Branching Out (6 page)

C
HAPTER
8

S
helby and Ryan's honeymoon days were spent strolling through cobblestone streets and hiking cool mountain paths. Their evenings were spent alone in the intimacy of their chalet. On one of their last evenings together here, they sat at a round table tucked in the back corner of a candlelit restaurant. The entire dining room was made of wood, from the high-pitched ceiling with a crisscross of beamed rafters to the wood-planked walls and flooring. Everything in the room matched the hue of candlelight, except for the Swiss mountain chairs placed around each table. They were bleached white and had beautifully carved backs and seat cushions that were upholstered in varying patterns of red and gold.

“Is it a sin to be this happy?” Shelby asked as she took her time swirling a skewered cube of crusty bread into a shallow ceramic pot filled with fondue and suspended over a low, blue flame.

“Not at all,” Ryan answered, putting a hunk of bread into his mouth before the cheese could drip down his chin.

“How about gluttony?” she said, licking a dab of cheese off of her lower lip.

“I suppose that's right,” he said, playing along. “That is, if you think eating a dinner made entirely of cheese is glutto-nous.”

“Add in the wine?”

“You have a point,” he agreed, plunging another fondue fork of peasant bread into the irresistible blend of aged Gruyère and Sauvignon Blanc.

“And making love?”

He loved the mischief he saw in her eyes. “There's certainly no sin in that,” he said, leaning over to kiss her lips.

“I'm not ready to go home,” she said. “Why don't we just stay here? Find a little farmhouse in the mountains. I could write and you would have your photography. We wouldn't have to think about everything we have to deal with in the city.”

“And here I was thinking you were starting to actually like Chicago.”

“Chicago is fine. It's just not . . .”

“Home?”

“No, it just doesn't feel like home,” she admitted. “At least not
yet
.”

“A little Swiss house. I like it. The only thing missing would be children—we'd have to have lots of children.”

She skewered another bread chunk and drowned it in the vat of cheese.

When she stopped playing along, he leaned forward to look into her eyes. “Shelby?”

“Hmm . . .”

“You okay?”

“Yep. It's nothing,” she said, tapping her fondue fork against the rim of the pot. “One step at a time, right? It's going to take me a while just to get used to being your
wife,
let alone someone's mother.”

“You're absolutely right,” he said, setting their conversation back on course. “In fact, we only have a few days left of this honeymoon. I don't know about you, but I think we should head back to the chalet for some more
adjustment time.
. . .”

“Ever the charmer,” she said, and her smile returned.

 

On the last full day of their trip, Shelby and Ryan arose early in the morning and took a gondola up to Trockener Steg mountain station, a massive concrete structure that can withstand the harsh winds and temperatures during the coldest days of winter. On this day, the weather was bright and mild as the sun rose over the mountains and presented an exceptionally close view of the Matterhorn. They trekked down a marked trail and stopped at one point to look across the gorge to watch a small group of climbers scale the Matterhorn's Hörnligrat ridge.

Hours later, they arrived at Chalet Alpenrose, a humble mountainside restaurant that offered a cheerful welcome after an arduous hike; a cobalt blue entrance painted with spotted cows and flowering vines, and inside, lively music and the hearty whiff of cervelas sausages and ale coming from the kitchen.

Since it was warm enough to stay outdoors, Shelby and Ryan found a table on the restaurant's back deck. Against the sweeping backdrop of the mountains, they enjoyed two orders of
Käseschnitte,
which consisted of a thick slice of toasted bread soaked in wine and topped with broiled Emmental cheese and a fried egg. As Ryan had joked earlier on in the trip, a honeymoon wasn't the time to hold back. They enjoyed every decadent morsel.

After their meal, Shelby leaned her head back in her chair and closed her eyes to enjoy the midday sun, while Ryan took the opportunity to remove his cell phone from his pants pocket for a quick check. It chirped as soon as he turned it on.

“Hey, you need to put the phone away—we'll be back in Chicago soon enough,” Shelby said with one eye open and her hand reaching for his phone. “I get you all to myself, at least for another day.”

“I know; you're right. This will just take a minute. I'm expecting something,” he said. “Then I'll turn it off.”

She closed her eyes and leaned back again. “Some kind of news?”

“I can't believe I can get a signal out here,” he said, distracted.

She wasn't as impressed as Ryan, preferring the sun on her face over cellular coverage.

Then he saw it. A message from Cullie James, the videographer who had worked with Ryan on the Great Lakes feature. “This might be what I was waiting for,” he told her. “We're waiting to hear back from our editorial review committee.”

“They're going to love it.”

Over the past year, Ryan had spent a considerable amount of time working on a film project that had stemmed from the Olen G. Meyers memorial fund that Ryan established shortly after Olen's death. Under Ryan's leadership, the film would serve as an extension of Chambers Media's community affairs efforts with proceeds helping to further Great Lakes conservation. Chambers Media planned to release Ryan's work at Chicago's annual film festival in mid-October.

Ryan had been transparent about his travel schedule and the hours spent at the office working through the logistics, research, and content for the project, but he had purposefully kept the story line hidden from Shelby. He wanted to wait until she could see it in its entirety, completed and perfect. In honoring her grandfather's name and spotlighting a part of the country that she loved most, he hoped to make her proud.

