Conception (The Wellingtons #4) - Tessa Teevan Page 0,7

many reminders.

This year? Grams put her foot down and said I was going. That or she wouldn’t pay tuition for my final year at the University of Tennessee, where I’ve been taking photography classes for the past three years. Since getting my undergraduate and following in Mom’s footsteps was number one on my lifegoals list, I had no other choice. Not that packing up and making the couple hours’ drive to the lake was easy, but after a year in a deteriorating relationship and subsequent breakup, I know I need this break.

While Dad was the meteorologist, my mom haled as the photographer of the family. She often accompanied Dad on his storm-chasing, something he loved to do in his spare time. Mom filled the house with albums of haunting skies, vibrant rainbows after a rainstorm, and even a few sinister tornadoes off in the distance.

After they passed, Mom’s prized 35mm camera became my own. Over the past few years, I’ve wished that I’d spent more time with her, learning the ins and outs of how she framed the perfect shot. I can recall countless times that I walked past her darkroom to see the bulb lit up outside, signaling that she was developing film. Not once did I have an interest in what she was doing. It wasn’t until Grams and I were going through the house, packing up their things, that my feelings changed.

I found an undeveloped roll of film, and it became my obsession to get them developed. Unfortunately, I had no clue what I was doing in the darkroom. No longer wanting to follow in my father’s footsteps, I decided to study photography in hopes of one day discovering what’s on the film.

I’ve developed copious amounts of film since my discovery, but not that roll. I’m not really sure why. At first I think it was too soon. Too real. It was all I had left of them, and a piece I think I could hold on to for as long as I needed. I guess I wasn’t ready. I’m still not sure I’ll ever be.

Now? I know I need to do this. I need find a way to move on, move beyond the trauma and really life my life again. First step? Find peace in Crystal Cove. Find peace with their loss. That’s why my goal this summer is to find out what the last pictures my mother took were, even if it breaks my heart to do so. I just wonder how long it’ll take me to muster up the strength to actually do it.

“Earth to Amelia,” Mrs. Mayfield singsongs.

I blink, my eyes coming into focus as she pushes the mug across the counter towards me.

“You look like you’re miles away.”

I plaster on a smile. “Just a long drive,” I assure her. “I would’ve been here sooner, but I hate driving in the rain.”

Understanding crosses her features. “Hopefully it will let up soon. Sunny wanted to be here, but she couldn’t get out of her shift at Mickey’s.”

I raise an eyebrow at the mention of Crystal Cove’s only bar. “Sunny’s working at Mickey’s now?” I ask. Gee, it really has been too long since we’ve talked.

Mrs. Mayfield eyes crinkle with a smile. “She started waitressing there after graduation, and now that she’s twenty-one, she’s behind the bar. Making darn good money, too. I don’t know why it came as a surprise. You know Sunny. There isn’t a stranger she’s ever met. She’s bartender, counselor, and best friend to anyone who walks through those doors.”

Mrs. Mayfield’s description of Sunny is spot-on, and it causes a sudden ache to squeeze my heart.

Now that I’m here, I’m eager to see her. “I’ll get settled and changed, then head over to Mickey’s. I have orders from Grams to lounge by the lake, read to my heart’s content, take plenty of photographs, and—most importantly—have fun.”

She pats my hand softly. “I don’t think you’ll have any problems if Sunny’s involved.”

That’s precisely what I’m counting on.

At the same time, I’m wondering about the stranger with the soulful brown eyes and arousing lips. Sure, I wasn’t about to let my guard down for him or even introduce myself, but there’s a piece of me that hopes Sunny knows him, that he’s not the creep (the super, incredibly hunky creep) my brain should have told me to run from.

Because on second thought?

The distraction of those vivid eyes, those full lips, and those large hands I didn’t have quite enough time to admire sounds like