Page 53 of Befriending the Bear
Calloway had found his happy place in the kitchen, assisting Ennio. Never one for the spotlight, he was in his element helping prepare the food. Since the kitchen floor could be slippery, I’d been ordered to stay away to avoid hurting my knee. I wastold to make myself useful by greeting our guests, and so I did, placating myself with the thought that it was a great way to get to know more people.
We had fifteen confirmed guests, all of whom might’ve otherwise spent the holiday alone, but we’d hung posters everywhere that let people know we accepted walk-ins too. We had no idea how many people would show up, but we were ready for anything.
I chatted with some seniors from the nursing home, who had all arrived early, apparently eager to be among people.
“Thank you so much for doing this,” Mildred said, a ninety-three-year-old who slayed at Rummikub, which she’d told me in an invitation that had sounded like a warning.
I pointed at Calloway, who was bringing in a plate with fresh rolls. “Thank him. He’s the one who came up with the idea.”
By the time we started serving, we had a full house. Three massive roasted turkeys sat on tables, waiting to be carved, and we had all the Thanksgiving classics: mashed potatoes, green beans with bacon, sweet potato casserole, cranberry sauce, and, of course, stuffing. A woman had brought homemade apple sauce, which turned out to be delicious, and others had brought in stacks of pies.
Laughter echoed off the walls, forks scraped plates, and the sound of community filled the space. People were eating, talking, and sharing stories. Jamie had somehow coaxed Mildred into trying their mac and cheese, and I caught Marnin sneaking bites of stuffing from the buffet when he thought no one was looking.
And Calloway? He was glowing.
He didn’t dominate conversations or make grand speeches. He was quieter than most people noticed as he refilled water glasses, slipped extra napkins beside plates, and stopped to askone of the older guests if they needed help cutting their turkey. He moved like poetry: soft, careful, deliberate.
I kept catching myself watching him. Not just because he was beautiful in his button-down with rolled up sleeves—only Calloway would show up to cook in a button-down—but because he was so fully involved, so present.
“Stop staring at him,” Jamie teased, nudging me with their shoulder as I put more cranberry sauce on their table.
“Not staring,” I said. “Admiring.”
“Uh-huh.” They smirked. “You’re so far gone it’s adorable.”
I didn’t argue. Couldn’t. Because it was true.
A thin man who had to be around my age sat by himself at the end of a table, watching everything around him. His weathered face didn’t show any emotions, but somehow, he radiated loneliness, and I headed over to chat with him.
“Hi, I’m Fraser Strickland,” I said, extending my hand.
“Macallister Heald.” His handshake was firm.
“Mind if I sit here?”
He gestured. “Have at it.”
“I’m new to town, so I wanted to introduce myself.”
He gave me a thin smile. “I’m new myself.”
“What brought you to Forestville?”
He hesitated, then let out an almost imperceptible sigh. “I bought the old Bear Creek Campground.”
Ah, I was talking to the hermit, as the locals referred to him. The campgrounds were near the summit of Bear Creek Mountain, and word was he only came down his mountain and into town for groceries. “You’re liking it there?”
“I love the peace and quiet, yes.”
My eye fell on a patch on his leather jacket that hung over his chair. The red-and-blue insignia with the doubleAs was easy enough to recognize. “You’re with the 82nd Airborne?”
He sat a little straighter. “I was, yes. Retired last year.”
“We have something in common, then. I used to jump out of planes for a living too.”
His eyes narrowed. “How?”
“Smokejumper.”
