Chapter Thirteen – Isla
“Do we have to go to a restaurant?” Percy asked for the third time. “I want to go exploring. And paddle in the stream like you promised.”
Isla sighed, smoothing down her blouse as she checked her reflection in the cabin’s small bathroom mirror. “Yes, we do. Remember? I told you this trip isn’t just a vacation. I have work to do, too.”
“But we had more fun cooking with Kirk,” Percy insisted, flopping dramatically onto the sofa. “Can’t we just go back there instead? The stream is on the way.”
The mention of Kirk’s name sent a small flutter through her. The memory of his lips against hers in the moonlight had replayed all morning, making it nearly impossible to focus on the day ahead.
“Not today,” she said, working to keep her voice even. “I’ve made a reservation at The Pinecone. It’s supposed to be the second-best restaurant in town after the Thornberg Restaurant. After that, maybe we can find a stream to paddle in.”
“All right.” Percy groaned, but dutifully slid off the sofa and put on his shoes. “Restaurant first. Stream second.”
Twenty minutes later, they pulled into a parking space on Bear Creek’s main street.
The Pinecone occupied a handsome stone building with large windows and a rustic wooden sign.
Isla took a steadying breath as she helped Percy out of the car and onto the sidewalk.
This was familiar territory. This was what she did: assess restaurants with clear-eyed precision and deliver verdicts that could help or hurt an establishment.
“Remember,” she told Percy as they approached the entrance, “this is work for Mom. Best behavior, okay?”
“I know,” Percy sighed. “No talking too loud or playing with my food.”
“Then we’ll go do something fun.” Isla frowned as they stepped inside. This used to be fun. Now it felt like the opposite. Still, plenty of people did jobs they didn’t love to pay the bills.
The hostess seated them at a corner table with a view of the dining room. Isla immediately noted the thoughtful spacing between tables, the quality of the linen napkins, and the understated elegance of the place settings. All details that would feature in her review.
“Hello there!” Their server appeared, a young woman with a bright, friendly smile. “I’m Emma. Welcome to The Pinecone!” She bent slightly to address Percy directly. “And who might you be, young man?”
“I’m Percy,” he replied, suddenly shy. “I have a dinosaur.” He pulled Spike from his pocket, displaying the orange-spiked plastic figure.
“Well, that’s quite a fearsome friend you’ve got,” Emma said seriously. “Should I bring an extra plate for him?”
Percy giggled, shaking his head. “He doesn’t eat people food. Just leaves and stuff.”
“Very wise of him,” Emma nodded, then turned to Isla. “Can I start you with something to drink?”
“Water for both of us, please,” Isla replied, already scanning the menu with a professional eye. “And I’d like to try your chef’s tasting menu.”
“Excellent choice,” Emma said. “And for the young gentleman?”
“Can I have chicken fingers?” Percy asked hopefully.
Isla hesitated. She usually encouraged Percy to try more sophisticated options when they dined out, but she nodded. “That’s fine.”“Maybe with some chili dip?” Percy asked hopefully. “Not too spicy.”
Emma chuckled. “I’ll see what we can rustle up for you.”
As Emma departed, Isla pulled out her phone and opened her notes app. The familiar routine settled over her at once. This was her element—observing, analyzing, judging.
The appetizers arrived promptly: a delicate mushroom tartlet with microgreens for Isla, and a small cup of tomato soup for Percy.
Isla lifted her fork, assessing the presentation first. The tartlet was artfully plated; the pastry golden and flaky, the mushroom filling a rich brown against the vibrant green garnish. She took a small bite, letting the flavors develop on her palate.
The pastry was slightly overworked, resulting in a tougher texture than ideal. The mushroom filling lacked depth; they’d clearly used button mushrooms rather than a more flavorful variety like chanterelles or porcini. The seasoning was adequate but uninspired.
She made a note on her phone: “Pastry overworked, filling one-dimensional. Competent but lacks imagination.”
“Mom, this soup is really good,” Percy said happily, swinging his legs under the table. A small drop of tomato soup clung to his chin as he grinned at her. “It tastes like sunshine.”
Isla blinked, momentarily pulled from her analysis. Sunshine. What a beautiful word to describe food.
“Can I try it?” she asked, reaching for his spoon.
Percy pushed the cup toward her. “Sure. It’s super yummy.”
Isla dipped the spoon into the bright red soup and took a taste.
It was simple tomato soup, nothing extraordinary by professional standards.
But as the warm, slightly sweet liquid touched her tongue, she found herself thinking not of acidity levels or seasoning balance, but of summer gardens and fresh-picked tomatoes still warm from the sun.
“It is good,” she agreed, surprised by her own reaction.
The main courses arrived next. Percy’s chicken fingers came with a side of sweet potato fries that immediately reminded Isla of the meal at Thornberg Restaurant. Her own plate featured a pan-seared trout with lemon beurre blanc, asparagus, and fingerling potatoes.
“And here is the chili dip the chef made especially for you,” Emma said, setting a small ceramic bowl down. “Not too spicy.”
“Thank you,” Percy said happily.
“Yes, thank the chef. That was very kind of him,” Isla said.
“We try to please,” Emma replied. “Now, if there is anything else you need, just let me know.”
“She’s nice,” Percy said as he picked up one of his fries. “I like it here.”
