Chapter 4
QUINN
Imake it back to the Pinecrest before the shaking starts.
My hands tremble as I pull into the parking area, and I grip the steering wheel for a full minute before I trust myself to get out of the car.
The drive from the tavern took maybe three minutes, but I don't remember any of it.
My brain is too busy replaying the moment the honey-lavender ale touched my tongue and I tasted it.
Really tasted it.
Not just texture and temperature, not just the ghost of what flavor should be, but actual, genuine taste.
The sweetness of honey, the floral earthiness of lavender, the crisp finish that made me want another sip immediately.
And underneath it all, a warmth I can't quite name but that made my entire body relax for the first time in days.
I tasted it.
After three days of nothing, of emptiness, of feeling like a fundamental part of me had been carved out and thrown away—I tasted something.
And it was his beer. Eli's beer. The one he'd spent six weeks perfecting, the one he said came together just this morning.
That can't be a coincidence.
Except it has to be, because the alternative—that there's a connection between Eli Hayes and my broken palate—is insane. That's not how taste buds work. That's not how anything works.
Maybe my palate is healing. Maybe the psychosomatic block is starting to lift. Maybe the beer really was just that good, perfectly balanced, hitting all the right notes at exactly the right time.
Or maybe I'm desperate enough to see patterns where none exist.
I finally get out of the car and head inside. The Pinecrest is quiet in the afternoon lull between checkout and dinner. I slip upstairs to my room, intending to hide until I can make sense of what just happened.
Evelyn, apparently, has other plans.
"Quinn!" Her voice catches me halfway up the stairs. "Perfect timing. I just took a lemon cake out of the oven. Come have a slice with me."
It's not really a question, and we both know it.
I follow her into the kitchen, which smells like butter and citrus and vanilla—smells I can identify but can't taste even in my imagination anymore.
She cuts two generous slices of cake, pours coffee from a French press that looks older than I am, and settles us at a small table by the window that overlooks the redwoods.
"So," Evelyn says, her tone casual but her eyes sharp. "How was the Bear Claw?"
"Good." I take a bite of cake. Texture: moist, tender. Taste: nothing. The disappointment is crushing, even though I knew it was coming. "The burger was excellent. And the beer was... impressive."
"Mmm. Eli's honey-lavender?"
I look up sharply. "How did you know I tried that one?"
"Oh, honey." Her smile is knowing. "Everyone knows when Eli finally gets a brew right.
He's been obsessing over that one for weeks.
The whole town's been placing bets on when he'd crack it.
" She takes a sip of coffee, watching me over the rim of her mug.
"Interesting that it came together the morning you arrived. "
"That's just coincidence."
"Is it?"
The question hangs in the air between us. I want to deflect, to change the subject, to retreat into professional journalist mode where I ask the questions instead of answering them. But Evelyn's gaze is too steady, too understanding.
"I don't know what you're implying," I say finally.
"I'm not implying anything. I'm just saying Redwood Rise has a way of giving people what they need, when they need it. Even if they don't know they need it yet." She cuts another bite of cake. "How long are you planning to stay?"
"Two weeks. Maybe less if I finish the travel piece sooner."
"Travel piece." She says it like she doesn't quite believe me. "For which publication?"
Shit. I haven't actually worked out that detail yet. "Freelance," I improvise. "Pitching to a few different outlets. Small-town profiles are popular right now."
The lie comes easier than I expected. Maybe because part of me wishes it were true.
"Uh-huh." Evelyn doesn't look convinced, but she lets it go.
"Well, if you're writing about Redwood Rise, you should talk to folks.
Anabeth Cole over at the ranger station can tell you about the wildlife and the trails.
Marcy at The Rusty Fork has been here forty years and knows everyone's business.
And of course, you'll want to spend more time at the Bear Claw.
Can't write about this town without including Eli's place. "
"I'll keep that in mind."
"I'm sure you will." Her smile is absolutely wicked. "That cake isn't doing it for you, is it?"
I freeze, fork halfway to my mouth. "What?"
"You're eating it like it's cardboard. Professional courtesy. You're being polite, but you're not tasting it. Haven't been able to taste anything for a while now, I'd wager." She leans forward. "Except maybe that beer."
