“I can do that,” Krista said without hesitation.
“Good. I expect at least one shot that makes me question my own talent,” Joe said with a wink.
“Ah, a challenge. I’ll see what I can do,” Krista tossed back.
Two minutes later he set the camera down.
“Are we good to eat now?” Krista tried not to act impatient, but time was one thing she was perpetually short on. She knew it had been her idea to stop for food, but the day was getting away. The quicker they ate, the quicker they could tackle the next item on her to-do list.
“Good to go, but what’s the rush?” Joe snapped on the lens cap and put the camera aside.
“Because my life is busy, and as much as I’d like to have a lazy lunch with you, it’s just not on the cards for me today.”
“Today or every day?”
Krista weighed Joe’s words. “Okay, you got me. Every day.”
“Then let this be an anomaly. A special occasion even––my first ever pulled pork sandwich.”
“You just made that up.”
“You’re right, I did. But can we still take a moment to just sit and relax, enjoy the view?” He motioned to the surrounding park, the trees full of leaves, and the glimpse of the lake.
Krista took a deep breath. “Alright. I shall attempt relaxation.”
Krista forced herself to focus on the sandwich, the breeze, the way the world didn’t fall apart just because she stopped moving for two minutes. It should have felt torturous. Instead…It was almost pleasant.
Joe looked completely at ease. How did he do that? Didn’t he have deadlines and emails and a thousand people who needed something from him? How could he just…be here?
Halfway through her sandwich, Krista wiped sauce from her thumb and glanced at Joe. “Since we need to know each other’s schedules,” she said lightly, “I help my grandma make ice cream every week for the Hideaway. She’s been making it forever, but her memory isn’t what it used to be. It’s harder for her to do things on her own.” Her voice faltered despite her effort to keep it steady, and she fixed her gaze ahead of her. “So, I help whenever I can.”
Joe didn’t rush to fill the space. When he spoke, his voice was calm, grounded. “Sounds great, I’d love that. Your grandma’s a gem. She gave me a loaf of honey-lemon bread yesterday, made with honey from the Moonlight Kiss blooms. Told me how she and your grandpa used to hike for those flowers. Said they make the best honey in town and have a magical scent, but they’ve only just been rediscovered.”
Krista smiled faintly, her chest tightening. “She must’ve been having a good day if she told you all that. Some days she remembers everything. Other days…” She trailed off, shaking her head.
They finished eating, gathered up the wrappers and chip bags, and tossed everything in the nearest bin. A few minutes later, they were back in the truck, the cab carrying a faint blend of barbecue and lake air.
The road narrowed as they turned onto the Hidden Hills private lane, gravel crunching beneath the tires. Tall pines and maples arched overhead, their branches knitting together into a tunnel of bright greens and dappled light.
The trees finally opened onto a weathered log cabin set back from the water. Sunlight spilled across the stone path, flowerbeds bursting with zinnias and black-eyed Susans. Wind chimes stirred beneath the porch eaves, their notes soft and low.
Beyond the office, the campground spread out in two directions. To the south, rustic sites tucked deep into the trees. No electrical hookups, just picnic tables, fire rings, tents peeking out between trunks. It was quieter down there, more secluded.
To the north, the more developed loops curved toward the lake. RVs and trailers lined up beside electrical posts, awnings extended, camp chairs already clustered together. A brown wooden bathhouse sat between the loops, with a matching shower building farther on. Both were simple wooden buildings, windows near the roof line which fogged on cool mornings.
The camp store was near the main drive. Firewood bundles were stacked along the porch, an ice cooler humming beside them. Inside, shelves held everything a camper might forget including canned goods, eggs, milk, butter, toilet paper, rain ponchos, extra sleeping bags.
It was its own little world out here, threaded with trails and trees and lake breeze. And every inch of it, Krista thought, carried her grandparents’ fingerprints.
She turned onto a narrow dirt driveway that was intentionally easy to miss. Alice and Walt’s cabin sat far enough from the campsite that it felt separate, almost hidden. Smoke curledlazily from the chimney, though the day had warmed. Krista parked and cut the engine, the quiet settling around them.
“I think I’m in love,” Joe said softly.
“Yeah, it’s pretty magical,” Krista agreed, taking a deep breath before she opened the door, wondering how Grandma would be today. “Come on in.”
The scent of honey and cream greeted them the moment they stepped through the door. A bowl of cracked eggs sat beside the old wooden churn, sugar dusting the counter like frost. Her grandmother stood at the sink, humming, silver hair pinned in its usual twist.
“Where’s Gramps?” Krista asked, stepping forward to kiss her cheek.
