My dog, Roman, leaps off the side of the porch, ignoring the steps. His curly brown and white coat gives him the appearance of a poodle mix.
True to my word, once I’ve unloaded the van, I head for the old root cellar’s entrance on the outside of the house and use the flashlight on my phone to pick out a bottle of wine.
The open kitchen and living room take up the first floor. Hand-hewn boards cover the exterior, but the original logs are exposed in the interior. Ceiling beams of sturdy, local hardwood have withstood storms and wars for centuries. Worn floorboards don’t mind new scratches from boots, claws, or hooves.
My restorations and additions to the original structures have been minimal. Among the modernizations required to make the cabin inhabitable in this century, my favorite is the professional gas range, powered by a large propane tank I buried in the yard. A bonus is that I never have to worry about running out of hot water in the shower.
I grab a glass and the bottle opener before returning to the porch where the afternoon breeze carries the scent of rain and the promise of storms. As I open the bottle, distant thunder echoes through the valley. Patsy lifts her head and sniffs before trotting up the steps. I keep one of her beds next to my chair, and she settles in it while Roman chases something in the yard.
I pour the deep claret into my glass. French wine for a French bastard.
Giving the glass a swirl, I inhale the scent of the fine Bordeaux. A gift from someone who tried to impress me, I’m certain the bottle cost half as much as the old church van I bought to haul cargo for the farm.
I take a sip, swishing the liquid in my mouth, rolling my tongue through the expensive wine like I’m savoring the taste of a first kiss.
Thunder crackles across the dark sky to the west, and the boom of sound takes five seconds to catch up. Roman gives up the hunt and joins us on the porch.
Lifting my glass, I toast to the storm and the memory of my dear friend.
By the time I pour a refill, fat drops of rain have turned dirt into mud. The wind bends the skinny trees and flattens plants in the field. On the porch, Patsy and I remain dry.
As soon as the downpour begins, it ends. All that blustering and blowing are forgotten as leaves unfurl and trees return to stillness.
I raise my glass to the sky. “Thanks for the show, Tony.”
Standing, I carry the half-empty bottle to the railing. As a curtain of rainwater drips from the roof onto the ground, I pour the remainder of the wine over the pebbles, watching as it swirls with the clear water before disappearing.
Feeling melancholy yet satisfied, I head inside to make dinner. Patsy relocates from her bed on the porch to her bed in the living room.
Instead of something fancy, I decide to make a pot of broth beans using Nannie Ida’s recipe.
I might not have everything I’ve ever dreamed of or wanted, but I have what I need.
Chapter Three
Daphne
Monday morning, Gaia finds me at my desk in the ranger station. We chat about our weekends for a few minutes and then she gets down to business.
“Daphne, I want you to take over social media for the GSM. There are a couple of private accounts tweeting about the park, so we need to have an official one. We gotta gear up for the fall visitor season.”
Normally, I’m happy to take on any project she brings to me. As a seasonal employee, I want to prove myself in hopes of getting promoted. I need a good recommendation from her to be considered for full-time, year-round positions in any of the national parks.
Problem is I hate social media and sharing about myself. A support group is basically my worst nightmare—too close to my past. This might explain why I personally have zero social media presence. I can also proudly confirm that online photos of me don’t exist. Occasionally, I search for my name and I’m always relieved when nothing directly related to me shows up on the first couple of pages.
My life is better without too many people complications, but I’m not foolish enough to believe living is easiest without anyone else in it. I have zero desire to live off the land in isolation like a doomsday prepper, stockpiling canned meat and pickling anything semi-edible, but on a scale of social butterfly to hermit, I probably lean toward the latter. I do have friends. Besides Kacey from college, there’s Isaac, my best friend from childhood. Throw in the rangers, campers, hikers, and visitors, and I have more than enough social interaction.
I’d like to continue flying under the radar, so I deflect with the first thing that comes to my mind. “Ranger Lee is a much better writer than I am. He’s great at quips and pithy commentary.”
Bus, thy name is Daphne, and this route runs express to Deflection Town.
Gaia’s mouth bends into a frown. “We don’t need quippy. What we do need is updates on road closures and parking being maxed out at the visitor center, bear safety reminders—things like that. This isn’t a popularity or personality contest. We’re federal employees. No one expects us to be pithy.”
“Which is a shame,” Griffin grumbles from his desk across from mine. “No reason we have to be boring. Nature is hysterical—ask Jay and his bird puns.”
“No,” Gaia and I both groan together.
“Hey.” Jay’s head pops around the divider. “I will try not to take your bad attitudes as personal insults. Et tu, Daphne? If I’m not mistaken, you used one of the owl jokes in the campground not even a week ago and received loud laughter and hearty applause.”
“The audience were mostly twelve-year-old boys.” I defend myself. “Smelt it dealt it got an even bigger guffaw.”
“I can appreciate a fish pun. I’m not as bird-obsessed as y’all make me out to be.” Jay huffs with inflated disappointment.
The three of us stare at him in silence.