“I’m glad,” Isla mumbled as she assessed the plating—slightly crowded but attractive. The fish skin should have been crispier. The asparagus was perfectly cooked, though. She lifted her fork, took a bite of the fish with its sauce, and mentally began composing her critique.
The beurre blanc was too acidic. The chef had leaned too heavily on lemon, overpowering the delicate flavor of the trout. The fish itself was slightly overcooked, the flesh a touch too firm. The potatoes needed more salt.
She made another note, her fingers moving efficiently over her phone screen.
“Mom, you’re doing your food face,” Percy observed between bites of chicken.
“My food face?” Isla looked up, surprised.
“Yeah. When you’re thinking really hard about what’s wrong with the food instead of just eating it.” He demonstrated by furrowing his brow and pursing his lips in exaggerated concentration.
Isla felt a flush of embarrassment. Was she really that transparent? “I’m working, remember?”
“I know,” Percy said, dipping a sweet potato fry into the dip. “But the food is supposed to make you happy, right? Like when we cooked with Kirk. That made you happy.”
The innocent observation landed harder than it should have. When had she stopped enjoying food for its own sake? When had meals become exercises in criticism rather than pleasure?
She set her phone down deliberately and took another bite of the trout. This time, she tried to taste it without analyzing, without mentally picking it apart.
The lemon wasn’t sharp now. It was bright. Fresh. The fish was delicate; the sauce was buttery and rich. Suddenly, she wasn’t thinking about balance or plating or whether the dish would make excellent copy for her readers. She was just tasting it.
“Yummy?” Percy asked, watching her curiously.
“Yes,” she said softly. “Yes, it is.”
For the rest of the meal, Isla found herself pulled between her professional instincts and this newer, softer way of tasting.
She still noted the technical flaws—the slightly grainy texture of the chocolate mousse dessert, the uneven caramelization on Percy’s crème br?lée—but those observations no longer seemed as important as they once had.
After paying the bill, they stepped out into the bright afternoon sunshine. Isla felt oddly off balance, as though something inside her had quietly shifted.
“Isla? Is that you?”
She turned to see Rachel from the Thornberg Restaurant approaching with two young girls in tow, both around Percy’s age.
“Rachel, hi,” Isla smiled, genuinely pleased to see the familiar face.
“I thought that was you coming out of The Pinecone,” Rachel said warmly. “How was it?”
“It was...” Isla hesitated, realizing she hadn’t settled on her final verdict. “Good. Different, but good.”
“These are my daughters, Lucy and Aria,” Rachel said, gesturing to the girls who were staring at Percy with undisguised curiosity.
“Is that a dinosaur?” Lucy asked, pointing to Spike, who was still clutched in Percy’s hand.
Percy nodded, suddenly shy again. “His name is Spike.”
“Cool!” Aria exclaimed. “We have dinosaurs, too. And a treehouse!”
Percy’s eyes widened. “A real treehouse?”
“With a rope ladder and everything,” Lucy confirmed. “Matt built it for us.”
“And we have a fairy house,” Aria said in a hushed voice. “Matt helped us build that, too. When Tessa was staying with us.”
The children fell into easy conversation about dinosaurs, fairies, and treehouses while Rachel turned to Isla.
“They seem to be hitting it off,” Rachel observed. “I’m actually heading home now. I told the girls about Percy, and they would love it if he wanted to come over and play. We’re having a fairy tea party.”
Isla hesitated. She’d planned to visit another restaurant that evening, but the thought of dragging Percy to a second review in one day suddenly seemed unfair.
“That’s very kind, but...”
“Please, Mom?” Percy interrupted, his expression hopeful. “They have a treehouse!”
Rachel smiled. “It’s no trouble at all. The more, the merrier.”
“Please?” Percy repeated, practically bouncing with excitement.
Isla felt her resistance crumbling. “Well, if you’re sure it’s not an imposition...”
“Not at all,” Rachel assured her. “In fact, if you wanted some adult time, he’s welcome to stay for dinner. The kids could have a little sleepover.”
“I’d need to go back to Bear’s Rest and grab his things,” Isla said.
“Oh, don’t worry about it; we have spares of everything,” Rachel said, waving Isla’s concerns away. “Go and have some time to yourself. You look as though you need it.”
She did? Isla smoothed a hand over her hair as she considered the offer.
A whole evening to herself. The thought was both tempting and terrifying. What would she do with that freedom? Her mind immediately conjured an image of Kirk’s cabin, of his warm smile in the firelight.
“That’s... that would be...” Isla took a breath, steadying herself. “If Percy wants to, that would be lovely.”
“Yes!” Percy pumped his fist in the air, then turned to the girls. “Do you like T. rex best or Triceratops?”
As the children debated dinosaur superiority, Rachel and Isla exchanged phone numbers and addresses.
“I’ll have him back by ten tomorrow, unless you want to pick him up earlier,” Rachel said. “And don’t worry, he’ll be perfectly safe with us.”
“I know he will,” Isla said, surprised to find she meant it. There was something about this town, these people, that inspired trust she normally reserved for those she’d known for years.
After hugging Percy goodbye and watching the little group walk away, Isla stood alone on the pavement, suddenly unsure what to do with the rest of her day. She had a whole evening stretching before her, no child to care for, no restaurant reservation demanding her attention.
And only one place she wanted to be.
With Kirk.