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Happy Trail (Park Ranger Book 1)

Page 23

by Smartypants Romance


  “Pigeons? Really?” he grumbles, his voice gruff.

  “Kidding. I kid.” I give him a quick peck on the cheek. “They are magnificent and tiny and everything I’d dreamed of.”

  We take a few more steps, the music growing louder as we approach the entrance. I stop and he keeps walking.

  “I have a secret to confess,” I whisper.

  Stopping and turning back, he asks, “Does it have anything to do with birds, bodily functions, or getting arrested?”

  I think about it for a second. “No.”

  “Okay, tell me.”

  “Remember how I said I played the violin as a kid but gave it up?”

  “I do.” He sounds wary and I can’t blame him. My filter is better but half the time I don’t know what’s going to come out of my mouth until I hear it.

  “Part of the reason I quit is because everyone insisted I play classical music. My parents, my tutor, and the music teacher at school.”

  “Sounds typical.” He nods. “What was the issue?”

  “You may not have noticed, but I have a small rebellious streak.”

  This makes him laugh. “Microscopic really.”

  “I wanted to play folk music.” I’m serious.

  He tilts his head to the side. “You’re a fiddle player?”

  “Well, the closest I ever got was Appalachian Spring by Copland. Other than sneaking some sheet music into my room, fiddle-playing was deemed unworthy of my time. Beneath me.”

  His jaw drops open. “It’s classic Americana.”

  “I know,” I agree.

  “Your family sounds like a bunch of horrible snobs.” He grimaces. “Sorry. I shouldn’t say that.”

  “No, you’re right. They are.” I frown. “I love them, but they have a very narrow definition of what is culturally acceptable.”

  “We’ll find you a violin and you can play all the fiddle music you want. My mother can get one for you. She’ll be thrilled. Recently, she’s been studying the oral history of Appalachian musicians, doing interviews with people up in the hills.”

  “She has?” My heart skips a beat. Not because he’s being sweet, which he is. “I’ve dreamed of getting back into music in some way. I’m not delusional enough to think I’ll ever be good enough to be a professional. Does she need funding? Research and grant writing I can do.”

  He pulls me into a hug. “I don’t know, but if it lights you up like this, then we’ll make it happen.”

  I hug him back, tightly. “What are the odds of my dream coming true?”

  He whispers against my hair, “About as good as the two of us finding each other in the middle of nowhere.”

  Inside the door, there’s congestion around a table where a glass bowl is set out for donations. Jay drops in a few bills as we slip past. Everywhere I turn, people of all ages chat amongst small groups. Teenage girls gather in circles, giggling and whispering. Their male counterparts do the same, only without the giggling and with more staring while trying to not get caught doing so. Smaller kids, wild with excitement, weave crooked paths through the crowd.

  In the background, I can hear the music. Jay explains how some nights, each of the old school rooms will have a different group playing. I want to visit every one and stay forever. If no one opposes, I’ll set up my tent and not take up too much space.

  Across the main room, I spot a group of particularly handsome men.

  “Wow. They’re like a pack of bearded Hemsworths.”

  “Those would be the Winstons,” Jay explains as if he’s pointing out a flock of house sparrows, AKA nothing exciting at all.

  “How many of them are there?” I don’t hide my amazement.

  “Do you need a hankie for your drool?” Jay teases.

  “I love only you, Ranger Daniels.” I softly kiss his cheek. “Think of this as birding, only we’re observing humans in their natural habitat instead of wildlife. People watching is one of my favorite sports.”

  He gives me a sidelong look before answering my previous question. “I only see two of the six brothers. The tall blond man with the guitar case is Dr. Runous, the federal game warden for the Smokies. He married into the family. The ginger next to him is Beau, one of the twins. The stockier one holding the banjo with the suspicious glint in his eye is Cletus. He’s with Jennifer, who runs Donner Bakery.”

  “The source of the cookies?” He distracts me from the Appalachian Hemsworths with talk of baked goods. I doubt he does this by accident. He knows my weakness.

  “One and the same.”

