LITMIR.BIZ

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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 in his face. “Not that kind of shot. Though the way I feel right now, I could kill you,” she said. “It was going to be a beautiful picture, and you ruined it with that ridiculous song.”

      “You know that song?”

      “My grandfather used to sing it every year when we dragged the dock down to the water.” Regan couldn’t help but smile at the memory of all the grandchildren lined up on either side and marching the heavy wooden structure down to the water. It was an annual rite of passage. No one was allowed to swim in the lake until the dock was in.

      “Well then, I suppose I do owe you an apology. I’m sorry for ruining your shot,” he said. “And I guess if you’re determined to shoot me there’s nothing I can do about it.”

      He ran a few steps ahead of her, then turned to face her, jogging backward and holding his arms out. “Go ahead, I’m ready to accept my punishment.”

      Regan couldn’t help but smile again. She’d been so angry with him just a few moments ago and now he’d made her smile. Who was this man?

      She raised her camera and snapped a few frames. He clutched his chest and stumbled slightly. “I suppose I deserve that.”

      Regan raised her camera again, this time focusing on his face. He continued to increase the distance between them as she continued to shoot, and when she pulled the camera down, he was twenty yards away. She opened her mouth, ready to ask him to stop. She wanted to know more about him, where he came from, what he was doing on the road so early in the morning. But in the end, she let him escape. He finally faced forward and continued down the road, singing the song boisterously.

      Regan quickly grabbed a few shots of his retreat, then stood in the middle of the road and listened to the last echo of his voice. She’d had a lot of strange encounters on her early morning walks, mostly with wild animals. She could say with complete confidence, though, that she’d never had an encounter with such a handsome man.

      She realized it had been a long time since she’d enjoyed being with a sexy man. And she had a few months before she headed to Arizona for the winter. Regan glanced at her watch. If he ran on a regular schedule, she might catch him out here again tomorrow morning. Then she might be able to find out where he lived and who he was. And she wouldn’t be so...so tongue-tied.

      Regan

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