls are covered in more…repurposedsigns. I remember learning abouthorror vacuiin college, but I never thought I’d experience it like this. The owner clearly has a fear of empty space, but they’re doing something right because this place, like the decor, is packed. And it smells phenomenal.
I step aside as a group of men, all clad in similar flannel to the table tops and more than triple my size, move past me.
“Welcome to the Hungry Hiker. How many?” a woman about my age says as she sidles up to the counter in front of me.
