“Yes,” she says. “You ridiculous, wonderful, grumpy man. Yes.”
The room detonates.
Jo screams. Michelle is sobbing. Amber is on her feet clapping. Hazel drops the sweet tea pitcher and doesn’t even look at it. Jessica is hugging Scott’s book like it’s a person. Grandma Hensley is writing so fast her pen is a blur. Mads is trying to clap without waking Saralynn, which doesn’t work, so Saralynn starts crying, which makes Mads start crying, and now everybody in Hazel’s living room is either crying or cheering or both.
I have my camera.
Of course I have my camera. I don’t go anywhere without it—not because I’m expecting proposals at book club, but because I’m a photographer and light is unpredictable and moments don’t wait.
I’ve been shooting since the second Paul walked through the door. Silent shutter mode. The one I use for sleeping newborns and ambush proposals, apparently. I got him in the foyer with his jaw set. I got Emma standing up. I got the ring catching the light. I got the knee drop. I got the yes.
And now I get this: Emma and Paul on their knees on Hazel’s rug, foreheads pressed together, her hands on his face, his eyes closed. Everyone in a circle around them. A baby crying and a grandmother’s pen scratching and a dessert plate that nobody’s touching because this—this—is the good stuff.
This is what I photograph. Not just babies at the beginning. People at the moment everything changes.
Paul opens his eyes. Sees my camera.
“Did you just?—”
“Every second.”
“I didn’t give you permission to?—”
“Lottie doesn’t need permission,” Emma says, wiping her eyes. “Lottie hasinstincts.”
He looks at me. I expect grumpy. I expect the Paul Spencer face—the one that saysput that camera away before I throw it in the harbor.
Instead he nods. Once. “Get a good one?”
I scroll back through the shots. Find the one—Paul on one knee, ring extended, Emma’s hands over her mouth, lamplight catching the diamond and throwing sparks across the ceiling. Hazel’s rug. Book club. The whole messy, imperfect, beautiful scene.
“I got a great one.”
“Send it to me.”
“To you?”
“I want it in the office.” He pauses. “Next to the sticky note.”
My throat goes tight. I nod. He turns back to Emma, who kisses him again while Jo pours champagne she apparently brought “just in case” because Jo Beckett is either psychic or an optimist, and in Twin Waves those might be the same thing.
Grandma Hensley catches my eye from the wingback chair. She holds up her notebook. She’s written one word in large letters and circled it three times:
Finally.
I laugh. Tuck my camera back against my chest.
My phone buzzes. A number I don’t recognize.
Your kids left a tackle box on my boat. Again. —Justin
I stare at the screen. He got my number. I don’t know how and I’m not going to ask.
I type:Tomorrow is fine. Thanks.
A pause. Then:
Justin:The kid labeled every compartment. It says SHIMP BATE.
