Page 13 of On Tap for the Bear
I follow her into the kitchen, which smells like butter and citrus and vanilla—smells I can identify but can't taste even in my imagination anymore. She cuts two generous slices of cake, pours coffee from a French press that looks older than I am, and settles us at a small table by the window that overlooks the redwoods.
"So," Evelyn says, her tone casual but her eyes sharp. "How was the Bear Claw?"
"Good." I take a bite of cake. Texture: moist, tender. Taste: nothing. The disappointment is crushing, even though I knew it was coming. "The burger was excellent. And the beer was... impressive."
"Mmm. Eli's honey-lavender?"
I look up sharply. "How did you know I tried that one?"
"Oh, honey." Her smile is knowing. "Everyone knows when Eli finally gets a brew right. He's been obsessing over that one for weeks. The whole town's been placing bets on when he'd crack it." She takes a sip of coffee, watching me over the rim of her mug. "Interesting that it came together the morning you arrived."
"That's just coincidence."
"Is it?"
The question hangs in the air between us. I want to deflect, to change the subject, to retreat into professional journalist mode where I ask the questions instead of answering them. But Evelyn's gaze is too steady, too understanding.
"I don't know what you're implying," I say finally.
"I'm not implying anything. I'm just saying Redwood Rise has a way of giving people what they need, when they need it. Even if they don't know they need it yet." She cuts another bite of cake. "How long are you planning to stay?"
"Two weeks. Maybe less if I finish the travel piece sooner."
"Travel piece." She says it like she doesn't quite believe me. "For which publication?"
Shit. I haven't actually worked out that detail yet. "Freelance," I improvise. "Pitching to a few different outlets. Small-town profiles are popular right now."
The lie comes easier than I expected. Maybe because part of me wishes it were true.
"Uh-huh." Evelyn doesn't look convinced, but she lets it go. "Well, if you're writing about Redwood Rise, you should talk to folks. Anabeth Cole over at the ranger station can tell you about the wildlife and the trails. Marcy at The Rusty Fork has been here forty years and knows everyone's business. And of course, you'll want to spend more time at the Bear Claw. Can't write about this town without including Eli's place."
"I'll keep that in mind."
"I'm sure you will." Her smile is absolutely wicked. "That cake isn't doing it for you, is it?"
I freeze, fork halfway to my mouth. "What?"
"You're eating it like it's cardboard. Professional courtesy. You're being polite, but you're not tasting it. Haven't been able to taste anything for a while now, I'd wager." She leans forward. "Except maybe that beer."
My chest tightens. "I don't—how did you...”
"Like I said. This town has a way of giving people what they need." She stands, collecting our plates. "You should go explore. Talk to people. Figure out what you're really doing here."
"I'm writing an article."
"Sure you are." She pats my shoulder as she passes. "And when you're ready to tell me the truth, I'll be here with more cake."
I spend the afternoon wandering Redwood Rise with my notebook and camera, playing the part of the curious journalist. It's a role I've perfected over years of writing reviews and articles—friendly but professional, interested but not invasive, asking the right questions to make people feel heard while extracting the information I need.
Except I'm not sure what information I need anymore.
I stop at Between the Pages, the bookstore tucked into a Victorian storefront with bay windows full of hardcovers and local author displays. The owner, a woman in her seventies named Dorothy, spends twenty minutes telling me about the town's reading group and their monthly author events. She recommends three novels set in Northern California and insists I take a bookmark shaped like a redwood tree.
I interview the owner of the antique shop, a man named Frank who visited from Portland fifteen years ago and never left. "Something about this place just feels right," he tells me. "Like the town decides if you belong, not the other way around."
It's the third time someone's said something similar. The phrasing is slightly different each time, but the sentiment is the same: Redwood Rise chooses its residents.
I make notes. Tell myself I'm gathering color for the article. Force myself to focus on Dorothy's recommendations and Frank's philosophy instead of thinking about Eli's hands as he poured that flight of beer, the careful precision, the way he watched my face as I tasted each one.
