Page 31 of Grizzly's Grump
"Smells like something that’ll ruin my diet," she says dryly.
I blink. Then open the window. "I didn’t realize you had one."
"I don’t. But I like pretending. What is that?"
I pull a small, still-warm loaf from the cooling rack and set it in a paper wrap. "Try it. Tell me if it’s worth offering only atThe Rusty Fork."
Her brows lift. "Exclusive?"
I nod. "You wouldn’t find it anywhere else. Not even here."
She tears off a piece, chews, and doesn’t speak for a long moment. Then she groans. "Goddammit. Fine. Bring me six more tomorrow."
"Done."
As she walks away, I notice June Kessler hovering near the edge of the lot, her posture still and observant. There’s something about her—sharp-eyed, unnervingly still—that reminds me of an owl watching from a high perch. Those pale glasses catch the light, but it’s the way she sees everything without saying much that makes my skin prickle.
"Want some too?" I call.
She hesitates, gaze flicking from the bread to me, then gives a single, deliberate nod. "Only if there’s butter," she says, her voice an indistinct murmur that sounds more like a test than a request.
I grin. "Butter? But of course. What self-respecting pastry chef wouldn't have loads and loads of butter?"
She says nothing else, but it’s something—a silent shift in the air, like the soft click of a door unlocked but not yet opened. A nudge. A hesitant toe over the town’s imaginary line that’s been keeping me on the outside looking in.
Late that afternoon, the food truck glows faintly beneath the rising moon, the scent of baked almonds and warm honey still lingering in the air when Marcy swings back around—this time with purpose. Her footsteps crunch on the gravel, sure and unhurried, and for a second I brace myself, unsure if this is going to be a visit about bread or something more. Her expression isunreadable, the kind of calm that makes you lean in closer just to catch a hint of what’s stirring beneath.
She doesn’t knock or joke. Instead, she opens with a line that makes my breath catch. "There’s a gathering tonight," she says, eyes flicking past my shoulder to the darkening trees beyond. "Moonlight thing. Not a ritual. Not magic. Just food and community. You should come."
Her voice carries something softer than usual—something a little hesitant. She doesn’t quite meet my eyes, and the words feel rehearsed, like she’s not sure how they’ll land. The invitation hangs between us, unexpected and disarming, as if she’s offering more than just a night out—maybe a chance to belong.
I hesitate. "Will Calder be there?"
Marcy lifts a brow as a small smile tugs at the corners of her mouth. "Sugar, he's the one who called for it."
I don’t ask what she means by that. I already know.
I stare at the door long after she leaves. It’s just bread. Just a gathering. But it feels like more. A door cracked open, the kind I used to walk through without thinking. Before grief. Before starting over. I don’t know what I’ll find there—but for once, the idea of being seen doesn’t feel like a threat. It feels like a choice.
The clearing is lit with strings of old mason jars glowing faintly with candles and a big firepit crackling at its center. The scent of grilled meat and wild herbs fills the air, blending with laughter and music. It should feel foreign. Overwhelming. But something inside me softens as I take it all in.
Kids dart between legs. I spot flashes of fur and eyes gleaming in the firelight—animals mingling in ways that are a little too familiar. Calder said that all the town’s residents arelike him—not bear-shifters, but all kinds of animals. I’m starting to believe him. There’s something about the way they move, the way a wolf pads up and nudges a laughing man’s hip before melting into the shadows, or how a black bear cub nuzzles at someone’s leg like it belongs there.
I can’t always tell who’s who—but the energy thrumming in the air says they’re all part of something older, wilder. Nobody shifts right in front of me, but I see the aftermath—people wrapped in blankets or oversized shirts that weren't there before. It’s unsettling and mesmerizing, the way it all folds together. Something primal and wordless twists low in my belly, like awe and unease had a baby and set it loose in my chest.
And then there’s my table. A sturdy fold-out I hauled up with Marcy’s help, now covered in a linen cloth and crowded with offerings—honey-almond bread, peach scones, cinnamon-dusted cookies, and golden tarts filled with blackberry compote.
At first, people hover at the edges, unsure. I catch whispers, curious glances. Then one brave soul steps forward, takes a bite—and everything changes. A ripple of interest rolls through the crowd. Soon, there’s a steady stream of visitors.
Compliments begin in murmurs, hesitant and quiet, but with every bite, they gain confidence and warmth.
Laughter bubbles, questions come about ingredients and recipes, and a woman even asks if I take custom orders. For the first time since I rolled into this town, it feels like that heavy, unyielding door the town kept between us has eased open. Not all the way, not yet—but wide enough for light to filter through, wide enough for hope to take root.
"This tastes like something my grandmother made..."
"Is that honey in this?"
"I didn’t know you could even get peaches this good around here."
