Secrets in a Still Life, Kari Ganske [best fiction books to read .TXT] 📗

but I wasn't going to give him the satisfaction of dwelling on it. I'd worked too hard to overcome the inherent prejudice people had against my gender and age in the photojournalism community to let a man ruin it.

When I first broke into the scene, I felt like Peter Parker, sans Spiderman, peddling human interest stories to the Daily Prophet as a freelancer. Sometimes newspapers or magazines would commission me to do a specific shoot, but I realized quickly these tended to be light and fluffy events—high-society weddings, gala openings, candids of the dog park. All of which I could have easily photographed back in Piney Ridge. The male photographers were sent to riots and political events and even overseas on location.

So, I did what any other self-respecting young woman would do in a patriarchal profession—I lied. No, not lied exactly, but blurred the truth. I took advantage of my gender-neutral nickname, Alex, on résumés and job applications to get my foot in the door. By the time magazines and news outlets realized I was actually a young, petite woman, my photographs had already spoken for themselves. It wasn't my fault people jumped to conclusions. When I became the go-to photographer for Nature magazine, the ends absolutely justified the means.

Then Rick had wrecked it all out of spite. And now I was back at square one—unemployed and alone.

Well, not entirely alone; I had Lashatelle on my lap. And anyone who claimed fish didn't have personalities were full of bologna Traveling on location to photograph news and nature didn't allow for pets of the furry or feathered varieties, so a fish was the perfect companion. Low maintenance, quiet, and a little judgy—kinda like me.

"Alex, are you listening to me?" my mother's shrill voice cut into my sulk, reminding me that I had her and my father on my side as well.

"Yes, Mom," I said. I had been half listening. I grasped at the last thing I heard clearly. "I think I should get settled in first before joining your clubs, okay?"

"Sure, Peanut. I understand. We need to let this sign debacle blow over first anyway."

I would have chuckled at the double meaning of the sign blowing over, but I knew she didn't say the pun on purpose. I turned my attention out the window as she rambled through choices for dinner.

Ms. Granger, my fourth-grade teacher, sat on her porch in her rocker, waving at all the cars driving by. I lifted my hand in return, as I did every time I passed her house since she retired a few decades ago.

A little way down the street, Ms. Walker struggled with a large golden retriever who bounded after a squirrel. The dog's name, I knew, was Rocket. They'd had a Rocket since I was in middle school. Their first Rocket, a beautiful, docile golden had been the fabric of the family. When she got sick, we all thought Robbie Walker would die right along with the dog, they were so devoted. But when Rocket made a full recovery a few weeks later, the whole town rejoiced in Robbie's joy. In fact, her recovery was so complete, she seemed like a totally different dog.

Come to find out later, it was a different dog. The original Rocket sadly passed away from her illness, but instead of telling Robbie, they'd simply replaced her with a new Rocket and led Robbie to believe she'd made a complete recovery. The cycle had repeated until Robbie went to college and found out the truth. Now, no matter what they tried to name their dogs, everyone called them Rocket. The Walkers finally stopped trying to fight it.

I smiled—part rueful, part amused—as memories rolled through me as swiftly as we rolled through the streets. The old pear tree, perfect for climbing, in the lot beside the elementary school that Linc and I fought over for ownership during recess. The community book drop on the corner where Colleen and I snatched bodice-rippers left by anonymous housewives. The duck pond, aptly named because of all the wild ducks and geese that made their homes there, where all three of us had grown up—first riding our bikes along the paths, then picnicking under the pavilion, finally talking for hours while we threw bread to the fowl.

I'd left all of this and more when I hightailed it to New York. Before I could let the emotions wash over me completely, I shut the floodgates of my memories. I didn't regret my choice then; my career and my mental health needed the move. But I did wish I would've thought about these small, happy moments more often instead of focusing on all the reasons why I left.

My father, George Lightwood, stood on the front porch of my childhood home as we pulled into the driveway. Without even looking too closely, I knew he'd be wearing a pair of brown pants, a button-down shirt, and a sweater vest in some ridiculous pattern my mother had picked out. He'd have today's paper tucked under one arm with his hand in his pocket and the other resting on his belly. I had an exact picture like this hanging in the New York apartment.

I swear the only thing that really changed in Piney Ridge was the level of the reservoir during a heavy rain.

I got out of the car with Lash in my hands.

"Hey, Princess," my father called, raising his hand. Of the two nicknames from my parents, Princess was by far my favorite. My mother only called me Peanut because I was so short as a child. Truthfully, I was still short, but a thirty-two-year-old Peanut wasn't quite as cute. Or womanly.

"Hi, Dad," I said. I paused beside him so he could kiss my cheek. I'd have hugged him if I wasn't holding Lash's bowl.

"I heard you had a little run-in on the way here." He tried to hide