Chapter 31
THIRTY-ONE
KRISTA
Monday, Day Four of the Summer Swap
After the hike, Krista and Joe split up—Joe went to run the Hideaway, while Krista took his camera into town to capture the “foodie” content he’d promised both his editor and Elsie.
She had spent some time last night studying Joe’s work online, scrolling through his articles, dissecting the way he wrote.
He was good—really good. He knew which photos would sell, which details made a reader feel like they were already sitting at the table, napkin in their lap, fork halfway to their mouth.
She loved how he layered a place into a sentence until it felt alive.
She wasn’t there yet. That would take more than a week. But she was starting to understand what he meant when he said the story was in the details.
So she chased the details.
At the bakery, she photographed a plate stacked high with lemon bars, powdered sugar dusted just so, raspberries tucked on the side to make the yellow pop.
She swung by the Maple Leaf Café next, ordering peach iced tea and a club sandwich.
The glass sweated in the afternoon sun, beads of condensation sliding down the sides—perfect for a photo beside the tall, stacked sandwich and a heap of crispy, battered fries.
And then there was Kit’s food.
Technically, it was the dining room at the Cinnamon Spice Inn, but it might as well have been renamed for Kit, whose artistic eye transformed ordinary ingredients into culinary masterpieces.
Krista’s SD card filled fast: shot glasses of chilled soup, cucumber sandwiches with homemade dill cream cheese, crispy fried chicken buttermilk sliders with arugula and spicy mayo, and raspberry sorbet crowned with fresh local berries.
By the time she returned to the campground, her stomach was pleasantly full, her camera brimmed with Maple Falls on a plate, and her phone overflowed with voice notes of Kit describing ingredients, flavors, and little backstories Krista hoped she could do justice to on the page.
It was late afternoon now, that quiet hour where the campground felt drowsy and sun-warmed. Krista set herself up at the picnic table beside Joe’s tent. The firepit flickered orange, flames licking the logs—not needed for warmth, but perfect for one very specific challenge. Cowboy coffee.
She refused to think about her last attempt, the one that tasted like burned dirt. No. Today would be different. Today she watched a video, followed Joe’s instructions from memory, and—miracle of miracles—made a mug that didn’t look like a science experiment.
She took a cautious sip.
“Hmmm,” she murmured. “Earthy. Strong. Just a little rough around the edges.” She said it aloud as if she was writing a review.
Not remotely like the lattes she could whip up at the Hideaway half asleep—but it fit the tent life in a way that she couldn’t explain. Like she was settling into this more than she’d expected. And she was…proud of herself .
Which was ridiculous, because it was only coffee.
Still, she picked up her phone, set the mug on the edge of the firepit, and snapped a photo. Elsie would love it. “So rustic, so authentic,” she could already hear her say.
She didn’t wait for the reply; instead she opened her laptop on the edge of the picnic table, plugging the SD card reader in, and pulling up the folder of images she’d taken. Lemon bars. Peach iced tea. Kit’s sorbet. The whole day laid out in thumbnails.
Then she opened a document and started writing—and surprised herself when the words came easily.
She had expected to end up repeating facts, what the dish was, who made it, where you could get it.
But it was more than that. She remembered the feelings each dish evoked.
The powdery sweetness and zing of citrus in the lemon bars, the way Maple Falls tasted like comfort, and people who cared.
She paused over sentences, choosing each adjective, reworking phrases and taking her time.
She typed for a while, then stopped and scrolled back.
Who was this woman—sitting still, savoring the moment, taking time to get her thoughts down instead of sprinting to the next thing?
Krista leaned back on the bench, cowboy coffee warming her hands, the article glowing on the screen. She thought of her great-grandmother Isabel, who had once sat like this, letting her words unfold from her heart, each line shaped with care and thought.
Eventually, she reached for Isabel’s diary. Maybe there was another clue that she’d missed. Something that would give their secret location away.
“Alright, Isabel,” she whispered. “Where were we?”
Her eyes landed on the dog-eared page she’d marked earlier, then drifted to the next entry, one she hadn’t touched yet. Ink had bled slightly in spots, water warping the paper as if the diary itself had been caught in a storm once upon a time.
She read the Spanish under her breath first, letting the cadence settle on her tongue and then she translated it.
“ Today went back to our special place. The earth opened like a mouth of stone and let us inside. The air was cool and damp, and the water sang beneath us like it was keeping our secret. ”
Krista swallowed, translating as she went.
“ We spent hours there, listening to drops fall from the invisible ceiling. When he lit the lantern and the light touched the walls, they looked alive. The water reflected glimmers like stars trapped beneath the rock. ”
Light that looked alive. Echoes. Singing water.
She could almost see it, the closed-in stone, the echo of their voices, the lantern light dancing across wet walls. A secret room carved out of earth where the world couldn’t find them.
She traced the next line of ink with her fingertip.
“ We promised ourselves one full moon cycle, just for us. One month to pretend the world will not claim us. The question is, what will we choose when we get back? ”
So that was the answer to Isabel’s disappearance, or at least part of it. She’d run away with her lover. Krista looked back at the dates of the diary entries. They hadn’t stayed away for a full moon cycle, like they’d promised each other. They’d cut it short. Why?
She pressed the heel of her hand lightly against her heart, where it insisted on doing something complicated and unhelpful.
What would it feel like? A full month away from everything.
From responsibilities and expectations, chores and guest logs and customer care.
From storm drains and inventory lists and stair lifts and online listings.
Just two people camped out in a cave, with echoes and singing water and nowhere else they had to be .
The idea made something in her ache with longing.
But the line that stuck, that snagged in her chest, was the last one.
What will we choose when we get back?
She looked back at the diary. Isabel had run away and then gone back. Chosen her family. Chosen responsibility.
Was she happy, in the end?
Krista flipped forward a few pages. The dates marched on in neat numbers. The entries shifted—less breathless, more grounded. Mentions of her mama’s illness. Of her sister arguing. Of a father who did not approve and yet needed her hands and her patience.
Pieces of a life that looked uncomfortably familiar.
She stopped when the letters blurred. They were looking for a cave. That much was certain now.
Where two people in love had hidden for a month and then chosen to walk back out.
Krista closed the diary gently, resting it on her stomach.
Maybe Isabel hadn’t gotten everything she wanted. Maybe no one did.
But she’d loved. Fiercely, like Krista did. Deeply enough to run away. Deeply enough to come back.
And tomorrow, Krista would go looking for the place where Isabel had hidden her heart.