Daisy’s Nut House sits at the back of a gravel lot. Thankfully only a half-dozen cars are parked in front, meaning we won’t have to wait for a table and there should be pie left, maybe even more than one selection.
“I love this place.” Snowbird grins at the sign and then back at me. “My grandfather and I used to sneak off to have breakfast in a silver diner on the west side of Manhattan when I was a teenager. Just the two of us.”
“This place ain’t fancy. Just good, honest food,” I warn, wanting to temper her expectations.
“And pie. What’s not to love?”
There’s a bounce in her step as we walk from my SUV to the entrance.
“You want the counter or a booth?” I ask.
“Booth, please.”
We’re shown to our table by a young waitress who also takes our drink order.
Snowbird peruses the menu, making frequent comments about how delicious something sounds, suggesting we get several appetizers to start, along with burgers, fries, milkshakes, and at least two slices of pie for dessert.
“Do you like yours a la mode?” She finally tilts her menu down to look at me.
“How many other people are joining us for dinner? You want to order one of everything on the menu.” I laugh and set mine down.
“No, I don’t. I definitely do not want the soup. Or the chili. I’ve had enough of both to last me a lifetime.” She sighs. “You’re right, though. My eyes are definitely bigger than my stomach. I’m going to get a double bacon cheeseburger, fries, and a chocolate shake, malted if they have those here. And pie. And probably a slice to go so I can also have pie for breakfast tomorrow because pie is my absolute favorite.”
“Sounds like a plan.” I nod, glancing around for our waitress.
Daisy herself sees me looking and walks over to our table instead.
“Ranger Daniels, good to see you.” She flashes me her warm smile. “Who’s your friend?”
I’ve been calling her Snowbird for the past two days, but using a trail name out in civilization is weird. How much of an explanation should I give? The pause between her question and my answer lengthens as I debate what to say. I feel two sets of eyes watching me.
“I’m Olive.” Snowbird waves at Daisy, but her eyes flash to mine. “Nice to meet you.”
“You too,” Daisy says. “What can I get you?”
We place our orders and she leaves.
Olive sounds like a trail name. It’s pretty, but it’s going to take me a while to think of her as anything other than Snowbird.
“Olive, huh? Just come to you?” I tease her.
“Nope. It’s my name. Want to see my ID?” She pats her pockets. “Darn it. I left my wallet in my backpack.”
I arch an eyebrow. “Convenient.”
She laughs at my dry tone. “I’ll pay you back. Trust me, I’m good for it.”
“How can I trust you when I only met you three minutes ago, Olive? If that is your real name.” I keep my tone light.
“Just because my name isn’t pinned or sewn onto my clothing doesn’t mean it’s not mine,” she teases back.
“Olive,” I repeat the word. “It suits you.”
“Why? Because I’m dressed in green?”
I laugh because she’s right about the color of her outfit. “I had no idea when I bought it for you. The options were limited.”
“I’m not ungrateful. It was sweet of you.”
“Don’t tell anyone. I have a reputation as a grumpy misanthrope to uphold.” I frown to prove my point.
Her mouth pops open. “Who calls you that?”
“My sister, mostly. At least to my face.”
“Siblings don’t count. My older sister calls me a flake. I mean, she’s not wrong. Or at least she was right about younger me. Doesn’t matter how old we get, our family sees us the way we were as kids. Cryogenically suspended in time.”
We don’t know each other. Not after two days.
Hell, I only learned her real name a few minutes ago.
It doesn’t matter, though.
This connection I feel with her is real.
Two extra pieces of pie tucked inside a paper bag sit on my kitchen counter, a slice of coconut cream and a slice of pecan.
Snowbird—I mean Olive—keeps staring at them.
“If you want to have your second piece tonight, you should just eat it instead of gazing longingly at it from across the room.” I poke her ankle with my foot.
We’re sprawled on opposite ends of my sofa. I have my feet on the dinged and scratched coffee table I inherited when I took over this cabin. Same goes for the couch. It predates me by at least a decade. The only thing in here belonging to me are my mattress and the family photos. Everything else will stay after I leave, whenever that day comes. I don’t plan to live in ranger quarters for the rest of my life.
Someday I’d like to have a partner and a family if we’re lucky. We’ll spend our evenings together, hanging out at home. Not unlike tonight.
I’m not having these thoughts about Olive.
Of course not.
Nor did I think of her naked in my bathroom and have to take matters into hand, so to speak, while I took my own shower.
From the far end of the couch, she yawns, mouth wide, her head tipping back.
“We should go to bed.” I nudge her foot with mine again.
“I thought you’d never ask.” Standing, she stretches. “Do you have extra sheets and blankets?”
“Why?”
“So I can make up the couch?”
I give her a blank stare. “I’m not going to make you sleep out here.”
“I can’t make you give up your bed.”
“Didn’t we already have this discussion earlier?” I stand up, too.
“I’m not comfortable sharing a bed with a guy who has a girlfriend,” she explains, her words tumbling together with how quickly she speaks.
“Who has a girlfriend?” I’m not denying. I’m confused.
“Don’t lie. I saw the picture in your bedroom.” She sits back down. “I’m fine sleeping here.”
