Page 55 of Axe-Rated Lumberjack
We thanked them for the food, and Hudson promised to stop by again when he had more time. Stormi turned to greet the next customer while Griffin retrieved another jug of cider, and we left them to the busy afternoon.
As we headed toward the next display, Hudson took my hand.
“You all right? I thought you might enjoy meeting them.”
“More than all right. They’re lovely, and Stormi’s pastries look positively dangerous. I may have to find a reason to visit her bakery before I leave.”
“She’s good at what she does. Griffin’s family has been part of this town for years, and between the farm and the bakery, they’ve got enough food around here to keep everybody happy.”
I glanced back at the booth. Stormi was laughing at something Griffin had said while she wrapped a purchase for another customer.
“I like how comfortable everyone seems with each other. You walk up, and there are people genuinely pleased to see you.”
Hudson nodded, his fingers comfortably linked with mine.
“That’s one of the things I’ve always liked about living here. You don’t have to know everybody, but there’s a good chance you’ll run into somebody you’ve known for years.”
We wandered through the festival, sharing our apple turnover and stopping to admire the produce displays. The pastry was flaky and warm, with tender apples beneath a generous dusting of cinnamon sugar. Hudson held the paper sleeve while I broke off another piece, which seemed like a perfectly reasonable arrangement until a shower of crumbs landed on his flannel.
He looked down at his shirt and then at me.
“I suppose that means you approve.”
“Enthusiastically. Although I should apologize to your clothing. I’ve been terribly hard on it this weekend.”
“I’m starting to think my wardrobe’s going to need hazard pay.”
I laughed and brushed the crumbs from his chest, earning a kiss that tasted faintly of apples.
Farther along, we discovered a table of miniature pumpkins painted to resemble famous literary characters. I was particularly taken with a tiny Sherlock Holmes wearing a painted deerstalker, although Hudson needed some assistance identifying several of the others.
The pumpkin representing Mr. Darcy required more explanation.
“So the fellow’s supposed to be handsome, rich, and kind of difficult?” Hudson asked, examining the little painted face.
“Initially, yes. But he improves considerably once you understand him. That’s part of the appeal.”
Hudson considered the pumpkin with the expression he usually reserved for particularly questionable forestry practices.
“Does he know anything about trees?”
“Not that I’m aware of. His estate is called Pemberley, though, and I imagine there must be some very fine trees on the grounds.”
“Then I don’t see the competition.”
I laughed and caught his arm.
We eventually found a quieter stretch of the festival path overlooking the farm’s autumn fields. Several families were sitting at picnic tables nearby, enjoying snacks and cider while children examined a display of carved gourds. The afternoon sunlight had softened, and a cool breeze carried the mixed scents of damp grass, warm sugar, and smoke from a nearby food stand.
Beyond the last fence, the fields gave way to wooded slopes bright with red and copper foliage. It was easy to see why Hudson loved the place.
As we walked, he asked me what I enjoyed most about living in Minneapolis.
I thought about it while we followed the path toward a wooden bridge over a narrow drainage channel.
“The museums, the bookshops, the theater. I like being able to attend a reading or find a lecture on a subject I’ve never considered before. And I have friends there, of course. My family isn’t far away.”
He listened with interest, asking about a few of my favorite places. I told him about a bookshop that held late-evening author events and a museum exhibition I’d enjoyed so much I’d visited twice.