My chest tightens. "I don't—how did you...”
"Like I said. This town has a way of giving people what they need." She stands, collecting our plates. "You should go explore. Talk to people. Figure out what you're really doing here."
"I'm writing an article."
"Sure you are." She pats my shoulder as she passes. "And when you're ready to tell me the truth, I'll be here with more cake."
I spend the afternoon wandering Redwood Rise with my notebook and camera, playing the part of the curious journalist. It's a role I've perfected over years of writing reviews and articles—friendly but professional, interested but not invasive, asking the right questions to make people feel heard while extracting the information I need.
Except I'm not sure what information I need anymore.
I stop at Between the Pages, the bookstore tucked into a Victorian storefront with bay windows full of hardcovers and local author displays.
The owner, a woman in her seventies named Dorothy, spends twenty minutes telling me about the town's reading group and their monthly author events.
She recommends three novels set in Northern California and insists I take a bookmark shaped like a redwood tree.
I interview the owner of the antique shop, a man named Frank who visited from Portland fifteen years ago and never left. "Something about this place just feels right," he tells me. "Like the town decides if you belong, not the other way around."
It's the third time someone's said something similar. The phrasing is slightly different each time, but the sentiment is the same: Redwood Rise chooses its residents.
I make notes. Tell myself I'm gathering color for the article. Force myself to focus on Dorothy's recommendations and Frank's philosophy instead of thinking about Eli's hands as he poured that flight of beer, the careful precision, the way he watched my face as I tasted each one.
I deliberately avoid thinking about how his eyes are brown with flecks of gold, or how his voice has this low, steady quality that makes you want to lean closer.
By four o'clock, I'm standing outside the ranger station. I don't remember deciding to come here.
The station is a small wooden building at the edge of town, right where the maintained roads give way to forest service trails. There's a truck parked outside with Forestry Service markings, and through the window I can see a woman bent over a desk covered in maps.
I push through the door, and she looks up with a professional smile that reaches her eyes.
"Hi! Can I help you?" She's younger than I expected, maybe early thirties, with the kind of outdoorsy confidence that comes from actually spending time in nature rather than just writing about it.
"I hope so. I'm Quinn Samuelson—I'm a food writer doing a piece on Redwood Rise. I was hoping to get some background on the area, the ecology, what makes this place special."
"Oh, absolutely." She stands, extending her hand. "Anabeth Cole. I'm the wildlife biologist for this region. Let me grab you some brochures, and I can give you the overview."
Anabeth. The name rings a bell, and then I remember—Cilla mentioned her. Anabeth who came to study the local wildlife and ended up staying.
She pulls out maps and pamphlets, spreading them across a small conference table.
"So, Redwood Rise sits at a really unique ecological convergence point.
You've got old-growth redwoods, of course, but also coastal prairie, riparian zones, and these really interesting microhabitats created by the topography. "
I make notes as she talks, genuinely interested despite myself. She's a good teacher, making complex ecology accessible without being condescending.
"The wildlife patterns here are fascinating too," she continues. "Migration routes, breeding behaviors—things that shouldn't necessarily make sense based on typical models, but they work because of the local conditions."
"What kind of local conditions?"
"Well, the water quality is exceptional—mineral content, pH balance. The soil composition is unusual too. And then there's the electromagnetic field variations."
I lean forward, pen poised. "Electromagnetic fields?"
"Yeah, it's actually pretty cool. There are these natural variations in the earth's magnetic field—some people call them ley lines, though that's more folklore than science.
But whatever you call them, the local wildlife definitely responds to them.
We track animal behavior against the field strength, and there are clear correlations. "
My journalist instincts perk up. "Ley lines. Eli mentioned those."
Her expression changes, becomes more guarded. "Eli talks about them in terms of brewing. Lots of old-school brewers believe in that kind of thing—biodynamic fermentation, lunar cycles, earth energy. It's part superstition, part practice."
"But you're saying there's actual science behind it?"
