5. Mia
Ipick Mason up at noon in my sister’s minivan, and my heart skips to see him standing outside the carriage house, his color returned to his handsome face. It’s good to see him looking healthy. He flashes me a broad but distracted smile as he slides into the passenger side of the van and closes the door.
“Thanks for doing this,” he says as we head a couple of miles outside of town toward the Timberline Mechanic and Autobody Shop.
“I have to see about my car, too,” I remind him, casting him a sidelong look. “How are you feeling?”
He shrugs but doesn’t respond.
“You know, that soup was my grandmother’s recipe,” I chirp, hoping to fill in the silence.
He eyes me in surprise. “Do you come from a family of cooks?”
“Oh, no,” I reply. “In fact, I come from a long line of terrible cooks. My grandfather regularly complained about my grandmother’s cooking. She once charred his steak so badly, he had indigestion for a week.”
Mason begins to laugh. “Were you trying to kill me by bringing me her soup that you made from her recipe?” he asks.
I can’t help but titter. “No! The indigestion grandmother is on my mom’s side. The soup grandmother—my dad’s mom—was a great cook,” I protest.
I grin at him mischievously, and he chortles, his face relaxing. “So, you’re not a chef.”
“No,” I agree. “Definitely not. I’m a teacher.”
His eyebrows raise. “Wow. What grade?”
I smile. “First grade.”
His jaw drops. “I don’t know if I could ever do that,” he muses. “Kids at that age, in a group…” Mason releases a low whistle. “You must have the patience of a saint.”
“I don’t know about that. Kids have a lot to teach you if you listen closely. Adults tend to dismiss them as annoying or immature, but you know that adage, ‘out of the mouth of babes’? I find it to be true with children. They’re wiser than we give them credit for.”
I catch his admiring look.
“What kind of law did you practice?” I ask, suddenly embarrassed by the focus on me. I turn left, steering us down Silver Lane toward the outskirts of town.
His grimace darkens the car. “Tax.”
“Ah, yes, I remember you said that. Was it the numbers that got to you?”
Dark eyebrows knit into a vee. “What do you mean?”
“Well, you did an undergraduate degree, your LSATS, went to law school, and then decided to quit being a lawyer. Something must have been the catalyst,” I explain. “Was it the numbers? The clients?”
“I don’t know. Probably both,” he replies. “
A sign for Timberline Mechanic and Autobody Shop appears before us, and I hang a left into the driveway, inhaling sharply. A wave of humiliation washes over me as I immediately realize my mistake. He doesn’t remember why he left.
“Oh…” I groan.
“What?” Mason demands, but as he asks, he quickly notices our dilemma at the same time.
“It’s Sunday,” we declare in unison.
I look at him, but he’s not upset. Pursing my lips, I stare at the hours posted on the door, unsure of what to do next.
“I suppose we can come back tomorrow after school,” I propose.
“That’s fine, Mia. I appreciate you driving all the way out here today. Let’s just get back.” His tone is even, but I sense the underlying disappointment.
An idea sprouts in my mind. “Why don’t we drive around Spruce Crossing a bit?” I suggest. “We can visit your restaurant location. It might jog your memory.” I notice the twitch of his jaw, and a spark of anxiety shoots through me. “You are still opening your restaurant, aren’t you?”
Mason turns his head away. “I don’t know,” he mutters. “I can’t remember what I was doing with it.”
Heart fluttering, I tentatively reach for his hand like I would one of the children in my class who was having a rough day. “Just take it one day at a time. It will come back to you.”
He doesn’t move his hand from mine, but he also doesn’t react. “I just don’t get why I would come here, to Spruce Crossing,” he admits. “It’s so small.”
I bite on my lower lip, swallowing the urge to tout all the benefits of our beautiful town to him. It’s better to show him.
“I can’t tell you why you came,” I reply slowly. “But I can show you around, and maybe convince you why you would want to stay.”
“It’s not like we have anything else to do now, do we?” he agrees. “Lead the way, Miss Reyes. Let’s go on a field trip.”
Chuckling, I put the minivan in drive and start back down the dirt road and head toward our small town’s downtown area.
“Spruce Crossing might not be as big as Spokane,” I tell him as the vehicle bounces along the unpaved roadway. “But we have everything we need here.”
“You were born and raised here?” Mason asks.
“Fourth generation Reyes,” I reply proudly. “But there are older families here still. Some date back to pioneer times, when Simone Lockhart founded Spruce Crossing. Rumor has it that she has treasure hidden in the mountains, and every Founder’s Day, there is a scavenger hunt for the gold?—”
“LOOK OUT!”
Mason’s cry whips my head around, and my foot slams into the brake pedal as a herd of cows amble onto the road in front of us, blocking our path to town.
He leans forward in disbelief, blinking. “Am I seeing this, or is this part of my concussion?”
I groan inwardly. My grandiose plans to show him we’re not so small-time fly out the window now as the herd tramples aimlessly through the snow in front of us.
“They’re real,” I sigh, dropping my head firmly against the headrest.
To my utter astonishment, Mason snickers. “Does this happen a lot?”
“Cow traffic jams? Only in these rural areas. I mean, you wouldn’t see them strolling through downtown Spruce Crossing or anything.” I realize that’s not completely true. “Well… it doesn’t happen often.”
He belly laughs, and his reaction calms me down. “We’re going to be here a while, aren’t we?”
I nod.
“Does Spruce Crossing have any good radio stations?” he wants to know. “Let’s see what else this town has to offer.”