“What photo?”
“The two of you are hugging, looking adorable and in love. She’s pretty.”
I dip my head before rolling it back on my neck to stare at the ceiling. “You’re talking about my sister.”
Uncomfortable but not ashamed, I decide we’re having this conversation now. “Follow me.”
Without waiting for her, I head down the hall to my bedroom. The frames on my dresser haven’t been moved, so I assume Olive didn’t look at all of them.
She pauses in the doorway.
“Is this the photo you’re talking about?” I point at the small silver frame.
With a nod, she confirms it is.
“In case you’re wondering, neither of us was adopted.” My voice bristles with old defensiveness.
Her brows scrunch together. “You don’t look anything alike. Is this your dad? You have the same hair color.
“It is. Most people say I resemble him. I was six in this picture. My dad took us all to an auto show. He lived for cars.” I slide it to the right and pick up a smaller gold frame tucked behind the silver one. “And this is my mom holding me.”
She takes the frame from me and lifts it closer to her face to study the image. “This is you? You’re such a chubby baby.”
It isn’t the comment I’m expecting. “Yes, I just said it was me. And my mother.”
“She’s beautiful.” She shifts her gaze to my face. “You have her smile. Your sister does too. There’s definitely a resemblance. Sorry I accused you of dating your sister.”
“You’re missing the elephant in the room.” I point at the picture of me as a baby. “My mom is Japanese.”
“I see.” She tilts her head. “Was she born here or in Japan?”
“In Japan. My dad worked over there in the late eighties and met my mom.”
“How sweet.” Her mouth curls into a small smile. “Oh, th
at’s why you’ve been there, and why you said your mom doesn’t have family close by. Makes sense.”
“That’s it?”
After a quick glance at the photos, she focuses on me again. “What am I missing?”
“You don’t think this is a big deal?”
“Why should it be? I know a lot of people from different ethnicities and backgrounds. My best friend Campbell is half Persian, half Dutch from Kansas. Her boyfriend is Irish, German and Taiwanese. You never asked about my background either—I’m an American mutt, in case you were wondering.”
Now I feel stupid for acting like I have this big secret. I sit down on the end of my bed. “My entire life I’ve dealt with being hāfu.”
“You’ve lost me. I’m sorry, but I don’t know what hāfu. means.” She sits next to me.
“It means someone with one Japanese parent and one non-Japanese parent. Often, it’s used in a derogatory way. I don’t fit in with either the Japanese or the American sides of my family.” I stare at the family photographs. “I’m both, but I’m also neither, which makes me nothing.”
“I disagree.” She touches my knee. “I can tell this is a big deal to you. I don’t understand, but I’d like to.”
Exhaling, I brace myself. “Everyone says I look exactly like my dad. You saw the photo. I’ve always been his mirror image, except my eyes are more similar to my mother’s and I never got his thick chest hair. Otherwise, it’s obvious we’re related.”
“I can definitely see the resemblance.”
“It means I look white.”
“But you are white, no more, no less than you are Japanese. It shouldn’t matter.” Her voice is gentle.
“Ah, there’s the issue. Half doesn’t count when you look like my sister. She has our mom’s dark hair and Japanese features. People used to assume my mother was my babysitter.”
Olive blows out a long breath. “Ouch.”
“Yeah. Then there’s me. I pass.”
“You pass?”
“As a white guy. Even you called me white back at the cabin, like I’m king of the world because I have a dick and light skin.”
She cringes. “I assumed. I’m sorry.”
“You don’t have to apologize. Most people do.” I shrug off her apology. “The funny thing is I’m not Japanese enough for my mother’s family. They see my dad when they look at me, and they were never fans of his because he wasn’t Japanese. That, and he took my mom with him back to America.”
For a few moments, we sit in silence. “Because of our biases, we assume others who look like us must be like us. Doesn’t mean you need to wear a name tag declaring your ethnic background. This isn’t the 1940s.”
“No, this is America now. Growing up, both my sister and mother bore the brunt of bigotry. I didn’t. She suffered through racist jokes where she was the punchline and sexist comments about being a geisha, had assumptions made about her personality, and was the object of attention from guys with a fetish for Asian women. Same for my mom. Not me. The worse I get is someone asking me where I’m from or where I was born, like they sense I’m different, but can’t put their finger on it. So yeah, I have some issues.” Exhaling, I knot my hands between my knees and dip my chin to my chest.
She doesn’t say anything, just slips her fingers into the space between mine.
We sit together holding hands for a while.
Chapter Twenty-Three
Jay
We fell asleep on top of my bed last night, fully clothed and holding hands, passing out after a long day of hiking and an evening topped off with me dragging my emotional baggage out into the open. I think my body shut down, not from exhaustion so much as self-preservation.
Sharing about my family and my failings isn’t something I do on the regular. Or ever. Normally, I avoid all discussion of my life. Easy to do most of the time. Yet, for some reason, I dumped out the entire mess to Olive last night.
The therapist I had to see in high school would be proud of me for opening up. After too many fights, my mom negotiated with the principal: therapy instead of expulsion. Dr. Nielsen taught me coping skills. They worked too well. Instead of random explosions of violence, I switched to locking everything down. Avoiding people became easier than risking confrontation or facing rejection.
