A Discovery of Hope (A Coming Home Again Novel Book 3) (12 page)

Chapter Sixteen

Today is the last day in my Photo Appreciation class. I’ve finished with a solid one hundred. I hope me being JP’s intern didn’t sway the professor any, but I have my doubts, because her business card and a note wanting to meet JP were tucked into my report cover.

The summer is slipping right by at a surprisingly rapid speed. Jace, Tony, and I end up ordering a pizza and eating it in the park. I let the little guy ramble on for almost two hours before calling it a day. I actually hate to tell him goodbye. Jace Wiles has definitely captured my heart and has given me an appreciation for Autism. I’m grateful for the glimpse of his world he has shared with me—so innocent and so full of dreams.

My birthday is coming up, so to make sure I keep in touch with Jace, I invite him to celebrate it with me. After he agrees, I depart back to the gallery. I push through the front doors near closing time and come to a halt at what I find hanging on the wall beside the stairs. It’s a photo canvas of me with the Willow tree in the background. This makes me uneasy. I want to capture art—not
be
art. Yet, here I am on this brick wall. This shot has captured me with my head tossed back in laughter. The picture causes me to smile in spite of my embarrassment. I’m wearing a creamy lace top in the photo and I wonder if this is why he decided to use a vintage effect on the photo. It’s warm and soft. The man knows how to take an ordinary image and transform it into something exceptional. He just amazes me.

JP’s deep voice pulls my attention away from the picture. He’s showing a few guys some photos so full of action the images seem to in actual motion—one is a surfer airborne, another is a very athletic built woman freefalling from a cliff into a dark body of water, and another is of a football player who looks to be flying into the end zone with the ball just before him.

JP slides his gaze to me where I’m still rooted by the stairs. He shoves his hands into his pockets and offers me a quick smile, making my heart skip. Good gracious. I’m such a girl. One of the guys asks him a question and he hesitantly looks away from me. My cheeks warm, so I decide to call it an early day and rush upstairs without a word.

I take an early shower and change into a super-soft white gown, hoping not to bump into JP. The next few hours is spent with me going through my own photographs. I’m trying to decide which images I want to add to my final report for the internship, when faint music reaches me from downstairs. I listen for a while until curiosity eventually wins out. My gown is just as covering as a sundress so I decide not to change. I only plan on peeking around to see what’s going on anyway.

I ease downstairs and find all the gallery lights off. I make my way in the dark, letting the alternative rock song guide me in the right direction. I’m surprised I actually recognize the song. It’s Stone Temple Pilots singing “Wicked Garden”. I admit I’m a country music girl at heart, and my South Carolina roots have kept me loyal to Darius Rucker. However, this past month and a half has shifted my music tastes somewhat, and I’m discovering an appreciation for JP’s preference of alternative rock. The lyrics to the music he constantly listens to are very poetic and moody. It is quite fitting for him. The man’s photography is visual poetry, and he has a deep moody side that he seems to have a hard time concealing sometimes. When he’s like this, I have such an instinctive urge to corner JP somewhere and draw it out of him.

I peep into the photo studio and knock on the partially opened door. This room is where he does in-house shoots and tonight I see he has transformed the space into none other than a
wicked garden
. The fitting song is repeating in a thumping volume and JP hasn’t noticed my knock. Instead of knocking fruitlessly again, I just stand here by the door and watch as he angles his camera, which is resting on a tripod, and clicks more photos. He has the hood of his dark blue zip-up pulled over his head and seems to be lost in the world he has formed in this small space. The scene he is capturing is an enchanting garden of rich fuchsia peonies spilling down a wrought iron table that looks to be ancient. He’s suspended the flowers somehow, giving the illusion they are in mid-fall. There are several flowers scattered artfully on the moss-draped floor. The contrast between the rich fuchsia flowers and the deep green moss is so alluring. The back drop is a stormy grey and black branches are jutting out of elaborate black urns. It’s breathtaking. It’s a complete wicked garden and I wonder when he had the time to transform the space like this.

JP pauses between taking the pictures to readjust a few flowers and catches sight of me by the door. He looks up sheepishly at being caught creating art and abruptly reaches over to the phone dock, turning the music down to only a whisper.

“I didn’t mean to interrupt,” I say as I begin backing away from the door.

“No. You’re welcome to stay,” JP whispers back as he pushes the hood off his head. He eyes my gown and all of a sudden I feel inappropriately dressed. Dragging his hands through his messy hair, he seems to force his attention back to the flowers, so I trying easing back out the door again. Before I get too far he asks, “What’s off with this arrangement?”

I scoot closer and inspect the scene. “Besides the fact you have magically suspended flowers in midair?” I ask with a raised eyebrow.

“Hidden wire,” JP confesses.

I point to the right side of the arrangement. “It needs a little variation in color in this spot.” I turn to look at JP and find him already holding flowers a few shades lighter.

“Right answer.” He smirks as he hands the vivid flowers over to me.

I nervously place them in the arrangement and reposition a few others before stepping back to inspect it.

“You have a good eye, Willow.” JP gives me an appreciative look, instigating me to shiver. He mistakes this reaction as I sign that I’m cold and shucks off his zip-up hoodie. He helps me into it and I gladly take it. At least my bare shoulders are covered now.

After this, we continue to listen to “Wicked Garden” and get down to photo-taking business. JP explains the photos are for an ultra-cool florist wanting something off the grid for their new ad campaign. I’d say he has accomplished this exquisitely. These ads will definitely catch attention. He allows me to take a few photos as well and is talking to me about angles and lighting as I do. The man is an endless bank of photography knowledge and has a way of explaining techniques and information without seeming teachy and preachy. I’ve learned more than I could have ever hoped for in this short time of working with him.

I’m straightening a few flowers that are beginning to slip in their wire restraint when JP asks, “What nationality are you?”

