by Becky Monson
I found a parking spot on the side of the road, which was unheard of this time of year. It was like a sign that I was supposed to be here today.
My phone beeped in my purse as I grabbed my stuff and got out of my car.
Andy: What are you up to?
A thrill went up my spine, and I told that thrill to shut up. I had been forcing thoughts of him out of my head all morning, trying to stop this nonsense.
Me: Just driving around.
I didn’t want to tell him that I was in Gatlinburg—near his work—because my girly brain was up to no good with that. If I told him and he invited me to the resort, then I’d probably jump at the chance. And if he didn’t invite me, I’d read into it forever and it would take up my brain space. There was not much space left in there. I needed a breather today. I needed to think about things. I needed to sort it all out.
Andy: Don’t get lost with your gas light on.
I laughed when I saw his response. He was referring to the time in high school when we got lost driving around the Smokies. There was no cell service, and angels must have been watching out for us because the gas light was on, but we never ran out of gas. I was nervous and anxious, and despite that, Andy had me laughing the whole time. He was always able to do that.
I wrote him back.
Me: I’ll try not to. It’s a big world out there.
Andy: I’d miss you if you got lost.
I had to force myself to not read into that comment.
Me: You’d come find me, right?
Andy: Depends on whether there’s anything good on TV tonight.
I laughed out loud at that and then slipped my phone back into my purse. A lift in my spirits just from getting a text from Andy. That was silly.
The ever-growing strip of shops in Gatlinburg were bustling with sightseers. This had always been one of my favorite towns to go to, even with the tourists. I liked to stay on the end where there were mostly cutesy stores and fewer large attractions, which seemed to cheapen the area, in my opinion. There were many shops I recognized, and some new ones interspersed throughout that had shown up over the past eight years.
I stopped to take pictures of objects that I thought could easily be manipulated. A cool looking doorknob on an old-timey photo shop, the base of an old bench that was ornate and finely detailed, a portion of a tree that was knotty and oddly shaped. There was so much of this around here; I was excited at the prospects of what I might do to manipulate these pictures into something deeper.
I wandered over to the back of a strip of buildings, wondering if the stone path that used to be there was still around. I remembered exactly where to go; I’d been there many times before. It was still there, but the surrounding area had changed so much that I almost missed it.
A couple, around my age, was being photographed by a man who looked to be in his early forties. He was directing them and telling them to gaze into each other’s eyes. Engagement pictures, I would presume. The couple was attractive, but I wouldn’t say model material, so this wasn’t some sort of lifestyle shoot. I kept my distance, photographing fallen leaves that were still on the ground and had taken an interesting shape. I wanted to take some up-close pictures of the rocks that made up the path, but I would have to wait until the photographer was done.
It had been a long time since I’d taken pictures of people. I’d had family members that wanted me to take their pictures, but I always found some excuse to decline. I wanted to photograph people, but when I tried, I was never any good. Maybe I shouldn’t have practiced by taking pictures of my niece and nephew—Savannah’s kids. They moved so fast, the pictures were all blurry.
“Excuse me,” I heard a man say as I was snapping a picture of a tree root that jutted out behind a mossy rock.
I turned around to find the photographer that had been taking pictures of the couple standing near me.
“Sorry,” I said, thinking that I had somehow gotten in the way of his photography session.
“For what?” he asked, looking flustered and irritated.
“Did I get in your way?”
“No,” he said, shaking his head back and forth. “I was wondering if you could help me.”
“Uh,” I said, looking around. The couple was still standing over on the stone path, not paying attention to us.
“I would pay you,” he said.
“I’m sorry . . . for what?” This guy was super awkward—from his ancient-looking belted jeans and tucked-in, wrinkled polo shirt, to his disheveled light brown hair.
He balanced his camera in one hand, holding his other hand out for me to shake, which I did, reluctantly. “I’m Don,” he said.
“Nice to meet you, Don.” I was still none the wiser, except now I knew his name.
“See, my assistant quit on me yesterday, and I could use a hand with this engagement shoot.” He pointed over to the couple, still in the same spot, now making out.
“Uh, what would I need to do?” I wasn’t even sure why I was asking. I should just tell him no and head back to . . . well, to not much. Andy had to stay late at work tonight, so I didn’t have any real plans.
“Just hold the light reflector for me, maybe take some shots of your own for a different perspective,” he nodded with his head at my camera.
“I don’t know, I haven’t taken a lot of pictures of people,” I said.
“Let me see your work,” he said, again motioning toward my camera with his head.
“I . . . uh . . .” I handed him my camera without really thinking it over. He could run off with it. Not that he would—my camera paled in comparison to the one he was holding in his hands. His camera was an advanced Nikon with a high-priced zoom lens that made mine look like the dinosaur of cameras. I’d always wanted a Nikon but never could afford it, especially with the paltry earnings I’d gotten from my Etsy sales.
I watched his face as he looked through the viewfinder of my camera, scanning through the pictures I had taken since I’d been here.
“I like your work,” he said, handing me my camera back.
