Then there was Tuesday night when her phone announced the trivia question answer. Sitting there with her face burning red while the whole town watched—she looked small, vulnerable, human.
Pretty, as usual.
I didn’t like it.
Turning onto Route 50, I also try to pull my attention away from her and focus on this place I call home.
Nestled on the eastern shore of Lake Tahoe, the village of Huckleberry Hill is the heart of a tight-knit community where mountain tradition meets modern growth.
As I drive along Main Street, bustling with locally owned shops, I nod at Clayton, owner of the hardware store of the same name. The boutiques that draw weekend visitors from Reno and beyond are just opening for the day.
Cars fill the lot of Huck’s Lake View Diner, which serves as the town’s living room, where regulars swap stories over coffee and newcomers get their first taste of its world-famous huckleberry pie and small town hospitality.
Beyond the village center, tree-lined neighborhoods give way to sprawling rural properties where families have lived for generations, their homes tucked among western white pine with glimpses of the lake’s emerald water.
The newly constructed municipal complex—complete with town offices, the fire station, and a modern community center—reflects the area’s rapid transformation, even as the historic library and post office anchor residents to their roots.
At the north end, the lakeside resort attracts year-round visitors who come for world-class recreation like hiking and mountain biking in summer, skiing in winter, and the lake’s crystal-clear waters whenever the ice melts.
Huckleberry Hill is a hidden gem whose residents are bound by the rugged yet beautiful environment, a love of the outdoors, and the kind of neighborly spirit that defines mountain communities.
And it’s my job to protect this place.
I pass the old firehouse. The building sits at the edgeof Main, its red brick and wooden trim sorely in need of a sanding and fresh paint. Behind the dirty windows are a lifetime of memories, including the brass pole that I’d slide down every chance I got by the time I was old enough to walk.
If a structure such as this could have a personality, it would be stalwart, tenacious, strong, and reliable. I love it and lament the new municipal building, even though some of the modern upgrades make our lives as firefighters easier.
Captain Kendrick bought the old fire house from the town and left it to me when he died last year. He always said that I reminded him of himself at my age—driven, focused, maybe a little too serious. He was wrong about the last part. I’m exactly the right amount of serious.
But there was a stipulation. I have to open a business that contributes positively to Huckleberry Hill or lose it forever. If I’m not successful six months after opening, the property reverts to the town.
I haven’t told the crew about the deadline. They’d worry, hover, and probably try to take on extra work. This is mine to carry. Mine to succeed or fail.
The captain believed in me. I won’t let him down. Can’t let the guys down either.
Suffice it to say, the building needs work, but not my business plan—the ink is dry. It’s finalized. We need a new roof, updated electrical, and commercial kitchen equipment for the bakery. The guys and I have been planning this for months, but we still haven’t settled on a name.
Reese likes The Ember Oven. Austin votes for Hot Spot Bakery. James says Buns on the Run, but that’s because he thinks he has a great backside—he likes himself a lot. Seems like his wife has a different opinion lately. Hayes, the probie, doesn’t get a say. I want to go with the Firehouse Bakery. However, what I do know for sure is we’re going to serve Crush Cakes.
The bakery is a side business to honor the Captain’s memory and give us something to focus on beyond the adrenaline and the sirens. Something relatively straightforward rather than the wild unpredictability of our line of work. Except nothing about this has been easy when we practically need a dozen permits just to replace a window.
The building sits on parkland now—a zoning change that happened when they built the new municipal complex. Which means every single decision has to go through Parks & Recreation.
ThroughVincenza.
I pull into the safety complex parking lot and kill the truck’s engine. The building looms ahead, a modern glass and steel monstrosity that’s trying to look like a lodge. Huckleberry Hill used to be a blink-and-you’ll-miss-it town.
Now it’s growing. Tourists heading to Tahoe, remote workers looking for “mountain living,” people who don’t understand that growth means change, and change means losing what made this place special in the first place. All of this resulted in this regional building, a base for operations, in an ever-growing area.
Our department is on the ground floor, east wing. I grab my gear bag and head inside, passing Vincenza, who eats her lunch in the driver’s seat of her silver, sand and salt-streaked generic sedan.
When she looks up, I note a trench between her eyebrows and her eyes are tight, but then her expression shifts from what looked like stress to bright with a smile. I have no doubt it’s fake. She’s just trying to smother me with sweetness because the woman is allergic to reality.
Truth: life isn’t all rainbows, sunshine, and lollipops.
I’m certain the woman despises me and is just sugarcoatingit because she can’t tolerate a world in which not everyone is sitting around the campfire singing folk songs.
She doesn’t like me? Tragic.