As Ryan scrolled his thumb over the phone screen to read Cullie's message, his jaw tightened while reading the news. He then powered off the device and set it facedown on the table.

“Ryan?”

Ryan leaned forward in his chair, his elbows resting on his knees, shaking his head. “I can't believe this,” he said. His father must have known. Why wouldn't he have said something to Ryan when they saw each other at the wedding? He must have known.

“What is it?” she asked.

“They turned us down.”

“Who did? What are you talking about?”

“Our editorial board.”
What went wrong? Damn it! Why didn't anyone from the office say anything to us earlier?

“What? You mean your Great Lakes project?”

He nodded.

“After all of the work you guys have put into it? All of those hours?”

He looked over his shoulder and caught the attention of their waiter, who was standing near the kitchen door smoking a cigarette. Ryan pointed to a nearby table, gesturing to the patrons' pints of beer, which was just enough information for the waiter to snuff out his cigarette with the heel of his boot and head inside to place an order at the bar.

“Did they cancel it entirely? Or is it an editing situation?” Shelby asked.

He appreciated her concern, but there were dynamics at his father's company that he didn't want to share with her just yet. Her friend Jenna already told her how a certain group of public relations staffers were responsible for many of the photographs that had been printed of Shelby and Ryan together, as well as of Shelby alone in the city. Shelby had been irate, considering it a blatant intrusion into her private life—which it was, clearly. In a convoluted way, it was also a calculated plan to generate public interest in Ryan's romantic life, with the hopes that a love story would also cast favorable light on Chambers Media.

This time, however, he didn't understand the company's intention. “Why would they do this now? With the debut roughly four months away? We have to either scrap the project entirely or go back and rework it, and God knows if we'd have enough time to get it right.”

“Slow down,” she said, pulling her chair closer to his and offering a consoling hand on his knee. “What did the e-mail say, exactly?”

The waiter interrupted with two pilsners poured into pint glasses. Ryan took several long sips of beer, staring blankly out on to the mountains before saying, “They love the photography and the premise, but they don't think there's enough emotional pull in the narrative. As it stands, the film is not good enough to meet the project objectives. It's lacking a—what did he call it?” Ryan rubbed the tension from the back of his neck while he recalled Cullie's message. “It's lacking a compelling theme to weave all of the stories together. At least that's the reason they're giving. It could be more. But that's just me, speculating.”

“So you go back into editing and rework the script—can't you do that?”

“I wish it was that easy. We need better interviews, better writing. We'll need a talented editor who can help pull the new footage into what we've already shot, and—I don't know if it would even matter.”

“You can't just go back to the original video and edit in new quotes?”

“The editor and I went over the B-roll thoroughly. I just don't think it's going to be there,” he said. “It's fine, Shel. I'm sure we can figure something out. Let's not worry about it now. As you said, right now we just need to focus on each other.”

He set his hand over hers, but he was distracted; she wanted to help him find a solution.

“I just can't imagine that the film would lack an emotional connection. I mean, that's what prompted this entire project. Your personal connection to the lake and the people whom you've met there. And talking to people comes so easily to you.”

“It's my fault, really. I should have done a better job with the interviews in the front end. The truth is, I don't think they really opened up to me. The people we spoke with didn't open up in a way that is compelling enough. It's missing that personal connection. That warmth,” he said, thinking back to the time he spent on the road visiting small towns along the Lake Superior shoreline. “I recognized it at the time, and I was naïve to think we could cover it up in the final edits. And now the board is seeing through that.”

“I still think you're being hard on yourself,” she said. “But I know you have to do what you think is right. So, what's next?”

“I think the only thing we can do is go back and redo some of the interviews.”

“Is there time?”

“Maybe, if we move quickly.”

“When would you leave?”

“As soon as possible, I suppose. Early next week, if I can pull together the right people.”

“So much for adjusting to married life. . . .”

“I know. This isn't at all what I had planned,” he said. “It may take several weeks on the road. And then long hours editing in the studio.”

“Take whatever time you need. You only get one shot at a debut—do whatever it takes to make it right.”

When Ryan heard the
ding
on his phone's in-box, he opened up his e-mail and read a new message from his friend Brad.

“Do you have someone in mind to do the interviews?” Shelby asked, unaware of the second e-mail Ryan had just received. “You'd want someone who would come across easily to people—make them feel comfortable. Someone who would encourage them to open up, don't you think?”

“Yes,” he replied, distracted by Brad's warning.

“What about that guy that I met in your office a while back, the one who worked on the Gateway Green project?”

“Jackson?”

“Right. Jackson,” she said, nodding. “You told me that you loved his writing.”

“He'd be perfect, except that he left the company for a job in New York back in April.”

“So, get someone else to handle the interviews and script writing. Or postpone the shoot,” she suggested. “It's not a timely piece. Would you ever consider releasing it next year instead?”

“I want to keep our commitment and debut it at the film festival. We rushed the final edits because of the wedding, and now we're up against this new deadline. If I don't deliver the film, corporate affairs will consider the project a failure and I'll have to find a new way to generate exposure for the fund.”