  “Ooh, she’s a genius. I feel like I’m in the presence of baking greatness.”

  “Do you want to meet her?”

  I nod, perhaps overly enthusiastically. “I promise I won’t fangirl too hard.”

  “Okay. I’ll introduce you.” He gives me a reluctant smile. “Do you think you can handle being around the Winstons?”

  “I’m merely curious about the gathering of beards—or is it a mob of beards? I’m not sure about the collective noun.”

  Jay ponders my question for a moment. “There isn’t one.”

  “We should change that. Wait, are the brothers part of a religious sect? Like a casual Mennonite offshoot?”

  “I have a beard and I’m not in any religious order.” He laughs, at me and not with me, but I’m okay with it. “Some in Green Valley think their dad is the devil himself, so no, they’re not part of a conservative religious sect.”

  “That’s interesting. This place is growing on me.”

  Unlike the big city filled with strangers, I like the idea of living somewhere with real community. I don’t tell Jay I’m already thinking about moving here permanently. I don’t want to scare him off, even if I have already made up my mind.

  I love it here. More importantly, I love him. He already feels like home.

  Life isn’t about the destination. We all end up at the same place.

  Love is what gives our journey meaning. How we travel this winding trail of life and who walks beside us makes all the difference.

  I want Jay beside me for every step and each new adventure.

  Epilogue

  Jay

  November

  Knoxville, Tennessee

  We arrive at my mom’s house, a Craftsman bungalow on a quiet, tree lined street. A wreath of fake autumn-colored leaves hangs on the front door, the porch light glowing in the fading light of the late afternoon. Smoke from the fireplace scents the cool air.

  “It’s so charming.” Olive gazes around with a small smile curling her lips.

  Nervous, I rub my hand over the back of my neck. “I know it isn’t as fancy as you’re probably used to, but it’s—”

  “Home,” she finishes for me. “This is your family home and it’s perfect. I love it.”

  The door swings open and my mother steps out, beaming at us both. “Welcome!”

  “This is for you.” Olive points to the hostess gift I’m holding by the handle.

  “Oh, you shouldn’t have. It’s wonderful to see you again, Olive.” Mom pulls her into a hug. She’s petite but stronger than she looks. The two of them whisper to each other and Olive pulls away, laughing.

  “What are you two sharing secrets about?” I ask, my voice more grumbly than I intended. I’m left holding the world’s largest gift basket.

  “Come in, come in.” Mom takes it from me. “I’ve already pulled out all of our photo albums from when he was little. Wait until you see him in the Power Ranger costume when he was four. Absolutely adorable.”

  “Mom.”

  The single word uttered with raw pleading stops her mid-step.

  She narrows her eyes at me. “Don’t ruin my fun, Jay. I’ve been waiting for this moment forever.”

  As we follow her into the house, Olive catches my attention and whispers, “You’ve never brought a girl home before?”

  With an innocent expression, I lift my shoulders. “For the holidays? No. You’re the first.”

  “All the
girls used to flirt with Jay, but he never paid attention.” Mom pats my arm.

  Wanting to change the subject, I ask, “Where’s Jenni? Running late like always?”

  “She’s stuck in traffic but will be here soon. Can I get you anything, Olive? Tea? Water? Wine? I have iced tea. It isn’t sweet. Don’t tell any of the neighbors I’m offering unsweetened tea in the South. They’ll stage an intervention.”

  While I’m reserved, she’s warm, welcoming. As an extrovert, she actually loves people.

  Mom leads us through her house to the warm, modern kitchen where she’s placed a round table next to a picture window overlooking the backyard. The scent of ginger and garlic carries through the air from a pot simmering on the stove.

  “Sit, make yourselves comfortable. I’ll just find a place for Olive’s generous gift.” She places the basket full of food and wine on the counter.

  “I know Jay said I didn’t need to bring anything, but I couldn’t show up emptyhanded.” Olive slides her glance to me and flashes a smug smile.

  “It’s wonderful. I plan to eat everything myself and not share. Especially the apple butter.” Mom knows she’s poking the bear with that comment.

