Chapter 22 #2
My heart skips a beat. “Ask me what?”
“You’re not by any chance afraid of heights, are you?”
“Are you kidding me?” I laugh out of nervousness. I’m not afraid of heights. But the way he asks, the wild look in his eyes, tells me I might be in for a more adventurous dinner than I thought.
“I’m one hundred percent serious,” he repeats. “Are you afraid of heights?”
I stare back at him. “No.”
“Good. Let’s go.”
He ducks to where the tree needles are sparse, and I follow. He holds the branches back on both sides to carve a path. Some of the needles brush my arms and legs, and I’m relieved they’re soft on the skin.
Once through, I expect to see something in view, but it’s just more trees on both sides and a narrow rock path.
Brady goes first, but holds my hand to guide me, pulling me behind him like a wagon.
My steps become smaller and timid, as if I’m walking blindfolded.
But then I see a flash of light at the end of the path, and something glistening in the sunlight.
Finally, we step onto a rock—a tan, veined bluff about twelve feet by twelve feet. The most majestic view.
The Mississippi River.
“Wow,” I say.
“Right?”
After that, I’m speechless. We sit a hundred feet above the river—a steely gray-blue vessel—and all that lies beyond, what seems to go on for miles. And while we’re not close to the edge, with no rail, or even rope, to delineate earth from sky, it feels risky, like holding your breath.
“Welcome to the best alfresco dining spot in all of the Driftless Area,” he says.
It’s surreal, like something I’ve watched on an IMAX screen. I try to put words to the image before me. “This is . . .” I shake my head. I have none.
Brady takes me in his arms and pulls me so close, our noses touch. “I’ve never brought anyone here before,” he says.
“Thank you for trusting me with your secret.”
We stay like that, inhaling and exhaling the other’s breath, until we give in to the tension and kiss. Again, my knees give way, and I’m thankful his arms lock at the small of my back, keeping me securely in place.
Brady looks deeply into my eyes, and then seems to make his mind up about something. “Okay,” he says. “Time to eat.”
I help him wrestle out of the backpack, careful not to bump his bandaged hand, but he insists on unloading it. He hands me a thick flannel blanket and asks me to shake it out before laying it on the rocks. After that, I’m instructed to lounge while he sets everything up.
I watch him take out a wooden board and set it between us, placing various local cheeses—a twelve-year cheddar, a lemon Stilton, and a spreadable fig-and-honey chèvre. Then, he pulls out a bottle of chilled sauvignon blanc, a corkscrew, two stemless melamine glasses, and grapes and crackers.
“Is that Mary Poppins’s bag?” I laugh. “How did you get all of that in there?”
He smirks. “This is just the first course.”
He crosses his legs in front of him and sighs, looking up at the sky. I join him, feel the subtle wind on my face, soak in the beautiful backdrop for our picnic. I sip the wine and let out a breath too. This is the epitome of relaxed luxury.
I break the ice. “So is that really true? You’ve never brought anyone else here before?”
He smiles and shakes his head. “You’re special, Maggie.”
My heart flutters at the sound of my name. “But you’ve been running the camp here for years, right? Certainly, there must have been someone you wanted to bring?”
He sees right through my vague question. “You want to know about the skeletons in my dating closet?” he says with a laugh.
“Well, it’s only fair, isn’t it? You know about me, and my husband.”
I don’t like how I sound, argumentative and defensive.
“I’ve got nothing to hide,” he says coolly. “What do you want to know?”
I shrug, but go straight there. “Have you ever been in love?”
“Yes. Three times. A girlfriend in high school, another girlfriend in college, and a woman I met on a blind date right around the time I opened my bakery. We ended up dating for several years.”
“But?”
“The first two—well, we were young. And the last . . . I always thought that once I got the business figured out, and things settled down, I’d naturally feel ready to go there, pop the question.
But it never came. That feeling. To be honest, it just felt .
. . empty. Something was missing. I didn’t know exactly what, but I grew up watching my parents—they are an anomaly, still crazy about each other after forty-two years of marriage—and I wanted that. ”
“Forty-two years . . . that is really remarkable, especially nowadays,” I say. “I didn’t get any blueprint for what a marriage should look like. I don’t even know who my dad is.”
Brady frowns and places his hand on top of mine for a beat. “I’m sorry,” he says.
I tell him the story about my parents’ short-lived tryst, how I grew up without a father.