“One,” I confess, more humiliation rushing to my cheeks at the admission. “But while we wait, why don’t we talk about your menu?”
He shrugs. “Please tell me Spruce Crossing’s radio station isn’t pop rock.”
“It’s a mix,” I promise him, flicking on the station and scouring through my glove compartment for a pen and paper to get working. “But if that fails, there’s always Spotify, isn’t there?”
It takes almostan hour for the ranchers to collect their wayward cows, waving the herd off the road with an apologetic tip of their hats. Half the notebook is filled with ideas by this point, but I notice they’re mostly my contributions, Mason having little to say, although it’s his restaurant. It’s almost as if he deliberately avoided contributing.
“Don’t you care what goes on your menu?” I ask worriedly as we finally get on our way again.
He sighs and looks at me through his peripheral vision. “Honestly, Mia, it’s hard for me to know what my vision was for Wild Sage when I can’t remember.”
“You must have notes somewhere,” I insist, the outline of Main Street appearing in front of us. I pull up in a parking spot a few places down from his papered storefront. “Come on, let’s look inside and see.”
“Mia…”
“You never know,” I urge, my heart fluttering. Suddenly, I’m afraid he’s going to leave without giving it a shot, that this stupid chance accident has ruined his dream.
“Okay,” he concedes reluctantly, exiting his side of the car.
An elf rings a bell next to a giant pot, asking for donations, and I stop to put money inside as Mason lingers behind.
“What’s that for?” he asks when we continue up the salted sidewalk toward his store.
“The community center is trying to build a pool,” I reply. “Right now, we have a library and a small gym. There’s always something happening over there for the kids.”
Mason’s eyebrows raise with interest, and I stop in front of his restaurant, waiting for him to locate his keys.
“Hi, Miss Reyes!” someone calls from behind us, and I turn to smile at the mother of one of my students.
I wave back as Mason also glances over his shoulder. “I’m with a local celebrity.”
“You could be our local celebrity chef,” I remind him as he digs up his key and lets us inside.
The air is musky, and the door closes without effort behind us. I find a light and turn it on, but the garish lighting is offensive to both of us.
Blinking, we shield our eyes. “Obviously, that will have to go,” I laugh, but Mason doesn’t smile. My smile fades, and I walk around the empty space, gesturing.
“This space is great,” I suggest slowly, waiting for him to take the lead. “There is plenty of room for tables and booths, and maybe a bar over there.”
He turns around, and I close my mouth, hoping he’ll say something, anything, to show he remembers. But there’s nothing but silence from Mason.
Saddened but determined, I continue. “You could display local artists’ work on the walls for sale.” My head cocks, my gaze set on his solemn dark irises, hoping for any hint of recognition. “Wild Sage should have hints of sage everywhere. The color, not the spice.”
“I guess.”
It’s the first thing he’s said since we entered.
“Do you like the space?” I ask in a small voice, feeling the last of my hope seeping out of my soul as I read the blankness in his face.
“It’s nice.”
Swallowing, I look around, trying to think of something to say to get him excited. I wish I’d known what he had in mind before.
“Where are your plans from before, Mason? The notes you had for Wild Sage?”
“Back at the carriage house.”
I bite on my lower lip, wondering if I’m out of line to ask. “Could I see them? Maybe tomorrow when I come to get you after school to pick up the car?”
He raises his shoulders indifferently. “If that’s what you want to do.”
Stifling a sigh, I see there’s nothing more to be done here. “Why don’t we go grab a coffee, and I’ll bring you home?”
He smirks slightly at the mention of “home,” and I cringe inwardly. He doesn’t think of Spruce Crossing as home.
“Sounds good,” he agrees, striding toward the door as if he can’t get out of there fast enough.
We step into the brilliant sunlight and almost collide with a pair of ladies hustling by.
“Mia!” my next-door neighbor cries out when she rights herself.
“Mrs. J!”
The older woman smiles coyly at Mason and nudges her companion, a woman she often shops and socializes with from her church group. “And is this the man that crashed into you?”
“Mason, this is my neighbor—” I start to make introductions, but they’re already flocking him, examining his face and looking him over.
“We’re so glad you weren’t seriously hurt in that accident, young man!”
Mason eyes me, and I shrug. “Small town,” I mutter.
“Thank you,” he says stiffly.
“Oh, he looks just like one of those celebrity chefs on television, doesn’t he?” Mrs. J’s friend says, placing a hand boldly on his arm. Mason’s eyebrow shoots up, and I choke back a smile.
“I can’t wait until your restaurant opens,” my neighbor informs him. “We love trying new foods! It will be so nice to have a new place in town.”
I catch the flush on Mason’s cheeks, and I step in to save him. “We’re just on our way somewhere, Mrs. J,” I interrupt politely, but as I pull Mason out of their grasp, an idea forms in my mind. “But are you around later this evening?”
“For you, dear, anytime,” Mrs. J replies kindly. “You know where to find me.”
I usher Mason along the sidewalk and bid the women goodbye, the smell of coffee wafting toward us as we cross the street and walk a block until we reach the Daily Grind.
“They seem fun,” Mason comments dryly.
“You have no idea,” I laugh.
As we enter the coffee shop, a funky, cheerful version of Silent Night plays, and Mason clears his throat as I stomp the snow off my boots in the vestibule before walking fully inside the cute interior.
“What?” I ask innocently, and Mason sticks his index finger upward.
Looking up, I see what has his attention. A cluster of mistletoe dangles above our heads. My cheeks flame red as I hurry past him, ignoring the leering grins of the customers inside.
What a day this is turning out to be.