“Oh,” she said softly.
“Worth the climb?” Spencer asked.
“More than worth it.” She turned slowly, taking it all in. “It’s beautiful.”
Spencer let go of her hand and left her to enjoy the view as he spread the blanket on a relatively flat section of ground. He set the basket down and began unpacking it without ceremony: two bowls of silky mushroom risotto in lidded containers, still warm, a loaf of garlic bread wrapped in cloth, a thermos, and two enamel mugs.
“Wine?” he offered, holding up a bottle of Thornberg wine.
“Please.” Meryl settled on the blanket, tucking her legs under her as she accepted the mug. The wine smelled rich and dark, which suited the mountain air.
“Thornberg. A relation?”
“Uncle and Aunt own the vineyard. Some of my cousins help run it, too.” Spencer sat beside her, not too close but close enough that she could feel the warmth of him in the cooling air. He handed her one of the bowls and tore the garlic bread in half. “It’s not much,” he said. “Just simple food.”
But it was perfect—the risotto silky and rich with mushrooms, the garlic bread still warm enough to steam when she tore it apart. They ate in companionable silence for a while, watching as the light began to shift across the mountains, turning the distant peaks gold and amber.
“I can see why you love it here,” Meryl said eventually.
Spencer nodded. “It gets in your blood.”
“The mountains?”
“All of it.” He looked out at the view. “The mountains, the town, the way the seasons change. The way people look out for each other.”
Meryl thought about that as she sipped the wine. “I’ve never stayed anywhere long enough to feel that way about it.”
“Not even one place?” He glanced at her. “Not one town or apartment, or neighborhood?”
She shook her head. “My mother believed in moving on before you got too attached. ‘Places are just places,’ she used to say.”
“And what about you? I mean, you live your own life now. Do you still think that?”
The question caught her off guard. What did she think? She’d never really questioned her mother’s philosophy, the same philosophy she’d lived by, until now.
“I think...” she paused, gathering her thoughts. “I think I’m starting to understand that there’s another way.”
The light continued to change as they talked, the shadows lengthening across the valley. Spencer told her about growing up in Bear Creek, about building his first shed when he was twelve, about the winter storm that had knocked out power for a week, and how the whole town had pulled together. Meryl found herself telling him about the apartment she’d almost signed a two-year lease for before changing her mind at the last minute. She’d gotten a fantastic job offer soon after, and that had kind of cemented the idea that she shouldn’t ever tie herself down.
When they had finished eating, he unwrapped what turned out to be berry tarts from the restaurant, still faintly warm and dusted with sugar. Meryl laughed with genuine delight.
“You thought of everything,” she said.
Spencer shrugged, but she could see he was pleased. “Just the essentials.”
The sun was properly setting now, the sky ablaze with color. Meryl watched, transfixed, as the light painted the mountains in shades of gold, rose, and amber. The clouds caught fire, burning bright against the deepening blue.
“I’ve never seen anything like this,” she murmured.
Spencer didn’t reply, but when she glanced at him, she found he was watching her instead of the sunset, his expression serious in a way that made her heart beat faster.
When the first stars appeared, pinpricks of silver in the darkening blue, Meryl felt a strange ache in her chest—not pain exactly, but something deeper, as if she were witnessing something precious that might never come again.
Spencer shifted beside her, and his hand found hers on the blanket between them. His fingers were warm and calloused, and they curled around hers with gentle certainty.
Meryl looked at their joined hands, then up at his face, barely visible now in the gathering dusk. The moment stretched between them as the stars looked down.
This time, she was the one who leaned in first.
