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She responds with a hint of hesitation, “I don’t know how much of it is true, but I imagine it will be fun to learn.”
I don’t add that we’re apt to be blindsided by something on this tour, for the sake of entertainment.
“It’s not much of a drive, though,” Stella adds brightly.
I find myself eying her, appreciative of her optimism. She’s putting it on for my benefit.
“There was a lot of gold, silver, and copper mined in Rosewater,” she offers, reciting the research she remembers as we settle back against the seats. She tilts her lovely head partially to the side, an inquisitive gesture accompanying her words.
My eyebrows lift as I briefly glance at the camera, wondering whether her soliloquy is scripted or genuine. Ultimately, it doesn’t make much difference. With the time on the road ahead, I’m more than willing to listen to whatever history she’s dug up on Rosewater, legitimate or not.
To my amazement, I find Stella to be a gifted storyteller, animated and involved as she recites the history she found online, including the indigenous people who had lived on the land before. Her intelligence and warmth fascinate me, and my earlier reservations melt away the longer I listen to her.
I barely notice when the SUV comes to a stop, and the door opens to allow us out.
“I almost don’t want to get out of the car,” Stella complains. “I’m having too much fun in here with you.”
Her compliment flatters me, the sincerity ringing true.
“I don’t think staying here is an option,” I answer, although I wish it were.
But we have no choice but to get out and fulfill our contractual obligations for the night. But later, when we return to the cabin, maybe she and I can talk some more, away from the prying eyes of the cameras.
Our evening is to start with dinner at a small, charming house that overlooks a ravine and stream near the center of town. It’s called “The Mine,” and Stella finds this amusing,particularly when the place is decorated like an 1800s saloon inside.
“One cameraman only,” the manager insists as soon as we walk in the door. “I won’t have you disrupting our other guests.”
I like this place already.
Roy is incensed by this. “Our crew already arranged this,” he insists, looking at his notes and gesturing at the waiver in his hands, but the manager is adamant.
“One cameraman or nothing,” he replies flatly. “Those are your choices.”
Stella and I exchange happy expressions, the rest of the crew forced to stay outside as we’re led onto the patio to overlook the side streets of downtown, the little porch tucked in and set to upbeat, jazzy music. We get a good idea of the town from where we’re seated, the small but charming spot suddenly very appealing to me.
Seeing Stella’s eyes dart around in awe, I’m struck by a sense of amusement at her child-like wonder. It brings a kind of excitement, a fresh perspective to my own view of the world.
“This is lovely,” she remarks, clearly taken by the unfamiliar sights.
I gesture towards the menu, encouraging Stella to explore it with me. Together, we delve into the wine list, exchanging thoughts and preferences on the various dishes.
“This is the perfect place for a date, isn’t it?” Stella asks.
“I wouldn’t know,” I answer without looking up from the menu.
Stella casts her menu to the right. “I find it hard to believe you have any shortage of dates outside of here, Benn.”
I’ve never liked it when people shorten my name, but for some reason, it doesn’t irk me when Stella does it. She has a guilelessness about her, a lack of pretentiousness, and I want to soak it all up.
“I would much rather work on my charities than attend social events,” I say, sitting back and folding my arms over my chest.
“That’s a shame,” she says honestly. “Someone is missing out on your company.”
Our eyes lock, and she beckons warmly at me. Under the table, I feel her sandaled foot brush up against my leg. She abruptly sits back, blinking, and I realize she did that accidentally, but the wine comes before either of us can comment on it.
Dinner is perfect. My prime rib is tender with a deep, savory flavor and a crisped, golden-brown crust. Stella puts a bit of her chicken piccata on my plate to try, and I don’t refuse it. It’s almost as good as my prime rib with thin, tender chicken breasts flavored with capers and a tangy lemon-butter sauce.
I forget for a few minutes that dinner is being recorded, until we prepare to leave, and take our walk through the city as we planned.