“Whatever.” He sighs and disappears behind the partition. There are times when I think we’re a colony of meerkats or prairie dogs, popping out of our various holes before quickly disappearing again. This visual is typically followed by imagining us all trapped in a human-sized whack-a-mole game. My mind can be a strange and sometimes terrifying place.
We all have our distinct roles. Jay is the bird guy, aka an avian specialist. When not playing the clown, Griffin works in operations. He’s great at systems. For some reason, he prefers to act like a doofus instead of the smart person he is.
Gaia is our head ranger and therefore everyone’s boss. After ancient Ed retired earlier this year, she took over as the interim chief before getting the official promotion over the summer.
As for me, I work in education and interpretation, which means I’m the front line of visitor interaction both in the park and the community.
Want to know more about the history of the Great Smoky Mountains National Park? How long do ya got?
Curious about bears? I have stories.
Nervous about skunks? Let me tell you more about this misunderstood animal.
Want to bring home that cool rock you found as a souvenir? Drop it and leave it for the next visitor to enjoy.
Thinking about eating those berries or mushrooms you found on your hike? I’m probably going to tell you not to forage without being informed.
I’m full of fun sayings like “Leave it better than you found it” and “National parks are for everyone.”
If I were a cheerleader, I’d be yelling out, “Give me a P! Give me an A! Give me an R!” (You get the idea.)
And yet, I’m probably the least outgoing and social among the rangers, except maybe Jay—although he has loosened up since he’s been with Olive.
Gaia prompts me about the account again. “Just give it a go. Type up information from the daily bulletin into bite-sized, morsels that can be fed to the public in a few hundred words.”
“You can do it!” Griffin gives me an enthusiastic thumbs-up. “I believe in you.”
“You’re only saying that because you’re glad this isn’t your assignment.”
His grin reveals more teeth. “Yep.”
I spin in my chair with my head tilted back, which I’m pretty sure is the universal posture of someone who doesn’t wanna do something.
“What’s worse?” Griffin asks. “School visit or typing a bunch of stuff on your computer in the silence of your own cubicle?”
He makes an excellent point.
“School visits.”
“Change your attitude, change your life,” he offers as a bit of random Griffin wisdom.
I spin myself so I can stare at him upside down. The effort to lift my head is too much on top of my existential angst at the moment.
“That’s kind of deep,” I tell him, actually meaning the compliment.
“I have my moments.” He gives me a genuine smile before spinning my chair with his foot. “Back to work. We have a school visit this afternoon, first one of the year. Aren’t you excited?”
When I sit up too quickly, my head pounds as blood returns to my brain. I can’t fake enthusiasm to cover my nerves, muttering, “Yippee!”
My job requires me to visit local schools to encourage kids to enter the junior ranger program and Ranger Lee accompanies me on many of these presentations. He’s charming and goofy. The kids always love him, and I’m grateful to have him take the lead.
Honestly, a crowd of children still freaks me out. The staring and the questions—so many questions. How. When. What. Why. Always with the why.
They may act innocent and sweet, but I believe deep down they are completely aware of what they’re doing—especially the younger ones. People think the tiny humans aren’t fully developed, aren’t smart enough to figure out the ways of the world. To which I say, “Ha!”
Children have one foot in this world and one still in wherever souls come from before they are born. They know things. They see ghosts. This is a well-established fact. Fairies and magical bunnies and the bearded guy with his sleigh and presents all exist in their version of the world because magic is real. Anything is possible, so therefore, everything is possible.
This is why kids freak me out. Unlike adults, their world involves an irrational and fantastic existence not yet bogged down by science, logic, and facts. Part of me is jealous. I want to believe in their world.
Meeting eyes with these beings is like staring into the sun or the dark void; it’s as terrifying as it is fascinating.
Griffin thinks I’m weird when I mention any of this to him. Most people have the same reaction as he does.
“They’re just kids. Don’t you remember when you were young and curious about everything?” he asks, parking our official NPS vehicle in the school visitor lot.
I haven’t told him anything about my childhood. I rarely disclose the reality of my upbringing and family situation to anyone. Opens the door for questions I’d rather avoid.
Thankfully, when most people around here learn I’m from far away, they’re not interested in hearing more. It’s enough of a relief that they don’t have to figure out how I might be kin with them or their neighbor or the organist at their church. Familiarity kills curiosity. In my months in the Smokies, I’ve learned that around here community is one giant game of six degrees of separation.
I meet Griffin at the back of the white SUV where our presentation supplies are stored. “Speaking of curious, I wanted to run something by you before we do our presentation.”
“Shoot.” He slides my plastic bin toward the edge of the cargo area.
Before I can muster the nerve to ask him about Odin Hill and his weird attitude about the park, Griffin continues speaking. “I’ve been hoping to discuss something with you as well.”
I chicken out. “Really? You go first.”
Happy mischief sparks in his expression. “I’ve been thinking we need a salamander costume.”
My own eyes blink rapidly as my brain tries to process his suggestion. “Why?”