“Thanks.” I put my camera strap over my shoulder.
“So, what do you say? I’ll pay you two hundred to help me out,” he said, the corner of his mouth lifting up into a half-smile.
“You saw my pictures,” I said, looking down at the camera hanging by my waist.
“Yeah, so?” he asked.
“I’m not good at photographing people.” There wasn’t one picture of a human in all three hundred pictures on that camera.
“It’s not much different. You’re good at capturing light. Anyway, I can teach you, I’ve had lots of experience.”
“Well—”
“I’m kind of in a bind. What do you say?” he looked like he was trying to be patient, and it was taking everything out of him to do it.
“Sure,” I heard myself say, and immediately regretted it. How long would I be stuck helping this stranger?
“Great.” He motioned for me to follow him over to the couple who were still gazing lovingly at each other, not even caring that their photographer had just hired a complete stranger to help him.
“This is . . . uh,” he went to introduce me to the couple, but then realized he didn’t even know my name.
“London,” I said.
“London,” he repeated. “This is Madi and Will,” he said pointing to the couple. “London’s going to help us out today.”
He twisted a collapsed disc that opened into a large silver circular form and handed it to me. I recognized it as a light reflector, but that was about the only thing I knew about the item I held in my hands. I think he fully expected me to know how to use it because he gave me no guidance or direction after he handed it to me. I awkwardly held it in my hands, not knowing where I should go, or what I should even be doing with this thing.
“London, stand over there,” he said pointing to the other side of where he was once again shooting the couple. He moved me around until I was holding it how he wanted a
nd then he started shooting again.
We did this for a while, him moving me around until I started to see what he was going for, how he wanted the light reflected, and then I was able to figure out on my own where he needed me without him asking. He gave me a quick nod the first time I did this, acknowledging the fact that I had done it correctly, and it seemed like he might be impressed.
This went on for an hour or so, moving the couple around in the area, Don posing them and taking pictures, with me holding the light reflector when he needed it. When he didn’t, I practiced taking some pictures myself, making sure I didn’t distract him or the couple.
“Thanks for your help,” he said as he packed up his camera bag. The couple—Madi and Will—had walked off hand in hand a few minutes before.
I handed him the reflector and he collapsed it with ease, adding it to his bag.
“I have another client in about thirty minutes. Does that work for you?”
“Oh,” I said, thinking this had been a one-time deal.
“Yeah, I should have specified back there. I need someone for the day,” he said.
“Um, sure,” I said, still reluctant, but also now a little curious. Assisting Don, while it hadn’t been the most glorious job, was certainly an interesting one. And I learned a lot, even just standing there. Watching the way he moved the couple around, posing them the way he wanted so that they looked completely natural, rather than posed. It was fascinating.
I spent the rest of the afternoon following Don around to different locations, helping him with whatever he needed, soaking up whatever info he’d give me or that I could learn as I watched him work. I was like a sponge, taking it all in. He had clearly been doing this for a long time.
“Here you go,” he said at the end of the day, handing me two hundred-dollar bills.
“Thanks,” I said, taking it from him and pocketing it. “It was nice to meet you.” I held out a hand and he shook it with a nice, firm grasp.
“So how about tomorrow?” He slung his overflowing camera bag over his shoulder.
“Tomorrow?”
“Yeah, I need someone for tomorrow too.”
I stood there contemplating my day tomorrow. I didn’t really have anything going on, except for hopefully seeing Andy—who’d be at work all day anyway. At least this would give me something to do. Plus, I’d learned so much already today. What could Don teach me tomorrow?
“Yeah, okay,” I said, feeling like I was in a dream sequence or something. This was all totally strange.
“Great. I’ll meet you at my studio at eight-thirty,” he said, reaching into his pocket and handing me a business card with the words “Don Shields Photography” printed across the top in raised gold lettering.
I laughed to myself as Don and I went our separate ways and I headed toward my car. I’d spent a lot of time taking pictures in Gatlinburg when I lived here before and had run into my fair share of odd things. But this was definitely at the top of the list.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
The next morning, I met Don at his studio, which was not much more than an office behind the main shopping area of Gatlinburg. The furniture inside was modern in gray tones and the walls were white and sparsely covered with large prints mounted on rustic wooden frames of families and beautiful scenery presumably taken by Don.
I’d Googled him last night like any normal person would, and to put it lightly, Don Shields was kind of a big deal. There were pages and pages of entries—he started working as a photographer for a large publication in Manhattan. From there he dabbled in photographing fashion models and working for some of the biggest magazines in the world. He eventually gave all that up and settled in Tennessee where he’d met his wife; they had two children. He said in one article that family and outdoor photography had always been his first passion, and he was loving being back here.
The prices he charged, though . . . oh my gosh. His starting price for one session was almost as much as I made working a full week at my last job in San Francisco. How people could afford to hire him was beyond me, but he was a coveted photographer, his website touting that he was booked through the spring already.
