He parks near a small shop with a faded Coca-Cola sign. “Ten minutes. I will wait.”
Inside, the shop smells of wood smoke and cured meat. Shelves line the walls, packed with jars of preserved vegetables, dried sausages hanging from hooks, bottles of homemade spirits with handwritten labels.
An elderly man stands behind the counter, weathered face creasing into a smile as we enter.
“Buna ziua,” I say.
“Buna ziua!” He straightens, pleased. “You speak Romanian?”
“A little. We’re geological consultants, surveying the northern ridges. We need water and field rations.”
“Ah, geologists!” He switches to English, his accent thick. “My son, he studies rocks at university in Cluj. Always talking about—how you say—mineralogy?” He waves at the shelves. “Take what you need. Is good to have visitors who appreciate the mountains.”
Mara’s already loading bottled water into a basket. “Do you get many tourists through here?”
“In summer, yes. Hikers, photographers. In winter…” He shrugs. “Quieter. The tourists, they do not like the cold.”
Ember wanders to a shelf of preserved goods, examining jars of plums, pickled peppers, jams with faded labels. The shopkeeper watches her with grandfatherly interest.
“You like Romanian food?” he asks her.
She looks up, startled. “Oh, I-I’ve never tried it.”
“Never?” He looks genuinely offended. “Then you must!” He reaches for a jar of preserved plums, unscrews the lid. “Here. My wife makes these. Traditional recipe, very old.”
Ember glances at me. I nod once.
She accepts a plum from his outstretched hand, tastes it carefully. Her eyes widen.
“Oh. That’s… It’s really good. Sweet, but not too sweet.”
“Exactly!” He beams. “You understand. Most tourists, they want everything like candy. But this… this is how food should taste. Simple. Honest.”
He insists on packing the jar for her, waves off her attempt to pay. “A gift. For appreciating good food.”
“Thank you,” Ember says, and her smile transforms her face; open, warm, sincere.
Something catches in my chest. I turn away, pretend to examine a stack of tinned goods.
“Your daughter?” the shopkeeper asks me, his tone casual.
“No.” The word comes out too fast. “We work together.”
Daughter? Jesus.
“Ah.” His eyes gleam with amusement. “She has a good smile. You should make her smile more often.”
I don’t respond. I gather our supplies, pay in local currency, and shepherd everyone back to the van before the old man can offer more unsolicited observations.
“Fucking daughter,” I find myself muttering beneath my breath. Is that what it’s come to? I may be a few hundred years old, but biologically, nobody would put me past my mid-thirties.
I think.
Fuck.
I shake my head to get rid of my wayward thoughts and clamber back into the passenger seat of the van.
“Everything good?” Petru eyes me as I buckle myself in.