“Well, the Smokies are the salamander capital of the world. I keep telling Gaia we need to highlight our best assets, amphibian and otherwise. What size do you think you’d need? Medium?”
“Size?”
“For the salamander costume. Ideally, we’d get you one of the inflatable kinds like those T-Rex that are so popular. If we can’t find one of those, we can probably locate the high school mascot kind. Think of all the hysterical videos we could film for the social media accounts you’re managing. This is going to be great.” Wide-eyed and smiling, he shoulders the supply bin and closes the hatch.
Typical Griffin, he’s gone off on a ridiculous tangent. I never know if he’s serious or seriously wrong in the head.
“I’m not wearing one of those.”
“Fine. Suit yourself. I’ll do the research and see if I can find one in my size.” He continues walking toward the school entrance like I’ve agreed to his crazy idea.
I appreciate his enthusiasm, but there’s no way Gaia will approve the purchase of a costume. He keeps suggesting wild schemes for park activities and she always turns him down. For fall, he thought the history docents at the farm museum should wear zombie makeup along with their period costumes. Vetoed.
Bless his heart for still trying.
Sometimes I think he does just it to get a reaction out of Gaia. He’s a little boy pulling her braids or putting a frog in her desk. Even I know that’s the wrong way to express his interest—if that’s his intention.
When I first started, I thought he was handsome and funny, and I did consider the possibility of liking him in a romantic sense. I’ve had crushes on coworkers before and even dated a few, which hasn’t always been the wisest decision. While Griffin is nice, he’s too goofy for me. If I have to talk myself into liking someone, he’s probably not the one for me.
Chapter Four
Odin
I have buyer connections in Asheville, Knoxville, and Nashville. Basically, all the villes. Depending on the season, I drive to all three cities several times a month, the demand always outstripping my supply. Great for prices as long as I can provide top quality and my source remains a secret.
A friend from my old life has tried to persuade me to go in with him on a new venture in Asheville. No matter how many times I tell him I’m not interested in working in that world anymore, he keeps asking. We do this dance every time we see each other. He inquires and cajoles. I dodge and decline. I’m happy to be his supplier, not his business partner.
As a reward, I often treat myself to a fine meal whenever I have to drive into the city. The more froufrou and fine dining the better. Throw in a Michelin star, and I can’t stay away. Great food is my weakness.
Today, I’m making the three-plus-hour drive to Nashville with a couple crates filled with mushrooms. It’s me, Roman, a bunch of fungi, and a podcast on foraging.
The best part of a solo road trip is there’s no one complaining about my taste in podcasts. An open window, heat blowing up from the floor boards, and nothing but winding roads ahead of me makes for a nearly perfect day. Roman rides shotgun, either curled up asleep or hanging his head out the window, ears flapping.
Alone time was in short supply growing up with so much family around. Generations of kin living under one roof and more within a few miles, so many cousins and second cousins and cousins by marriage that I couldn’t keep track even if I were inclined to try. Somebody’s always having a birthday, getting married, giving birth, or dying.
Growing up, pretty much every weekend of the year was some sort of familial obligation. Holidays spent trying to remember the names of distant cousins, their spouses, and their progeny. Hundreds claiming each other as family when most of them wouldn’t give me the time of day should we pass in the street.
Being named for the god of thunder pretty much sealed my fate as being an outcast, made me stand out as different from the rest. Guess that was Momma’s plan. Maybe she thought she could save me, change my path in life. I think s
he was secretly happy when I left.
Always being told I was a black sheep just because of some family legend about first born sons, I couldn’t wait to get away from here and left a week before high school graduation.
Can’t pretend I wasn’t pleased that some of the Hill folks disowned me after I bailed on high school and moved to the big city. If they could’ve afforded pearls, they’d have clutched them while they whispered their opinions. Who does he think he is? Full of himself. Uppity. Arrogant. Entitled. Thinking he’s better than all of us for leaving the Smokies.
And my favorite: God bless his heart.
When I arrived in Atlanta, I lied about having my diploma. Turned out, working as a dishwasher didn’t require proof I’d finished high school.
Keeping a job was less interesting than having fun, and a fake ID and an attitude got me into any bar or club I wanted. Partying and drinking evolved into missing shifts and eventually getting the boot. Thing about being the lowest grunt in the kitchen, there’s always another place needing a body to do the work no one else wants.
If I kept moving around, my bad reputation took a while to catch up with me.
Blessed by good looks, I knew how to work with my natural talents to talk my way out of trouble and under skirts. The world owed me and I was there to collect. With sweet words and a slow smile, I could be allowed or forgiven almost everything.
In other words, I was born a fool, unable to realize the difference between a blessing and a curse.
Three years ago, no one seemed all that surprised when my rental car pulled up to my parents’ house, dust billowing down the road in my wake. Dad gave me a nod over Momma’s shoulder while she hugged me tight. The prodigal son had returned home.
Stranger Ranger: An Opposites Attract Romance (Park Ranger Book 2) Page 3