The Mighty Quinns: Jamie. Kate Hoffmann

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СКАЧАТЬ eastern shore of Pickett’s Lake, as she’d done last night, she often took advantage of the early start and got up to take a walk, her favorite camera in hand. The light was always the best in the early morning hours, and the most unexpected images could be captured when the rest of the world was still asleep.

      Regan wasn’t sure when she’d begun the search, but the need to find the perfect image had grown more important to her as she got older. Just once, she wanted to snap the shutter and be completely and totally satisfied with the image, no need to alter it on her computer, no regrets about how she’d framed it.

      Regan dropped her camera strap over her head, then opened the door and slipped outside. She drew a deep breath of chilly morning air, the smell of the Minnesota woods and lakes filling her head. So different from the smell of her winter home in the desert of Arizona.

      As she walked up to the road, a sense of anticipation built within her. A low fog hugged the floor of the forest, and in the distance, she could hear the cry of a blue jay.

      Her parents and siblings had joked about her search for perfection when she was younger, teasing her about all her lists and plans. But she’d always been that way, finding something she was passionate about and then pursuing it with every ounce of her energy and every second of her time.

      Her fascination with photography had grown from one of her biggest childhood obsessions—brides. It had begun when she’d first watched the wedding scene in The Sound of Music. After that, she wasn’t happy unless she was wearing a long white gown and a veil. Sometimes they were made of clothes she’d stolen from her mother’s closet, other times they were made of toilet paper or tissue paper.

      Every Halloween, she wore the same costume—full bridal regalia, down to a rhinestone tiara and jeweled shoes. On her sixth birthday, she’d received a digital camera from her parents, who’d hoped she’d find a new obsession. Instead, she’d learned to use the timer and took photos of herself dressed in her bridal creations.

      As she walked down the empty road now, she thought back to the carefree summers she’d spent at her grandparents’ lake house. When she turned eight, she’d been allowed to ride her bike into town, and that’s when she’d discovered real weddings. All summer long, beautiful brides and their handsome husbands would celebrate their wedding in the old stone chapel.

      Sometimes she’d sneak in and take photos from the balcony, though most often she was forced to wait outside. But every summer, she’d fill scrapbooks full of photos, every year learning new ways to make them more beautiful.

      The chapel came into view as she came around the bend, appearing out of the mist. She picked up her camera and snapped a few frames. But as she came closer, she noticed movement on the front steps—a fox sat on the top one. The fox hadn’t noticed her and she slowly brought her camera up. The light was dull, but it would get better if she waited.

      Slowly, step by step, she moved to a better vantage point, keeping the camera trained on the fox. As she waited for the sun, her mind spooled back to her own wedding day. She’d known Jake Lindstrom for most of her life. His family owned the huge house on the eastern shore of Pickett Lake, and their parents had socialized in the same circles in the city.

      It was supposed to have been the wedding of the summer, with a huge reception planned at the local country club. She’d spent her last year of college planning every detail, and after trying on over two hundred wedding gowns, she’d finally found the perfect dress.

      Everything had gone as planned until she reached the altar. That was when the man of her dreams, her fairy-tale prince, had blurted out a drunken apology before running for the door.

      In that instant, every dream she had of being the perfect bride had been destroyed, along with her belief in the perfect relationship. How was it possible to love someone and then just stop? What was wrong with her that she didn’t deserve the fairy-tale ending?

      From that moment on, she’d kept the men in her life at a distance. She’d dated and enjoyed some passionate short-term affairs, but she’d kept her heart locked away. Most men found her approach attractive and enjoyed the no-strings sex. And though most of her lovers would have been happy to continue, Regan had always been the one to end it.

      As she continued to watch the fox, Regan thought about all the photos she’d taken as a wedding photographer. People said she had a way of capturing emotion in her photographs of inanimate objects—rose petals on a white runner, a wedding program left on a church pew, a veil tossed across the back of a chair. She mixed these photos with stunning candids and beautiful portraits, capturing the day in a way that no one else could.

      It was easier to believe in the fairy tale when she stood behind the camera. It was like a filter that took away the everyday realities of love and marriage and froze the moments of perfection for all time.

      A soft breeze buffeted the dead leaves that covered the roadside, sending them onto the pavement in swirls of color. Suddenly, the low morning light finally broke through the trees. Horizontal shafts of illumination reflected off the moisture in the air and the colors shifted, becoming supersaturated, an emerald so vivid it seemed unreal.

      She brought the camera up again and began to shoot. The fox sniffed at the wind, then flicked her tail, turning its attention to the road. Regan held her breath as she continued to shoot. It was as if the fox sensed that Regan meant no harm. In fact, she wanted her photo taken.

      The sunlight moved up the facade of the chapel and had nearly covered the fox with a diffuse light. Suddenly, the fox’s ears pricked up and she cocked her head. Regan let out a soft gasp as she heard the sound of singing echoing through the woods.

      “Give me some men, who are stout hearted men, who will fight for the right they adore.”

      In a heartbeat, the fox bounded off into the woods. Regan looked up from her camera, cursing softly, as the voice grew louder. A few seconds later, she saw a runner approaching from the opposite direction. He wore running pants and trainers, but he’d removed his long-sleeved shirt and tied it around his waist. His chest was bare to the cold and gleaming with moisture.

      He continued to sing the song until he caught sight of her. Then he stopped in the middle of the road, as if he were startled to see somebody out so early in the morning. Steam seemed to swirl around his body—from the cold air meeting his warm skin—and for a moment, Regan wondered if he was real.

      They stared at each other for a long moment, like predator and prey, although Regan wasn’t sure which one of them was which. She wanted to scream at him and throw rocks and sticks until she punished him for ruining her photo session. But all she could manage was a frustrated shriek and a sarcastic “thank you.”

      She spun on her heel and started back toward her grandmother’s house. The family of foxes would have been a cute photo, one that she could have turned into a postcard for the tourists who flocked to Pickett Lake every summer. Instead, some bonehead more concerned about his washboard abs and muscled calves than appreciating nature had ruined it.

      A few seconds later, the runner caught up to her. “Did you just thank me?”

      “I wasn’t being grateful,” Regan said. “You just scared away my shot.”

      “Your shot?”

      “A fox. Sitting on the chapel steps. Perfect light.”

      “All the better,” he said. “You might’ve killed me.”

      Regan held up her camera, waving it СКАЧАТЬ