We spent the day with two separate families, one was visiting from somewhere north and the other was local to Gatlinburg. Both sessions went smoothly. I aided wherever I could, holding reflectors, handing him lenses, and assisting however he needed me to. I, in turn, soaked up any and all information he’d pass along, committing to memory how he did what he did. It was fascinating and fun, and I found myself wondering if someday I could be in his shoes doing the same thing. I’d never wanted to take pictures of people because I’d never really given it a fair try. Now that I’d gotten my feet wet, I’d found that it might be something I’d like to do.
I explained it all to Andy over hot chocolate and then a walk to the falls later that evening. It was still early, and I was twitching for my camera I’d left back in my room so I could capture the falls with the pinks and oranges reflecting off it as the sun set behind the Smokies.
“Sounds like you might’ve found your calling,” Andy said after I talked his ear off about Don and everything I had learned. I wondered how he could care all that much about it, but he seemed like he did.
“Oh, and get this,” I said, hitting his arm with the back of my gloved hand. We were wrapped up in winter coats, hats, and gloves. It was particularly cold that evening. “Don wants to hire me to work for him.”
“Here? In Gatlinburg?”
“Yeah. Isn’t that crazy? That’s crazy, right?”
Don had insisted that I show him the pictures I had been intermittently taking when he didn’t need my help during the shoots. He said he was impressed by my work, and then he offered me the job to be his assistant.
“What did you say?” Andy asked. We were standing side by side looking out at the falls.
“I told him I’d think about it. But really, I mean, there’s no way.” Even when I’d said I’d think about it, I knew there was no way I could move here. I blamed it on the fact that everything I had was in San Francisco—but really, that was a lot of change with too many variables.
Andy gave me a serious glare. “You should do it.”
“What? Move here?” I shook my head. It just wouldn’t work.
“Why not? I mean, you said yourself it would be like a dream job.”
I had told him that in my ramblings about my day. And I hadn’t been lying. These past two days of work hadn’t felt like work at all. It was like the stuff I did for my Etsy store, except I actually made some money. Still, though, there were too many unknowns if I picked up and moved here. I mean, where would I even live?
“I don’t think so. My life is in San Francisco for now,” I said to Andy.
“Is it? You don’t talk very fondly of it.”
This was true. I don’t think I had said one nice thing about living in San Francisco since I’d been back in Christmas Falls. That’s because when I compared the two in my head . . . well, there was no comparison.
I sighed. “I mean, I don’t have anything here—my family lives in Phoenix which is closer to San Francisco. I guess I have Piper now . . .”
“And me,” Andy said, and I turned from the falls to see his serious face, no trace of a teasing smile on his lips.
I let out a breath. I did have Andy—and he felt like everything right now. I stepped closer to him to give him a hug, to show him how much I appreciated him. But instead, on a whim, I lifted up on the tips of my toes, and I kissed him. It was a quick kiss, a light one. It was enough, though, that it was not just a step over the friend zone boundaries, but a flying leap.
“Sorry,” I said, the word rushing out of me as I stepped back and away from him. What had I just done? It was such a knee-jerk reaction, like my brain wasn’t even involved. I must have been high on all the photography stuff or something. My body had worked as if on autopilot.
“It’s . . . okay,” he said. He looked as if I had punched him—confused
, mixed with something else. I wasn’t sure. Either way, it was not a good look. There was my answer, then. At least I knew how he felt now, and it wasn’t some huge declaration on my part that couldn’t be taken back. It was just a kiss. No big deal.
“Sorry,” I repeated, thinking that I probably should turn around and walk away from him. From what I’d just done.
“What was that?” he asked, the space between his eyebrows crinkling together.
“I . . . I don’t know,” I said. “I just got caught up in the moment or something. Just,” I closed my eyes and shook my head. “Just pretend like it didn’t happen, okay?” I opened my eyes to see his expression hadn’t changed. So much regret ran through me right then.
“Why, though?”
I felt moisture start to fill my bottom lids, ready to spill over. What a dumb thing to do. And the look on his face . . . oh, if I could just go back and stick to the hug that I had originally meant to do.
“I don’t know. I just kind of wanted to do it . . . to kiss you. I’ve been having all these weird feelings since I’ve been back, and then there was Mrs. Mitchem, and this weird dream,” I was rambling and I couldn’t stop myself. “And I know it’s probably not the same for you, but I can’t stop thinking about you—and not in a friendly way. In a stupid girly way.” So much for not making any declarations that couldn’t be taken back. I’d really messed this up.
“London—”
“I know,” I said cutting him off with my words and holding a hand up as well. “I know, we’re friends. It would be stupid to ruin that, and I probably did just ruin it. And I’m really sorry, I’m . . . I’m just really sor—”
My last word was cut off by Andy—by his lips. His arms were around me and he was kissing me. His lips were on mine, moving so intensely almost . . . almost like they were making up for years of pent-up passion. And it took me only a second to recover from the shock of it. Then I was returning his kiss, my arms wrapping around his waist and pulling myself into him like I couldn’t get close enough. His mouth coaxed my lips to part, for my mouth to open so he could deepen the kiss. I followed his lead, returning the kiss with as much fervor and intensity as I could.
