Branching Out (9 page)

C
HAPTER
12

S
helby had always been a light sleeper, and pregnancy made it even worse. Even though her baby's kicks and jabs were gentle at this time in her pregnancy, she was like the princess and the pea—she was unable to sleep if she felt even the smallest discomfort. When Shelby was awake, Ryan often woke up with her and tried to do what he could to soothe her back to sleep. The trouble was, even when he could coax Shelby back to sleep, he couldn't do the same for himself.

That was how Ryan had given up on sleep by five o'clock on this autumn morning and was already in the kitchen quietly brewing a pot of coffee while Shelby remained in the bedroom curled up in a cocoon of blankets.

In bare feet and wearing pajama pants tied loosely at the hip, a freshly brewed mug of coffee in hand, Ryan entered the living room without turning on the lights and sat down in an oversized chair by the window. While tired, he appreciated the quiet.

Gazing out the window, Ryan watched the sun make its slow rise over the lake. He regretted how the past several months seemed to have passed by quickly in a series of deadlines and tasks. While he had become consumed with work that was unexpectedly rewarding, he also knew that the consequence was being away from his wife during her first year in the Chambers family. She was an adventurous soul, and he loved that about her. He knew that she would no sooner hole away in this apartment than an eagle would stay confined in its nest.

But the venturing out, naïve to her new environment, had been detrimental to her spirit. Shelby enjoyed the people she met in the city. It was the media she abhorred. And they had been ruthless in catching her in all of her awkward moments, skewing the truth and portraying her as cold, all for the sake of a “good” story.

“Say what they like,” she often said. “No one really cares about where I go, or what I wear. God knows there is much more pressing news in the world than what's happening in my life.”

He set down his coffee on the end table by his side and stood up and stretched his back against the light of an autumn sunrise that shone through the windows.

Not wanting to wake Shelby, Ryan didn't even take time to shower. He simply threw on a pullover and jeans, grabbed his leather jacket and a gray knit hat, and, in a last-minute decision, slung his camera over his shoulder. Heading down the elevator before anyone else in his building seemed to stir, he was eager to walk freely through Millennium Park as he had countless times during his bachelor days.

 

Ryan walked unnoticed across the grassy park lawns, with no particular plan or destination in mind. Simply being outdoors, alone with his thoughts and free from his obligations, was enough.

He had quickly scribbled a note for Shelby and left it on the kitchen counter where she was sure to find it once she eventually woke for the day. He knew, without having to ask, that she would have encouraged the long morning walk.

“I love you too much to watch you put your interests on hold. You need to get outside. Take photographs. I hardly ever see you pick up your camera anymore. You're much too talented to put it aside.” What she didn't know—what he hadn't confessed to her—was that he had tried to take photographs many times over the past several months but that his work left him unsatisfied. He wasn't sure if it was the city, the people he came upon, or a lapse in his own creativity, but none of his recent photographs gave him as much pleasure as those from Bayfield and his first Chicago exhibit,
Family Trees
.

The other part of the reason, which he wouldn't let on to Shelby during her pregnancy, was that the increase in media attention that spiraled after their wedding and the disruption caused by her mother and Chad Covington made it nearly impossible for Ryan to do the work he loved. Now he and Shelby were drawing more attention than ever before. What he loved most about his photographic work was being able to capture portraits that offered a glimpse into a person's personality, not merely a moment in their life. And the only way he was able to do that successfully was to be unnoticed, to activate his camera's shutter without being seen.

He would never blame his wife for affecting his work in this way—she wanted the attention even less than he did—but life had changed dramatically for both of them since their return from Switzerland.

Following a trail of windswept fall leaves along a walking path, he continued until he reached the
Cloud Gate
. It was a sculpture by Anish Kapoor that was the centerpiece of the park's central plaza and usually attracted a large gathering of onlookers. Referred to by many as “The Bean” because of its shape, the piece was made of 168 stainless-steel plates that were welded together and highly polished. The exterior had no visible seams and appeared like an organic mirror with a surface that reflected and distorted the city's skyline.

He stopped to sit down at a vacant bench near
Cloud Gate
to rest a moment, realizing it was getting late and he should begin to think about heading back to the apartment soon. Shelby was certainly awake by now, and they had a full afternoon planned. It was then that he saw a small child dart out from behind the sculpture. Ryan looked around the empty plaza. The child appeared to be alone, although Ryan assumed that was only temporary. The young boy had probably run ahead of whoever was caring for him.

The child wore blue jeans, a light-blue sweatshirt with the hood tucked out of the back of a zipped jacket that was the same red as his sneakers. Ryan watched as the boy ran in circles with his arms spread out like airplane wings, spinning and gliding over concrete pavers and crisp leaves. He seemed filled with boundless energy, delighted and free to run with the leaves, seemingly unstoppable until he noticed his reflection in “The Bean” and stopped abruptly.

Ryan reached for his camera, removed the lens cap and placed it in his jacket pocket, and then raised the camera to his eye. He looked through the viewfinder eyepiece and he carefully adjusted the focus until the boy was clearly in view.