I look up to find him studying me carefully. “Southern,” I quickly retort.

He shakes his head slowly and narrows his eyes. “You know what I mean.”

“I’m biracial. My mom is white and my dad is black. Is that a problem?” I immediately go on the defense and pop a hand on my hip.

“Not for me. Is it for you?” He throws the question back at me. He pinches his eyebrows together and continues to look me over, causing me to feel exposed.

If I’m going to be truthful, I would say yes. Sometimes it bothers me because I don’t feel like I know exactly where I belong. I think it would be easier to be either all white or all black. The world likes to categorize and my category seems like an oddity sometimes. I’ve had a few run-ins over the years with people who look at me with confusion—like they can’t figure me out. And this has come from various races, both from strangers and family members.

Before I can comment, JP moves before me and places a flower behind my ear. His eyes slowly travel along my face. “You just look so exotic with your gold eyes and olive complexion,” he murmurs as he glides his fingertips over my cheek. He holds my chin and angles my face in various directions as he continues to study me. He is surprisingly gentle for such a strong, rugged man. “You must photograph well. I would love to photograph you.” He says this reverently.

I try to push away my awkward feelings and roll my eyes. “I bet you have all the women drooling over you.” I blush instantly at blurting this out. Since the accident last year, I tend to have a problem keeping my thoughts to myself. Duke likes to call me out on this. I just wish I could control it better around JP.

JP raises an eyebrow at my blunt words, but doesn’t comment—for which I’m thankful. He releases my chin and takes the camera off the tripod. Before I can register what’s happening, he has turned the camera on me and taken several shots. I’m not comfortable with this but don’t stop it either. I stand still, without meeting the camera lens. I don’t smile, nor do I frown. In this moment I just let myself be me, hiding behind nothing. He gets even closer, and all I can think of is,
can he see my scar
? It feels like he is seeing all of me and I feel way too vulnerable. I don’t allow it for very long though. After only seconds, I walk out of the room without uttering another word.

I race back through the dark gallery and head to my room. I flop on the bed and find Hope sitting cross-legged beside me. She has her own flower tucked behind her ear. I pull the flower from behind mine and study it.

“Why are you so upset?” she asks.

Although I’m not crying, I do feel pretty shaken. “I don’t know... I let some wall down and it scared me.”

“How so?”

“At first, I thought I wanted the camera to capture all of my flaws, but then it scared me as to what the flaws might reveal.” I shake my head. That’s some pretty deep stuff.

Hope pats my hand. “You are in the potter’s hands. He is constantly shaping and molding you. You are wonderfully and beautifully made.”

I tap the scar on my scalp, skeptically.

“Yes. Wonderfully and beautifully made.” Hope repeats. “Your battle scar is not a flaw. It is a testimony of a miracle. How special you are to have such a gift.”

An hour passes with Hope letting me absorb her words quietly. After another hour passes, she disappears as a knock hits at the door, startling me. I open it to only find an 8x10 canvas leaning against the wall. I retrieve it before closing the door. My mouth goes dry as I study the image captured. It’s a black-and-white headshot of me, but the flower behind my ear is still saturated with its vivid fuchsia color. My eyes are looking down, casting subtle shadows along my cheeks. He has captured so much in this one shot and he knows it, because a note is attached to it stating,
beautifully broken
. Those are the same words he murmured the night of his drunken incident. Why does he keep saying that? I look around the walls in hopes of finding a hook to hang it on and am surprised to discover hooks have recently been placed all along the space. When did he do this? And why?

I hang the photo on a hook near the door and leave it and my curiosity for the night.

~~~~~

I head downstairs and go in JP’s office to get to work this morning. I find him behind his desk, studying his computer screen.

“Morning,” he says without looking up. “There’s coffee and bagels in the back room.”

I backtrack and help myself to half of a bagel and cup of coffee. I bring it back to the office and set up shop in the floor by the filing cabinet. My mission is to knock out the third container today. I pull a stack of blank files and a pen close before pulling a handful of photos into my lap. It’s a treat to go through them. The first one I catalogue today is of a snowstorm. The photo has captured big fat flakes floating in the sky. I know they were not taken around these parts. I flip to the back and see JP has scribbled,
Colorado ski trip
. I skim through at least thirty snow shots and file them away.

It’s been unusually quiet, so JP has gotten most of the paperwork off his desk and is now answering an abundance of emails by the time the morning leans closer to noon. As for me, container three is done! I slowly stand and begin working the kinks out of my back and legs, stretching my arms over my head and rolling my neck. I let out a small moan in relief as the aches ease away. When my eyes open, I find JP’s watching me carefully. He holds my gaze as the tension between us is so thick I can feel it prick my skin. He licks his lips as he looks over mine, causing the pull between us to fortify. I stay in my spot as he rises from his chair, but pauses. He seems to be fighting an inner battle and when he shakes his head, I know his resolve is slipping again.

Why is he stubbornly negating whatever this is between us?

He takes a cautious step towards me as though trying not to startle me. My heart rate picks up in anticipation and I’m about to wrap my arms around his neck and demand he meet my lips when the front door sensor chimes to alert us of visitors. The spell is broken and JP steps back, rubbing his hands over his face as he lets out a frustrating sigh.

Sounds of a large gathering have filled the front gallery. “Hello! Where’s our favorite photographer?” A lady’s voice with a thick southern drawl echoes back to us.

JP chuckles and heads out of the office door. “Oh, you are in for a treat, young lady.”

“What do you mean?” I ask as I follow behind him.

“You’ll see.” He is all lit up for the first time all week. We emerge from the office and find a dozen or so older ladies swarming around and chattering away. They are giggling and ribbing each other like a bunch of teenage girlfriends and I can’t help but grin at them.