By Lyn Bennett Wilson
The house was dead quiet—that heavy, crystalline silence you only get in the Adirondacks when the power cuts out and the rhythmic hum of the world simply vanishes. It was still dark, and the October air had a real bite to it.
“Wow, perfect timing,” I joked to Pumpkin Pie—or Punkin, depending on how much she’s getting under my feet. She gave me a look that clearly asked if this was my fault and thumped her tail against the cold floor. Even though she’s my alert dog, she seemed totally focused on the “staying warm” part of her job right then.
My thick wool socks were lifesavers. I headed downstairs, feeling like I was on some arctic expedition, and got a fire going in the hearth. It crackled to life, finally putting up a fight against the chill creeping in through the windowpanes. I’ve never liked being cold; it makes the “quiet frequency” of this town feel even louder.
Punkin flopped right down on the rug, her fur soon smelling of cozy cedar and woodsmoke. With a hot cup of tea in my hand, the silence didn’t feel so spooky anymore—it felt like a little piece of heaven. We were finally thawing out, one spark at a time.
I checked the clock while grabbing a gluten-free biscotti and nearly choked. “Oh my gosh! Is that the time already?!”
I scrambled toward the bathroom. The floor was freezing. I managed a quick shower, wrapped up in my big terrycloth robe, and started the makeup ritual. On a normal day, I’m a ten-minute-max girl. But today was a big deal. My fingers weren’t even cooperating; when my lip moisturizer stick snapped off and fell into the sink, I nearly cried. “Well, I guess I’m adding ‘buy more lipstick’ to the to-do list, eh Punkin?”
I hopped across the hall to the closet. Usually, the choice is easy: the rows of khaki pants and pastel shirts—the “General’s” uniform Aunt Ginny always wore. I carry on that tradition to keep her presence alive in the bakery, but today was special. I needed something more feminine. I pulled out my favorite lacy sweater. It was pretty, not too fancy. I mean, it was just coffee.
Then I saw the photo on my nightstand: Bob and Finn from high school. I’ve known Bob Schlagel since the earth’s crust was still forming. He’s seen me at my absolute best—winning championships—and my absolute worst—collapsing in the grass at Finn’s funeral eighteen years ago. He knows the “scrupulous” Lillian, but he also knows the girl who used to get flour in her eyelashes just to make him laugh.
“Why am I trying to wear a costume, Punkin?” I whispered.
I put the lace back. Instead, I pulled on my favorite dark-wash jeans and a soft, thick cable-knit sweater in a deep forest green. It was warm, it was honest, and it was perfect for the October air. I packed the basket: roasted squash, a green salad with fresh basil and cranberries, and Aunt Pauline’s gluten-free pumpkin spice bread.
The drive to the lake was a masterclass in uncomfortable silence. Bob was driving his silver SUV like he was transporting nitro-glycerin, his eyes locked on the road with a focus that was bordering on frantic. He was nervous as a long-tailed cat in a room full of rocking chairs. I sat beside him, my heart doing that familiar “blackhawk” helicopter dance, but at least I wasn’t fighting the fabric of my own clothes.
When we arrived at the self-contained apartment at the back of the Schlagel property, the “virgin” kitchen offered a brief moment of professional relief.
“Logistics first,” Bob stammered, his fingers drum-tapping the counter. “We have four flours to choose. Equitable split.”
For two hours, we worked. We hammered out the Great Flour Partition, choosing the four “Champions” for our prize year: the Premium Blanched Almond, the hearty Sorghum, the nutrient-rich Millet, and the wildcard Coffee Cherry flour the twins were dying to test.
“Split at the warehouse,” Bob noted, his voice finally steadying. “No cross-contact. I want you to be safe, Lil.”
As the technical work wound down, we moved outside to the lawn. The air was a crisp 58 degrees. We ate in a comfortable silence, the “guitar string” tension between us finally starting to harmonize with the rustle of the pines. These trees—the American Beeches—had been planted in 1955 for Arbor Day as a “century promise” by our grandparents. They were just beginning their long watch. “The average lifespan of Fagus grandifolia is 300 to 400 years, with some specimens in undisturbed northern hardwood forests exceeding 400 years.” They were silent witnesses to everything we’d tried to bury.
As the afternoon light turned to amber, we walked to the weathered bench overlooking the water. The sky was a bruised palette of violet and burnt orange.
“I used to think the sun set differently after that night,” Bob said quietly. “Like the colors weren’t as bright because Finn wasn’t here to see them.”
I pulled my green sweater tighter. “I just stopped looking at the sky, Bob. It was easier to look at the bottom of a mixing bowl. You can control a mixing bowl.”
Bob turned toward me, the “Super Bob” mask completely gone. Slowly, he reached across the space between us. His hand was warm and calloused, and he let it rest over mine.
I didn’t pull away. I didn’t flinch. For the first time in eighteen years, the “Knock Before Entering” sign on my heart felt like a welcome. I turned my hand over, lacing my fingers with his.
“We’re still here, Lil,” he whispered.
I squeezed his hand, my strength meeting his hope. “We’re still here, Bob.”
The sun dipped below the hills, leaving us in the cool, blue twilight—two people finally learning that you don’t have to keep spinning in place to keep the world from falling apart.
LogoSophia Magazine 