Jackson waded closer to the bank, water lapping at his calves. “There’s another spot we can try, closer to the lake. Steeper hike, though.”
“Tomorrow?” Joe asked, glancing at Krista.
“Maybe. I’d love to go today, but there’s just not time. You’ve got to get to the Hideaway. And I’ve got some delicious food and my photo attempts waiting for me…And checking in on Gram.”
Joe saw the mental flipbook of responsibilities going by behind her eyes. All the ways the day could fill up without leaving room for herself or for him.
Then she drew in a breath and nodded once. “Tomorrow,” she said.
THIRTY-ONE
KRISTA
Monday, Day Four of the Summer Swap
After the hike, Krista and Joe split up—Joe went to run the Hideaway, while Krista took his camera into town to capture the “foodie” content he’d promised both his editor and Elsie.
She had spent some time last night studying Joe’s work online, scrolling through his articles, dissecting the way he wrote. He was good—really good. He knew which photos would sell, which details made a reader feel like they were already sitting at the table, napkin in their lap, fork halfway to their mouth. She loved how he layered a place into a sentence until it felt alive.
She wasn’t there yet. That would take more than a week. But she was starting to understand what he meant when he said the story was in the details.
So she chased the details.
At the bakery, she photographed a plate stacked high with lemon bars, powdered sugar dusted just so, raspberries tucked on the side to make the yellow pop. She swung by the Maple Leaf Café next, ordering peach iced tea and a club sandwich.The glass sweated in the afternoon sun, beads of condensation sliding down the sides—perfect for a photo beside the tall, stacked sandwich and a heap of crispy, battered fries.
And then there was Kit’s food.
Technically, it was the dining room at the Cinnamon Spice Inn, but it might as well have been renamed for Kit, whose artistic eye transformed ordinary ingredients into culinary masterpieces. Krista’s SD card filled fast: shot glasses of chilled soup, cucumber sandwiches with homemade dill cream cheese, crispy fried chicken buttermilk sliders with arugula and spicy mayo, and raspberry sorbet crowned with fresh local berries.
By the time she returned to the campground, her stomach was pleasantly full, her camera brimmed with Maple Falls on a plate, and her phone overflowed with voice notes of Kit describing ingredients, flavors, and little backstories Krista hoped she could do justice to on the page.
It was late afternoon now, that quiet hour where the campground felt drowsy and sun-warmed. Krista set herself up at the picnic table beside Joe’s tent. The firepit flickered orange, flames licking the logs—not needed for warmth, but perfect for one very specific challenge. Cowboy coffee.
She refused to think about her last attempt, the one that tasted like burned dirt. No. Today would be different. Today she watched a video, followed Joe’s instructions from memory, and—miracle of miracles—made a mug that didn’t look like a science experiment.
She took a cautious sip.
“Hmmm,” she murmured. “Earthy. Strong. Just a little rough around the edges.” She said it aloud as if she was writing a review.
Not remotely like the lattes she could whip up at the Hideaway half asleep—but it fit the tent life in a way that she couldn’t explain. Like she was settling into this more than she’d expected. And she was…proud of herself.
Which was ridiculous, because it was only coffee.
Still, she picked up her phone, set the mug on the edge of the firepit, and snapped a photo. Elsie would love it. “So rustic, so authentic,” she could already hear her say.
She didn’t wait for the reply; instead she opened her laptop on the edge of the picnic table, plugging the SD card reader in, and pulling up the folder of images she’d taken. Lemon bars. Peach iced tea. Kit’s sorbet. The whole day laid out in thumbnails.
Then she opened a document and started writing—and surprised herself when the words came easily.
She had expected to end up repeating facts, what the dish was, who made it, where you could get it. But it was more than that. She remembered the feelings each dish evoked. The powdery sweetness and zing of citrus in the lemon bars, the way Maple Falls tasted like comfort, and people who cared. She paused over sentences, choosing each adjective, reworking phrases and taking her time.
She typed for a while, then stopped and scrolled back.
Who was this woman—sitting still, savoring the moment, taking time to get her thoughts down instead of sprinting to the next thing?
Krista leaned back on the bench, cowboy coffee warming her hands, the article glowing on the screen. She thought of her great-grandmother Isabel, who had once sat like this, letting her words unfold from her heart, each line shaped with care and thought.
Eventually, she reached for Isabel’s diary. Maybe there was another clue that she’d missed. Something that would give their secret location away.