And then Olive showed up.
Beautiful, nutty, strong, stubborn, sexy Olive.
There’s a staff meeting this morning to discuss storm damage, so I leave Olive asleep on my bed after covering her with a blanket. She doesn’t stir at all. I can’t imagine how exhausted she must be after months on the trail.
After leaving her a note explaining how to operate my coffee machine and when I’ll be back, I head over to the main ranger station.
For some reason, Cletus Winston is pouring a cup of coffee from his thermos in the employee lounge. Bearded like his other brothers, but stockier, he reminds me of Jethro.
“Morning, Ranger Daniels. Can I interest you in a hearty morning beverage? I brewed it myself knowing how weak and disappointing the coffee is here.” His hazel eyes challenging me to disagree with his assessment.
The strong scent of molasses barely masks the tang of warm apple cider vinegar in the steam hovering above his coffee.
“No, thanks. I’m good.” I hold my hands up to ward off the toxic cloud.
“Sure about that? This will fortify you for whatever awaits. Good for your digestion, too.” He waves the mug from side to side between us. “How is your digestion these days?”
I’m not going to share personal information with him or anyone else, so I stand quietly waiting for him to move on to the next topic or someone to interrupt us.
“What’s the awful stench? Are we having a skunk problem again?” Guy asks before cutting herself off. “Oh, hi, Cletus.”
Our guest grumbles about skunks and bear relocation. “The problem is with procreation and an overpopulation of progeny.”
Griffin enters the room. “This is why we need a skunk adoption program. I keep telling you they’re going to be the new ferret in pet trends. Once their mercaptan production is eliminated with the removal of their scent glands, they’re good to go. Why should weasels get all the glamor and glory?”
Guy closes her eyes briefly before she seeks me out with a pleading expression. With a single look passing between us, an entire conversation takes place. “Griffin, I like your creative, out-of-the-box thinking, but we have protocols in place that we need to follow.”
“The US Department of Agriculture issues permits to breeders. I’ve done my research with the Domestic Skunks of America Owners Association.” He begins to plead his case for a skunk adoption day next spring.
“Hold on,” I interrupt him. “We are not getting into the business of illegal skunk trade. It’s our duty to protect wildlife, not sell it. If you need to complain to someone, bend the game warden’s ear or call your senator.”
At his sides, Griffin’s hands ball into fists and then open again. “Nothing will ever change if we wait for politicians to lead us. The revolution must start at home.”
Guy’s eyes open wider, and Cletus pauses with his mug halfway to his mouth.
“Just kidding.” Griffin bursts out laughing. “It’s a quote. In a movie. You should see all y’all’s faces right now.”
Doing what she does best and ignoring him, Guy asks Cletus, “What brings you to the ranger station this fine morning?”
“Dr. Runous and I have an appointment to discuss wild boar. I have a new sausage recipe I’m testing. According to TCA 70-4-115 of the Tennessee state code, I can legally possess wild boar if it isn’t a federally protected species and as long as I use the meat for personal consumption. My understanding is if someone hits a boar and doesn’t want the carcass, I can claim it. Much easier than going into the mountains and hunting one.”
“I don’t think we have a phone tree for roadkill,” I tell him.
“Well, we should.” Griffin adds his two cents even though no one asked
him. “Some folks like to honor the traditional foods. Venison, boar, and even squirrel can be good eating.”
First, he wants to domesticate skunks and now he’s talking about mountain delicacies.
Cletus nods, slurping his brew. “Shame when all the old recipes are lost because no one wrote any down unless the ladies of the Methodist Church have some copies in their cookbook archives. Someone should check in their basement.”
If this conversation is any indication of the rest of my day, I should turn around and go back to bed, skip the meeting entirely.
I wonder if Olive is awake yet.
I could bring her a real cup of coffee. The campground store recently got an espresso machine and their egg sandwiches are made with thick-cut bacon. It’s the best thing on their menu.
As I’m debating my exit strategy, Dr. Runous arrives with Ed, the head ranger.
“Jay, you have a minute?” Ed stops me as I walk out of the small conference room at the end of the group meeting.
There’s enough weather-related damage at the higher elevations that the AT will stay closed for at least three more days. That said we don’t have enough personnel to guard all the trailheads to prevent people from stealth hiking at their own risk. The best we can do is post signs and warnings.
Other than some extra work, I’m happy about the closure. Means spending a few more days with Olive. Not mad about it at all.
“Sure, of course,” I respond to Ed’s question.
“Let’s talk in my office.” With a friendly smile, he gestures for me to follow him down the hall to the back of the station.
He shuts the door behind me while I stand in the middle of the room, unsure if I should sit, hoping this will be a quick enough conversation that standing will be fine.
“Have a seat.” Ed gestures at the old rust colored upholstered chair opposite his desk. Running my hand over the frayed edge of the hideous seat cushion, I wonder if the chair showed up the same time Ed did. I swear all the furniture in this place was purchased in the nineties and has never been updated.
Happy Trail (Park Ranger Book 1) Page 16
