Page 35 of Axe-Rated Lumberjack

We’d driven only a few minutes when Peyton reached across the console and rested her hand on my forearm.

“I’m glad we’re doing this,” she said. “I’ve enjoyed working with you, but I’ve spent an awful lot of time thinking about what it would be like to spend an evening together without having to stop and correct your pronunciation.”

“That’s a relief. I was worried you’d brought your red pencil along.”

“Don’t tempt me. I could probably find something to correct.”

I chuckled and turned my hand over to catch hers briefly before returning it to the wheel.

Maple Lane Falls had dressed itself up for the festival. Strings of lights ran between the old brick storefronts, and pumpkins crowded nearly every doorstep. The town square was busy with people moving toward the farm and park, where the main festival events were underway. I drove past the Copper Kettle and found a parking space near a little restaurant on Maple Lane that stayed open later during Fall Fest.

Inside, the windows were fogged around the edges from the warmth of the dining room. The air smelled of roasted vegetables, garlic, and fresh bread, while conversations rose around the tables beneath a low ceiling crossed with dark wooden beams.

We were seated near the front window, with a view of people strolling past beneath the festival lights. Peyton set her scarf on the chair beside her and looked over the menu.

“I can already tell this was an excellent decision. I haven’t eaten anything resembling a proper dinner since I arrived in town.”

“Then we’ll fix that. They’ve got good pot roast here, and the chicken pie’s worth ordering if you don’t mind waiting a little longer.”

Peyton studied the descriptions before settling on the pie. I ordered pot roast, and we shared a basket of warm bread while we waited.

She was interested in everything. She wanted to know how long the restaurant had been there, whether the town was always this busy in October, and which attractions I thought were worth seeing over the weekend. Instead of firing off questions, she listened to the answers and followed them wherever the conversation led.

I told her about the year the festival committee had ordered three enormous inflatable pumpkins, only to discover that one was taller than the roof of the exhibition building. The committee had spent most of an afternoon debating where to put the thing before somebody finally suggested the obvious solution of returning it.

Peyton was still laughing when our food arrived.

“You make this place sound like one of those small towns in a romantic comedy where absolutely everyone knows everyone else’s business.”

“There’s some of that. My mother worked in the school cafeteria for years, so she knows a good portion of the town by what they ate for lunch when they were twelve. It makes taking her to the grocery store an all-afternoon undertaking.”

Peyton smiled as she broke the crust on her pie. Steam rose from the filling, carrying the scent of rosemary and roasted chicken.

“She sounds lovely. My mother teaches at a university, and she’s wonderful, but I’ve always suspected she could turn a trip to the grocery store into an academic discussion. My father usually just waits patiently while she finishes explaining whatever has caught her interest.”

I could picture that easily enough.

“My dad’s a retired sawmill mechanic. He can hardly walk past a machine without listening to it for a minute to see whether something needs adjusting. Between him and Mom, I grew up learning that you ought to take pride in doing a job properly, even when nobody’s watching.”

“That explains quite a bit about you,” Peyton said, studying me over her glass. “You take your work seriously, but you don’t make people feel foolish for asking questions. I noticed that yesterday when you were talking about your crew.”

Her observation pleased me more than I expected. Most people who met me outside work wanted to talk about the size of the trees we cut or how often I used an axe. Peyton had been interested in why we managed the timberland the way we did, and she’d listened when I explained how much planning went into keeping everyone safe.

“I like the people I work with,” I told her. “Most of us have been together long enough to know what we’re good at and where we need help. My brothers think I’m bossy, but I figure that’s what happens when you’re the one responsible for making sure everybody gets home in one piece.”

“How many brothers?”

“Two. One’s an electrician, and the other drives a truck. They’re both convinced that growing up with me was a terrible hardship, although neither has ever explained exactly how.”

Peyton laughed, and I told her about a memorable childhood argument involving a homemade wooden sled, an icy slope, and our father’s insistence that the three of us help repair the fence we’d damaged.

By the time we finished eating, we’d wandered through stories about our families, the peculiarities of small-town life, and the first jobs we’d taken when we were young.

Peyton told me how she’d started working with books on the radio, initially worrying about whether she’d be able to fill an entire segment without stumbling over her words. She’d learned to prepare carefully and trust her knowledge, but she’d never forgotten how nervous she’d been the first time the microphone went live.

“I think that’s part of why I enjoy narration so much,” she explained. “I get to spend time with stories I love, and there’s always something new to figure out. I don’t mind doing the same passage several times if I can hear it getting better.”

“That explains why you haven’t strangled me yet.”