“Have you ever tried to find him?” he asks.
I shake my head. “I literally have nothing to go on.”
That’s not entirely true. It’s quite possible that if I took a DNA test, I’d discover him or other family members in the results.
I’ve heard stories of adopted children finding their parents this way, people well into adulthood discovering they have families they never knew.
But I’ve never built up enough nerve to take a test. Maybe I’ll be disappointed when the results are inconclusive.
Maybe I do find him, but when I reach out, he rejects me.
Maybe he won’t be everything I’ve dreamed he’d be. Sometimes, it feels better not to know.
“Well, all I have to say is, he really missed out not getting to know you,” Brady says.
“Because you’re pretty amazing. And I meant what I said this morning.
I’ve never experienced anything like this before.
What’s happening between us.” He pauses.
“This feels different. This is different.” He sighs and shakes his head. “Sorry, am I being too forward?”
“No,” I say. He exhales visibly in relief. He’s right. It’s palpable, the tension between us. Like magnets being held too close. “I feel it too.”
We look into each other’s eyes.
He smiles. “So did I pass the test?”
“With flying colors,” I say.
He reaches for a grape. “So tell me more,” he says, after popping it into his mouth. “About the letter from the bank. You said the deadline changed?”
“Basically, she now owes the money by the end of July or they’re going to foreclose on the farmhouse. And while we could probably scrounge up the money, without stable, long-term income, I feel like that’s only a temporary fix. She’s just going to be in trouble again in a few months.”
He nods. “So we need to help her bring in more revenue. And fast.”
“Right. I’ve been wondering what it would take to get our pseudo bed-and-breakfast up and running for real.
I assume there are permits from the village and obviously health and building code requirements.
I’m not sure how long that would take, how much she can ask for a night, or how that would offset the cost of food and other supplies.
It’s a huge business proposal. Not something we can just throw together in a few weeks.
And then I wonder about whether she would need a business partner, someone to help run it. ”
He nods. “I think it’s doable, long term. But she needs a short-term infusion of cash. As in now.” He pauses, then his eyes fill with youthful wonder. “Oh, I have an idea. You’ve heard of the Midsommar Festival?”
I nibble on some Stilton. The bitter lemon peel zaps my taste buds. “I saw signs about it in town. It’s a summer solstice celebration?”
He nods. “Right, June 21, the longest day of the year. But June 24 is also St. John’s Day.
So here in St. John’s Ferry, there are four days of festivities.
It’s a huge event. It draws people from all over the Midwest. This one festival usually puts this whole town in the black.
The hotels, restaurants, and local stores all benefit from the influx of people that one week. ”
I watch Brady’s eyes dance as he talks; his enthusiasm is infectious.
“So my baking camp usually culminates with the festival,” he goes on.
“It’s our final project, so to speak. My students essentially design a mobile bakery and menu and then sell their goods at the festival.
The locals love the treats, and my students get real hands-on experience running a bakery.
Of course, other groups sell food. This is Wisconsin, so there’s a brat tent and a pretzel tent and a beer tent. ”
“That sounds perfect,” I say, wondering how this could benefit Alice and the farmhouse.
“It is. Except I’ve always thought something was missing from the festival, something really special and sophisticated, something no one has ever tackled.”
I hold my breath, awaiting the reveal.
“A farm-to-table dinner,” he says. “Imagine this: People seated at long tables, inside and outside the barn, under the lights, under the stars, a bonfire, dancing, beer and wine flowing, and a mouthwatering prix fixe menu, showcasing all of the local artisans from the Driftless Area.”
I dream along with him, until logic sets in. “But the festival is in three weeks.”
“Yeah, it’s definitely tight. But I know all the right people. Everyone in St. John’s Ferry loves Alice. And if they heard she needed help, they’d come running. They’ll donate goods and food so it’s almost all profit. I really think if we hit the ground running, ASAP, this could happen.”
“How much could we charge?” I ask.
“Events like these go for one hundred and fifty dollars a person. If enough people attend, that’s enough to pay the bank and hold her off until she gets another secure source of income.”
“And the event could put Alice’s farm on the map for weddings and other events,” I note. “That would be a great platform for starting a B & B.”
Brady smiles. “Exactly.”
I sit with the idea. It sounds like so much work. But it also sounds like so much fun.
“Okay,” I say after a beat.
“Really? Because I can’t do this without you.”
We lock eyes. “Let’s do this,” I say.