From this angle, seated on the bench on the perimeter of the plaza, unnoticed by the child, Ryan smiled as the boy considered his reflection in the sculpture's shiny surface. His head tilted to one side and then the other. Then the boy stuck out his tongue and Ryan took his first shot.

Then the boy wiggled his body, slightly at first and then in a wild dance of arms and legs twisting and kicking in a manic dance of childhood zeal. Ryan chuckled to himself.

The boy then stopped dancing and walked toward the sculpture with his hand extended toward it. As he moved closer, his reflection reached back. Considering the sky that was also reflected in the piece, the overall image through Ryan's camera lens left him with the impression of a boy on earth reaching out to another child in the clouds. Ryan zoomed in closer, narrowing in on the shot, and wasn't able to pinpoint exactly what it was about the scene that made his heart ache. A child reaching out. A heavenly boy unable to leave the clouds and dance with his reflection on the cement pavers and scattered leaves. A young life yearning for more.

 

The moment ended as quickly as it began, with the boy's parents rushing out from behind the sculpture with frantic words. His father grabbed him firmly by the crux of his elbow and they continued off to another area of the park. Ryan was glad that no one had noticed him, as he now realized it could have been awkward to have to explain himself—a man sitting alone on a park bench taking photos of children.
Wouldn't the tabloids love to twist that story into something contemptible?

When he stood up to replace his lens cap on his camera and begin his walk back home, he felt his cell phone vibrate in his pocket. He slung the camera back over his shoulder and withdrew the phone as he walked.

 

 

“Shit,” he muttered, wondering how he had managed to miss her twice. She had even left a message.

“Hey, it's me. I know you're on a walk. Don't rush home,” came the sound of her voice, livelier than he had heard for a while. Quite a while, actually, and the sound of it made him smile.
God, I missed this side of her,
he thought. He hadn't realized how much of her spirit had slipped away until he listened to her brief message. How had he not noticed it before? “I just wanted to let you know that we have a surprise weekend guest. She just showed up unannounced—to join us at the Film Festival tonight! You'll just have to come home and see for yourself!” Shelby had hung up in the midst of laughter. That sweet, giddy laughter of the optimistic woman he had married. At this point, as he picked up his speed to walk back to their apartment, he didn't care who was visiting. Whoever it was could stay for the weekend. Hell, he wouldn't mind if it was the entire week or more. There was only one thing he cared about.

Shelby sounded happy.

 

The surprise guest turned out to be Nic Palmer, Shelby's best friend and Ryan's good fortune. If anyone could help draw out the lighter side of Shelby's personality, it was Nic. The two had called one another regularly since the wedding, often talking long into the evening. When Shelby moved into another room of their apartment, Nic cornered Ryan in the kitchen.

“So, is it as bad as I think it is?”

“You mean Shelby?” he asked.

“Over the phone, she isn't telling me stories anymore. It's almost as if she's telling me what she thinks I want to hear—proving to me that everything is
normal
. You and I both know it's a crock.”

Later that evening, Ryan dressed in a dark-charcoal suit and a crisp white, open-collared dress shirt to attend the long-awaited film release. When a black chauffeured town car arrived to take them to the Whitney Theatre, Ryan proudly stepped out of their apartment with his wife, who was dressed beautifully in an ethereal empire-waist navy-blue dress with a beaded bodice and airy skirt that fell softly over her pregnant silhouette.

“You're going to be the most beautiful woman there,” he told her as he took her hand and helped her into the backseat of the car. She touched his cheek and smiled before gathering the fabric of her skirt and settling into the seat.

“Hey, what about me?” came the distinctive voice behind him. “What am I? Chopped liver?” Nic quipped, as she followed the couple to the car.

“Of course not.” He laughed. “No one is going to outshine you tonight, Nic. You look incredible.”

“Now that's what I like to hear,” she said, moving past Ryan to open the front passenger side door. “I paid good money for this dress.”

“Nic, there's room for you to sit with us.”

“What? And miss getting a front-row view of downtown Chicago at night?” she said, looking at him as if his idea were absurd. “No thank you.” Nic slid into the front seat next to the driver without giving Ryan a chance to assist. He wondered to himself how she had managed so well in heels, considering how vocal she had been about her disdain for the shoes she wore at their wedding. The answer became apparent once she pulled her legs into the car and he saw a pair of sequined sneakers peeking out from beneath the hem of her dress.

She caught him looking at her legs and swatted him away from the car door, teasing him with her best Scarlett O'Hara impression, “Sir, you are no gentleman.”

Nic was exactly what Shelby needed to bring lift to her spirits, which Ryan appreciated more than he could express—especially on the night of his film debut. Despite the banter between him and Nic and her untraditional approach, her kindness toward Shelby had absolutely proven that she was indeed a lady.

C
HAPTER
13

S
itting in a plush seat at the magnificent Whitney Theatre, Shelby felt tremendous pride as the first images of Ryan's film appeared before the Chicago Film Festival audience. The screen was set upon a magnificent, historic stage that was adorned on either side with heavy, red velvet curtains. For the first time, she heard the words she had scripted, saw Lake Superior's shoreline communities through her husband's eyes, and marveled at the beauty of the lake she loved. Ryan was seated on the aisle, just beside her, while Nic was on her right. Ryan reached for her hand at the beginning of the film and held it tenderly as each scene transitioned smoothly into the next. From start to finish,
Lake Views
was a heartfelt film that deserved the exuberant applause it received once the credits rolled down the length of the screen.

