Page 35 of Romantic

“It was his idea!” volunteers Pepper, her mouth full of food. “But I was all for it.”

My eyes flash to Brandon’s, and for just a flicker he looks caught, and then his face goes blank and polite. I hate how he locks up his feelings. That’s one thing Jack has going for him; he’s open and honest and not afraid to show that he cares.

***

Jack’s helping me set out the s’mores buffet for tonight’s Starry Night Campfire, an event I lead most Saturday nights. Guests gather around the campfire, and we sing songs and tell stories. Being me, I can’t help but share a poem or two. Usually a couple of guests sing a song or play the harmonica. Once we had a comedian do some stand up. Sometimes we play campfire games. But no matter how the program varies, it’s always a good time. Technically, it’s part of my job, but I would do it for free.

“Here, have a Lindt ball.” I toss the chocolate to Jack, who I know is partial to the stuff and always ravenous. He deftly catches it and puts it in his hoodie pocket.

“I’ll save it for later. I ate the whole plate of cookies Pepper dropped off.”

“Pepper gave you cookies?”

“Yeah, she was waiting on my porch this evening with a hot plate of cookies. That kid’s really growing on me.”

“Yeah, Pepper’s great,” I agree, scanning the crowd for her. I fear she’s up to something.

I can’t spot her, but Brandon’s kneeling by the firepit, assembling wood. Lighting the campfire is one of my responsibilities, but last summer, on a particularly harried night, Brandon pitched in and took over for me. After that he offered to light the campfire whenever he’s in town. I’m touched that he remembered that promise from last summer.

The man has some mad fire-building skills. He refuses to use fire starter or paper. Instead he uses wood shavings and dry pine needles meticulously placed under a pyramid of fine kindling he chopped himself. He lights the fire with one match and the quick white light leaps up. The kindling ignites, and the flames deepen into yellow, then a deep orange. Brandon adds a log and soon the fire is ablaze. Few of the guests milling about would guess that the man in the blue flannel is the park’s owner. Most would get a kick out of it, but I won’t tell anyone. Brandon likes to keep a low profile.

“I never want you to see how many matches I use to light a fire,” I say from behind him.

He stands up, dusting the dirt off his hands. “I recall something of the sort from last summer,” he says with a faint smile.

“Either I use a bouquet of matches or vast quantities of lighter fluid.”

“I couldn’t bear to watch,” he says with a straight face and teasing eyes.

I laugh, and Brandon joins me. I love his face when he laughs. I can’t stop smiling at him, and he’s smiling back. Then somethings shifts, and we’re staring at each other and I’m thinking of that moment by the waterfall. I reach for a topic—any topic—before this gets awkward.

“I see you’re letting Pepper run a little more free this year.”

“Yeah, well, she is ten. I was riding my bike all over town when I was her age. I want her to have that freedom. Also, I started putting AirTags on her shoes.”

“So . . . not the same freedom at all.”

“No. But I’m trying.”

“You’re doing a good job. You are the best dad I know, and my dad was amazing.”

“You’re laying it on a bit thick there,” he says with a smile.

“I just feel so bad about what I said the other day, but it really is true.”

“I appreciate that. But that’s enough said on that conversation, okay?”

“Yeah, um . . . okay. Anyway, thank you for setting up the fire for me.” I place a hand on Brandon’s arm, just a friendly pat, but he stiffens at my touch. I quickly step back. “I better finish getting ready,” I say, trying to hide my embarrassment before whirling around and walking toward the community kitchen where Pepper and Elinor are preparing hot cocoa.

Guests are asked to bring their own mugs to the campfire, but someone always forgets. As part of the more deliberate branding of the park, Edward and Brandon are incorporating Elinor’s art into as much of the park materials as possible. The compostable cups are fun because they have the new park logo—Elinor’s sketch of Lady Whimple, the majestic live oak with many ribbons fluttering from its branches. Elinor is carrying out a full tray of steaming cups, and I waylay a chattering Pepper.

“Hey, do you have a minute?” I ask.

“For you, always.”

Pepper follows me to a copse of trees just behind the fire pit.

“Did you give Jack cookies?”