Page 15 of Wildfire
"You okay, dear?"
I wipe my face, and I realize I have started crying. "Yeah, just got some sawdust in my eyes.”
"Well, I have some safety glasses that provide a little more coverage than yours. Would you like to try those?"
I nod in response, hoping to deflect away from the fact that there isn't anything in my eyes.
A few hours later, we finish up for the day. I'm proud of my work, and I think I impressed Callie, too. As she inspects my work, the look on her face leaves me feeling like I'm on a cloud as I walk back home to Cole's place.
When I get there, music is pouring out of his house. It sounds raw and edgy, which is precisely the music I want to make when I get to Los Angeles.
I knock on his open door just to be polite. When he turns to look at me, his face breaks out in a wide smile. His dark hair is a little mussed, and he's wearing an apron with a flour dusting. The smell of caramelized onions tangles with the heady scent of baked bread. The scene is a sight for sore eyes, and I get choked up again, just like I had at Callie's.
"Smells good in here. What's this music?" I stroll over to the stereo so he can't see that a few tears have formed in my eyes. While pretending to look at his music collection, I mull over the idea that this family is the best thing that could have happened to me with a broken car and nowhere to go.
"It's a local band called Frayed Edge. They're incredible. You'll get to hear them at the kickoff party."
"Kickoff party?"
"The first night of the boat festival is the first official day of tourist season around here. And that band is playing."
"Wow. You know, I had no idea that this town had a tourist season. I know you mentioned it yesterday, but I was wrapped up in my car problems. Why do people come here?"
"Well, for starters, they come for the boats. It's all my mom's fault."
I laugh at that thought. How can he be blaming his mother for a festival? "Your mom's fault?"
"She started the boat festival about two years after we arrived."
"Seriously?"
"Yeah. It was just something fun for her to try and feel more welcomed in the community and to give us boys something to do after school."
"Why did she not feel welcomed?"
"That's a story for another day. Want a drink or anything?"
I walk over to the long kitchen island and sit on a high stool overlooking the stove where he is working. "Sure. But I still have questions."
He pours me a whiskey on the rocks and places it in front of me. "What other questions?"
"Number one. Do you need any help cooking? Because there is no way I'm not eating whatever you are making. It smells too good in here."
"You can set the table if you want."
I hop off the stool and set to work. I already know where everything is because I washed and put away all the dishes the night before. And just that knowledge—that I was already comfortable in this kitchen—feels good. It feels warm. Just like being with him feels good.
"Okay, question number two." I walk back over to the stool and sit down, sipping my drink and admiring the view. Here is a man cooking— for me. I wasn't the one scrambling to put something together for four hungry mouths. I wasn't the one trying to balance homework or real work and my dad's medicine and cooking meals. I was being cooked for. Cared for. I was already thinking how much I'd miss this when I got to California.
"What are the other reasons people come here for tourism?"
"Well, we're the gateway to the Empire mountains, some of the best hiking, camping, fishing, and hunting for hundreds of miles. So people come for long weekends, some come for weeks. Damn near everyone in this town either has a mother-in-law apartment for rent like mine or is on a waiting list with my mom to have one built just to accommodate the summer inflow. There are only two motels and a handful of B&Bs in town, which isn't enough. Some folks have even cleared a little land for mini campgrounds."
"Are you serious?"
"Why wouldn't I be?"
"I guess it shows how little news made it my way on the coast."
