* * *
Our trip to Montana came up quickly. I’m not complaining at all. Montana midsummer is glorious. We’ve seen more waterfalls than I can count, rivers, buffalo herds, and moose. It’s our third week here. We’ve spent most days out taking shots or meeting with people for interviews. Then we come home at night to the inn where we are staying in Bozeman.
Today Michael and I have a fun side project. I’m teaching some kids at a local summer camp how to handle a camera. I want to inspire them to share their perspective with the world. Each person sees life through their own lens. A photo is a way of showing everyone else what we see. The kids are all holding cameras, walking around the property trying to figure out how to use a 50mm lens to get portrait-style shots of an object that catches their interest.
“Miss Katrina, come see this flower!” I run over to where a little girl named Emma squats next to what might be a weed. It is beautiful in its own right. We play with the focus together and look at the viewfinder afterward to see the shots she took.
“Emma, you got some really lovely shots.”
She beams. “This one is my favorite because it’s fuzzy behind the flower.”
Fuzzy. I love how kids describe things. “That’s called blur. The lens we are using helps that effect happen and you took control of the camera to make that picture just what it is – beautiful.”
Being around these kids makes me definitely see the appeal of the American Dream. Obviously, you couldn’t actually have 2.5 kids. You’d definitely have to settle on two or three. I mean, who has a half a kid? … the kids, a picket fence, a man you love. Yes. It all sounds amazing and just right to me today. Of course, how that fits in with me traipsing around the globe to fulfill my passion and dream, well, it really doesn’t. Maybe I’ll wait until I’m in my late 30s and adopt a child from Uganda. I sure don’t want to go my whole life without the opportunity of being called Mom and of pouring out deep love into a child’s heart.
After the class clears out, a volunteer named Mindy and I stand around talking.
“Kat, I can’t thank you enough for coming out to teach the kids. They had such fun with you.”
“I’m so grateful Michael and I were able to be here. The kids are precious.”
“So, what do you do when you aren’t out shooting photos?”
“Well, Michael and I have a lot of editing work. We have to keep up my website, send in submissions for freelance jobs. Stuff like that. Otherwise, we hang at the inn.”
“If you ever want to get together while you are here, I would love it. No pressure, but if you feel like some girl time, let me know.”
“I’d love that! You have my number. Just text me yours.” See. That’s easy. Exchanging numbers. Why didn’t I do that with Jack? Ugh.
“And, if you want, I attend a small group. You’d be welcome to come anytime if you have an open Thursday evening. It’s a gathering of young adults from my church.”
“I’m game. That sounds fun. I’ll let you know if a Thursday opens up.”
Mindy mentioning church gets me thinking about the people of Bwindi. Their faith dominated their lives in a way I haven’t experienced elsewhere. I’ve seen so many ways that people view God as I’ve traveled around the world. Some people don’t believe in a deity. Others have thousands. That idea exhausts me. Most of what I grew up around was plain old-fashioned Christianity. People were thoughtful, put others ahead of themselves, and practiced manners and courtesies.
These days my faith feels more personal. Give me a wide-open savannah in the middle of Africa with the sun setting low and orange. That could be my cathedral. Or a wide mountain pass with a torrential waterfall cutting deep into rock as my worship song. I experience God in nature. I believe He created it, and as an artist, I appreciate the way art reflects the goodness and skill of the artisan.
chapter ten
Jack
The coffee shop has officially been open for three weeks now. I’m starting to get into the rhythm of how things flow and working out the expected kinks that come after an opening. Bryce has been a godsend. My other part-time employees are also amazing. The week before we opened a woman named Betty came in inquiring about a position as a barista. While most of my employees are in their 20s, Betty is in her late 50s and has adopted the title “Mom of the Shop.”
I’m finishing up reviewing some invoices in the office when Betty walks in. She gives me a considerate smile that reminds me of my mom. “Hey, Jack. Just checking on you.”
“Thanks, Betty. How are things out front? I’ll be up there in a minute.”
“Going smoothly. I just did the rounds and chatted with a few college students as I picked up empties people left on their tables.”
“Thanks. You have such a way with the college kids.” I look up from my papers to see her smiling warmly.
“Well, since Ethan and Hannah left home, I feel a special connection to the kids here at MSU. I know what it’s like to be away from home and need someone who isn’t your roommate or your mom to bounce things off of.”
“Maybe we need to set up a counseling office for you in the side room.” I wink.
“You know it’s true. Bartenders, hairdressers, and baristas – we’re all amateur therapists. People tell us their woes and secrets. Hopefully we listen and help them along.” She smiles.
How did I ever get so blessed as to have that woman come to work part-time at my shop? I realize I need to go get a pulse on the main room. “Let’s head out and see where we’re needed.”
“Sounds good, Jack.”
The sound of frothing milk, the low hum of people conversing, and the coffeehouse music piping through the speakers fill the air. I walk through the front room greeting customers and taking stock of everything. Raw sugar packets are low. I head back to the storeroom to get more. I swear these college kids stock up on their dorm room supply from my condiment stand.
As I’m walking out front, I hear a voice that reminds me of Katrina’s. Now I know I’m losing it … hearing her voice in Montana. I set down the box of sugar packets, step past the counter and blink. Someone says something to me. At least I think they might be speaking. All I can do is stare. Then I vaguely hear Bryce say, “Jack? Are you okay, Jack?”
A slow smile crosses Katrina’s lips. I feel like I’m seeing a hologram. In her bubbly voice she says, “Well, well, Jack Anders. What brings you to Bozeman Montana?”
I step closer and before I can answer, Katrina has her arms wrapped around me in an eager hug that tells me I wasn’t the only one reminiscing about our connection. And she feels good. Really good. Like coming home and everything that’s right in the world.
Katrina steps back, her brown hair framing her recently tanned face. I realize I haven’t been speaking yet. Great first impression as always. “Hey, Katrina. … Well, actually, I grew up here. It’s good to see you. What brings you to Bozeman?”
She still takes my breath away. Katrina Bradshaw is standing here in my coffee shop. How likely is it that Katrina would be here of all places? Statistically, I’m sure the odds are slim. Yet, she’s standing in front of me, vibrant, stunning, and leaving me breathless like she did that first time I met her at the truck stop and every chance meeting since.