  “I bought three jars at the harvest festival at one of the local churches,” Olive says innocently.

  “And Jay let you part with one?” Mom winks at me.

  “Reluctantly,” I mumble. “She knows how much I love apple butter.”

  Olive slides her fingers between mine and squeezes. “I do because you ate an entire jar yourself.”

  “Should’ve bought more.” I kiss the top of her head. “And we shouldn’t be giving away any of our limited supply. No offense, Mom.”

  “We’ll have it on toast for breakfast tomorrow.” She pats my cheek. “Or waffles.”

  Olive snorts and my face breaks into a grin as I laugh.

  Mom glances between us.

  “Sorry. Inside joke,” I explain. “Had to be there.”

  With a knowing smile, she waves off my apology. “I know what it’s like to be young and in love. Now, who wants to help me make dinner? I figure we’ll have something light tonight before the big feast tomorrow.”

  “Prepare yourself,” I warn Olive. “Thanksgiving is my mom’s favorite American holiday. She goes a little crazy.”

  “I can’t wait.” Olive rubs her abdomen.

  “Are you making ramen?” I lift the cover of the pot and inhale.

  “Of course. It’s your favorite.”

  “My mother’s broth is the best you’ll ever taste,” I tell Olive. “It’s the cure for everything.”

  “I should get the recipe. I’m not much of a cook”—Olive’s eyes meet mine—“but I’m learning.”

  “I’ll send some home with you. You can put it in your freezer.” Mom smiles sweetly, but it doesn’t escape my notice that she’s dodged the recipe question.

  Under Mom’s supervision, we wash, chop, slice, and peel the ramen ingredients. She asks Olive a string of questions, never over-stepping or prying. Mom isn’t the kind to get starstruck. Some of her music students have gone on to be successful musicians in Nashville or LA.

  It’s been a year since Olive’s grandfather passed and she’s faded out of the spotlight again. No more gossip about engagements. No more social media scandals.

  Maybe it’s just me, but she seems to be content living in the Smokies, away from the big city. I’d like to think I play a major part in her happiness.

  Olive is renting a small house in Green Valley, and most mornings I make the commute to the park from there. Depending on the weekend, we spend time at my cabin or hiking nearby. Sometimes we drive to Knoxville to see my mom. Or go over to Nashville if we have more time.

  I found a tattoo artist there who studied in Japan and uses traditional Japanese techniques. He did a piece on my shoulder featuring a red koi in blue water with a sprig of pink cherry blossoms. The blossoms are in honor of my grandmother, and the fish is to remember my father.

  For Halloween, we went to Jenni’s annual costume party. Olive insisted on dressing like a bear even after I told her it wouldn’t be appropriate for me to wear my uniform off-duty. When I refused to go as either Goldilocks or a honey pot, she reluctantly agreed I didn’t have to wear a costume.

  “Olive,” Mom says. “Did you bring your fiddle?”

  “It’s in the car with our other bags,” Olive answers. “I didn’t forget. I’ve been practicing.”

  Mom nods her head in approval. “Still playing at the jam sessions?”

  Olive nods, happiness radiating off of her. “I’ve never had so much fun. Last week, I drove up past Gatlinburg to meet an old-timer at his cabin. He played for me and I can’t get the tune out of my head. I’ll have to play the field recording for you. Incredible.”

  I frown and cross my arms. I don’t like it when she heads into the hills to meet with God knows who to record a song as part of their quest to document traditional Appalachian music before it disappears.

  “I can’t wait,” Mom says, enthusiastic. “We should plan another trip to Chapel Hill to spend some time at the Southern Folklife Center.”

  The two of them spent four days in the music archives over the summer while I dealt with rogue tourists taking selfies too close to black bears. That’s how I ended up in the national press—or at least my picture did. Thankfully, I was only identified as an NPS ranger.

  A loud chime from the doorbell announces Jenni’s arrival.

  “I’ll get it,” I offer, already moving down the hall.