Ryan wrapped his arm around her shoulder and leaned in to kiss her cheek. “What did you think?” he asked with eagerness and affection. He wanted her to love the film, and she did.

“Amazing,” she said, kissing him on the lips. “You were right. It was so much fun for me to wait, and see it in its entirety. So, so good!”

“You have no idea how good it makes me feel to hear you say that,” Ryan said.

“Gran is going to go crazy for this film; she already can't contain her excitement. And Grandpa—well, he would have been so proud of you. Just like I am.”

She knew those were the words Ryan wanted to hear, and she was relieved that they were true. It was a stunning film. There was no question about that.

As the audience's applause grew louder around them, and those seated in their vicinity began offering their congratulatory remarks to Ryan and his team, Shelby sat back in her upholstered seat, grateful that the house lights were still dim. Although she tried to deny it, Shelby had felt something else while watching
Lake Views
. It may have been homesickness. Or simply fatigue. But when she viewed the film and saw the people and places that reminded her so strongly of home, she felt better than she had in months. Ryan's film, his viewpoint, and the story line portrayed her beloved lake in breathtaking light. So much so that she felt she could walk into the screen and dip her feet in the cold, clear water. She could almost feel the wind lift off the waves and smell the familiar scent of pine and hemlock.

Ryan's distinct eye for still photography transferred incredibly well to cinematography. She was impressed and truly proud of his accomplishments. On the screen, visions of home were larger than life.

That all disappeared once the credits rolled and she returned to her Chicago reality, dressed beautifully in an elegant theater—accustomed to neither. She felt lost. The house lights turned up until they shone brightly. The dream was over.

“Holy crap, that was good,” Nic said, slapping her knee and turning to face Shelby. “Who knew Ryan could pull that off? I mean, he practically made Bayfield look like Bali! I had no idea the shoreline was so frickin' awesome; did you?”

“He did an incredible job,” Shelby agreed, feeling tremendously glad once again that her friend was visiting.

“And didn't you say you did all of the writing?”

“Some of the rewrites, but not much.”

“Well, I'm not sure exactly which parts were your words, but let's just say yours were the best.”

“What would I do without you?” Shelby smiled.

“Don't look now, but here come the 'rents,” Nic nudged her in the arm with a nod in the direction of Ryan's parents, who were walking up the aisle toward them. “Ten o'clock.”

“Oh, Shelby! William! You two did an outstanding job!” Charlotte said, setting one hand on her son's shoulder and reaching out her other hand toward Shelby. “I just knew you had it in you. So much
talent
in one family!”

“Nice work, William,” his father added, shaking Ryan's hand as he stood up from his seat and joined them in the aisle.

“Thanks, Charlotte.” Shelby smiled, remaining in her seat until she was obligated to “mingle and network,” as Chambers family members did.

Nic peered out from behind Shelby and did nothing to conceal the noise as she cleared her throat.

“Oh, is this a friend of yours?” Charlotte asked, looking from Nic to Shelby, and then to her son with raised eyebrows.

“This is my friend Nicole Palmer,” Shelby said, leaning back in her chair as Nic rose from her seat and extended a hand toward Charlotte and William.

“You remember Nic—from the wedding?” Ryan offered.

“Of course,” Ryan's father replied, nodding toward his wife. “Shelby's maid of honor.”

“Why of course,” Charlotte echoed, leaning forward to accept Nic's hand. “So nice to see you again.”

“Ready?” Ryan asked Shelby, taking her hand to help her up. She placed her other hand firmly on the armrests and pushed herself out of the seat as gracefully as she could manage wearing high heels—particularly when her ever-changing body threw off her balance. She would have liked to stretch out her back and legs by going for a walk, but she knew better. There would be a reception. Followed by a dinner that would last well into the evening. It would be hours until she would be back in the comfort of her own home, wearing pajamas and a pair of wooly socks.

“So, is there a party or something after this?” Nic asked.

“Nic—”

“What?” She shrugged her shoulders. “I mean, we're all dressed up—no need to call it a night, right?”

“Right.”

The aisle leading up to the theater exit was crowded with well-wishers and people whom Ryan and his parents seemed to know intimately but to Shelby were merely strangers. Of course she smiled and nodded, shaking hands and turning her body so as not to belly bump into the beautifully dressed attendees.

And there, with Shelby stuck in the center of a narrow theater aisle, it struck her. Her feelings were not only about her undeniable yearning to return home. It now occurred to her that to anyone, however generous or thoughtful, who watched the film or contributed toward the conservation cause the lake area was just a place. A pretty destination. But to her the lake was at the core of her life. Not on the peripheries. Being away from it for an extended time felt like being a migratory bird whose wing was clipped and who kept on circling back to center when all she wanted to do was fly north to home.