Page 24 of Mangled Memory
I retract the convertible top as I back out of the garage, wondering not for the first time, how I came to have the life I do.
I let the wind blow through my hair and crank the music as I head north. It would be a beautiful day for a trip through the foothills, but I’ll do that this weekend. I need my cameras, and I’d have to find them in that monstrosity of a house. I wouldn’t even know where to begin.
The thought sobers me. Christian said that Fitz recovered my two favorites, but where are they? And where are the rest? I don’t remember seeing them on what little I’ve toured of the house. My house. Where would I have kept them there?
I could ask Fitz or Christian, but I’m tired of being vulnerable. Instead, I crank the music and let Taylor Swift fill the fall air, escaping to the cars and pedestrians around me. Girl power anthems announce my state of mind, and I turn toward my old condo, recognizing it’s just as it was before…
Before the accident.
Before Christian.
Before life happened.
I cruise toward downtown Denver. Call it muscle memory and familiarity, but it’s nice to pass my old haunts and travel these well-known paths.
I don’t have to be anywhere until lunch with my mom, so I take a detour and find myself in front of the shop that fascinated me on Picstagram. The one with the white windowpanes with gold lettering stenciled on them and green flower boxes, one I now see is centered in Larimer Square.
This is a tourist mecca and prime real estate. Prime as inprime.
Parking around here is a nightmare, but I find a spot within a block or two and feed the meter, looking at my hometown as a tourist would. Everything here looks like original old west architecture. The brick streets speak to an older era while the light bulbs and flags that drape the street speak to a newer one. It’s the old and the new… Denver’s cattle farm history and its tech future.
And here, nestled between Michelin-starred restaurants and the tourist traps, is my shop. Mine. Aspen & Evergreen. Every dream that my teenage self could fathom, every goal my college self could aspire to, and every wish I had as an adult. The one thing that made me Ayla Murphy—or Ayla Murphy Barone, if I can bring myself to think in those terms—the dreams, the goals, and, finally, the fruition.
An old copper bell rings overhead as I walk inside.
“Be right with you,” a voice yells from behind a door frame that leads to the rear.
“Take your time.” It’s not an offer; it’s a plea. I need to see this place, to see what I’ve accomplished and to know what I’ve become.
I look at every wall, turning in place. My mouth is surely hanging open. Inside me, I’m screaming and jumping up and down. I did it. I did it!
My beloved Rocky Mountains. Their beautiful aspens dancing.The old mills. The verdant valleys and the creek beds. State parks and national ones. Early morning sunrises and late summer sunsets.
The riot of color awakens the artist in me, and I find I’m desperate to shoot.
But one shot—the pièce de résistance—calls to me. The kind that rips my soul open and heals it at the same time. Black and white. Surely Rocky Mountain National Park. The light and the shadows are magic. They hurt to look at, yet I can’t tear my eyes away.
“Amazing, isn’t it? I can’t tell you how many people ask to buy it,” a woman speaks from behind me.
“How much?”
“It’s not for sale.”
“At any price?”
I turn and stare fully into the face of a beautiful woman. Her chocolate eyes widen. Her mouth bobs in an “oh.” And I’m immediately engulfed in an overly-friendly hug.
“Oh my God, Ayla. How are you? We were terrified when we heard the news. But you”—she pulls back to study me at arms-length—“You look like you haven’t been through anything. I’m so glad you’re back. It was so unreal. I mean… Oh, no. I’m babbling. Enough about me. How are you?”
She never lets go of my arms as we stand far closer than I’m comfortable with.
“I will,” I hedge. “But first, tell me about this picture.”
I turn back to the jaw-dropping photo.
“But you know…”
“But how would you sell it to me if I refused to take no for an answer?”