  Arms full of grocery bags and totes, Jenni is using her elbow to press the button.

  “Here, take something. My arms are going to fall off.” She hands me three heavy reusable bags.

  “Why? Did you fly here?” I ask, preceding her back to the kitchen.

  She groans loudly behind me and Olive moans.

  “How do you handle the bad bird jokes?” My sister gives Olive a hug.

  “He has other charms and talents that make up for them.” Olive lifts her eyebrows in surprise at her own words as a flush of pink covers her cheeks.

  “I’m not even going to touch that one.” Jenni coughs out a laugh.

  “Good,” Mom says.

  Olive refuses to look at me.

  “Dinner’s ready,” I announce even though I have no idea if it is.

  Mom dishes up the large bowls of ramen, topping each with pork belly and a boiled egg.

  “Itadakimasu,” Mom says when we’re all seated at the table.

  “Itadakimasu,” the three of us repeat.

  While we eat, Jenni and me slurping our noodles like it’s a competition, Mom and Olive chat more about music.

  “Obaasan was asking when you’re going to bring your kanojo to meet her.” Jenni stares at me.

  “What’s a ka-no-jo?” Olive asks.

  “Sweetheart,” my mom explains.

  “Well?” Jenni asks.

  Olive’s eyes meet mine. “I’d love to go to Japan.”

  “Then let’s go,” I tell her. “My grandmother will love you.”

  “We could go over Christmas if everyone can get the time off work. Although, I don’t want to take you away from your family for another holiday, Olive. April is my favorite time to visit, for the cherry blossoms.” Mom beams, happy at the idea. “My mother will be so pleased to see Jay two years in a row.”

  “Great, I always knew he’d end up being the favorite,” Jenni complains. “Dōitashimashite, otōto.”

  “What did she say?” Olive asks my mom.

  “You’re welcome, little brother,” I answer before she can.

  “Ah, you’ve been studying.” Mom claps softly. “Good for you.”

  “A little bit when I have the time.” I flash her a proud grin.

  Jenni mumbles something more about patriarchal societies and beloved sons.

  “Don’t feel neglected, sweet daughter. I bought your favorite black sesame ice cream for dessert.” Mom pats Jenni’s arm.


  Olive leans close to my ear, and I dip my head to hear her.

  “I love your family. I’d happily spend every holiday with them.”

  I kiss her temple and whisper that I love her.

  I’m different than I was last year, but not because I changed for Olive. If anything, I’m more myself than I have ever been.

  Love is the most powerful force of change. I never imagined falling in love would bring me full circle to who I’m meant to be. There is no struggle to embrace the different sides of me. I am myself at last.

  After we finish gorging ourselves on the Thanksgiving feast, Jenni and Olive sprawl out on the sectional in my mom’s living room. A fire warms the room, increasing the post-meal sleepiness. Mom went to lie down in her room while I finish up the dishes.

  My hands are covered in soapy water as I scrub the roasting pan when she comes back in the kitchen.

  “Coming to save me?” I joke.

  She glances at the non-existent pile of dirty dishes. “Darn it, I’m too late.”

  “I wouldn’t have let you help. Tradition says this is my job. You cook and feed me, I clean.” I bump her shoulder with my elbow.

  “I trained you well.” She beams up at me. “It’s nice to have you and Olive here.”

  “We’re happy to be here. She loves spending time with you and Jenni.” I glance over my shoulder in the direction of the living room and lower my voice. “The two of them are thick as thieves.”

  “They’re asleep. We’ll have to wake them up for pie.”

  “Olive will be mad if she sleeps through dessert and no one wakes her.” I give my mom a serious expression. “She really loves pie.”

  “Not more than she loves you. The two of you radiate love.” Mom curls her hand around my elbow and leans her head on my bicep.

  “She’s my person. I don’t think I ever imagined loving someone this much. How did I get so lucky?” I beam down at her.

  “Do you think you’re going to propose?” Mom asks with a mischievous spark in her eyes.

  I chuckle. “Olive doesn’t have the best history with engagements.”

 

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