"I'm saying there are measurable electromagnetic variations that correspond with observable changes in animal behavior." She meets my eyes. "Whether you want to call that ley lines or just geology is up to you."
She's choosing her words carefully, and there's tension in her shoulders that wasn't there a moment ago. But before I can push, she glances at her watch.
"I actually need to head out for an evening survey. But if you want to know more, you should talk to Eli. Or Calder—he's got a more... philosophical take on the whole thing. They can probably give you better quotes for your article than I can."
"Thanks. I appreciate your time."
"No problem." She walks me to the door, then pauses. "Quinn? If you're going to be writing about Redwood Rise, just... keep an open mind, okay? This town is special. Don't try to fit it into boxes it doesn't belong in."
The words are casual, but her tone isn't.
I drive back to Main Street, park, and sit in my car staring at the Bear Claw Tavern.
It's just after five. The dinner crowd will be starting soon. I could go back to the Pinecrest, work on my notes, maybe try to eat one of those muffins that tasted like nothing this morning.
Instead, I find myself walking across the street and pushing through the tavern door for the second time today.
The late afternoon light slants through the windows, turning everything golden.
There are more people than at lunch—couples at tables, a group of what looks like locals at the bar, soft classic rock playing from speakers I can't see.
It feels lived-in, comfortable, like the kind of place where everybody knows your name.
Eli's behind the bar, pouring an amber liquid into a pint glass. He looks up as I walk in, and I watch his expression change—surprise, then pleasure, then warmth I can't quite define.
"Hey," he says, setting down the glass. "Didn't expect to see you again so soon."
"I'm doing research." The words come out more defensive than I intended. "For the article. Thought I should try dinner, get a fuller sense of the menu."
"Right. Research." His mouth quirks up at one corner. "What can I get you?"
I should order something safe. Something that won't matter if I can't taste it. But instead I hear myself say, "What do you recommend?"
"Honestly? The special tonight is pan-seared salmon with lemon-dill butter and roasted vegetables. My brother Beau is a better cook than he has any right to be. But...” He pauses, studying me.
"If you want my recommendation, try the mushroom risotto.
We make it with wild mushrooms foraged from the hills, and I use one of our IPAs in the cooking liquid. "
"The stout from lunch?"
"Different one. Darker, richer. It adds depth without overpowering the mushrooms."
He's looking at me like he knows a secret I don't, and I hate it. Hate the way my heart is beating faster, hate the way I'm leaning forward slightly, hate the way I want to know what he's thinking.
"I'll try the risotto," I say.
"Good choice. What about drinks?"
Water would be smart. Professional. Safe.
"Do you have any more of that honey-lavender?"
His eyes light up. "I do. You liked it?"
Liked doesn't even begin to cover it. That beer might be the only thing I've truly tasted in three days, and I need to know if it will happen again. Need to know if I imagined the whole thing, or if there's really something about his beer—about him—that makes my broken palate wake up.
"I thought it was delicious," I say carefully. "I'd like to try it again."
"Coming right up."
He pours the beer with the same careful attention I remember from lunch, sets it in front of me, and waits.
I pick up the glass. Bring it to my lips. Take a sip.
And there it is.
Honey and lavender and warmth underneath, a taste like safety and home and relief all at once. My eyes close involuntarily, and I have to fight not to make a sound.
When I open them, Eli is watching me with an expression I can't name. Intense and hopeful and almost hungry, but not in any way that makes me uncomfortable. More like he's waiting for confirmation of a truth he already suspects.
"Good?" he asks quietly.
"Yeah." My voice comes out rougher than I intended. "Really good."
He nods slowly, like I've just confirmed a theory he's been testing. "Your food will be up in about fifteen minutes. You want to sit at the bar or take a table?"
A table would be safer. More distance, less intimacy, less chance of whatever this is becoming more than it should.
"The bar is fine."
His smile is small but genuine. "Good. I was hoping you'd say that."
And as I settle onto the stool, as the beer warms my throat and brings my taste buds back to life, as Eli moves behind the bar with casual grace, I realize I'm in trouble.
I didn't come back here for research—I came back for him.
He glances over, catches me staring, and smiles, and I know I'm completely screwed.