I’ve felt the looks—in this casual sea of flannel and jeans and angler- and hunter-branded baseball caps, I stick out. Some glances are merely curious. Others are leering.

And Jonah seems intent on marking his territory.

“You good here?” he leans in to kiss my lips.

“Of course she’s fine!” Muriel answers for me, then shoos him away with a flick of her hand. “These men … It’s like he thinks you can’t handle yourself!”

And, if I didn’t know better, that would sound like a compliment coming from her.

“This one’s on me.” Toby sets a pint in front of Jonah.

With a murmured thanks, Jonah collects it and heads off.

Muriel’s gaze trails after Jonah, as if needing to witness this introduction. The guy I assume is Jack Thomas stands and shakes Jonah’s hand, then gestures toward the empty seat, which Jonah settles into in his signature legs-splayed way.

“Good. Yes, that’ll work out just right.” Muriel nods with satisfaction, as if making a check mark on her to-do list. With that, she turns her attention to me. “I’m the chair for the Winter Carnival planning committee, and I think you’d be a good addition to it. I’ve already mentioned it to the group. We meet the second Thursday of every month, at the community center.”

“Oh … I … Okay,” I stammer, unsure if that’s a suggestion or demand. In the end, I likely have little choice, if Muriel deems it so. “What kinds of things would you need help with?” It better not be something insane, like dumping me into an outdoor dunk tank in the middle of an Alaskan winter.

“We’ll think of something. Paige moved to Kansas with her new beau, so the outhouse race is up for grabs. You’d be perfect for that.”

“I’m sorry, did you say the outhouse race? Why would I be perfect for that?”

“Because you like makin’ things look pretty,” she says, as if that’s an obvious answer.

“Muriel!” Teddy hollers from the long buffet table stretched out at the far end of the room, where six slow-cookers simmer and a small horde eagerly awaits their next paper-cup sample. He waves a frantic “come here” hand at her.

“I swear, that man can’t wipe his own ass without me standing around the corner to coach him through it. We’ll talk more about the carnival later.”

“Can’t wait,” I mutter as she bulldozes through the crowd, moving fast to get to his side. Suddenly a winter dunk tank sounds appealing.

Toby leans over the bar counter on his elbows, watching his parents. “If he doesn’t call her over, she’ll chew him out because she should be there. If he calls her over, he can’t do anything without her.”

“It’s a no-win situation for him,” I agree grimly.

Toby flashes that wide, dimpled smile, even more noticeable on a clean face. “What can I get ya?”

“Something strong, so I’m drunk when your mother comes back.”

He chuckles. “All I’ve got are these on tap,” he says, pointing to the branded handles, “and those in the bottle.” A small chalkboard behind him lists five beers. I recognize Muriel’s scrawl from the garden schematics she drew up. All capital letters. Even her handwriting demands you listen to her.

“Really? No vodka hidden anywhere?”

He drops two coasters in front of me, one advertising Bud, and the other the local Trapper’s Crossing IPA.

“What kind of ale house is this?” I let out a dramatic sigh. “A bottle of Corona, I guess.” It’s the only name I recognize, besides Budweiser.

“Comin’ right up.”

I study the large, crowded room while he fetches my beer from the white kitchen fridge in the corner. The energy here tonight is casual but charged. It feels like a family reunion of sorts, where everyone is a familiar face.

And most of those faces are Caucasian, I note. Much like the population of this area. It’s a vast difference from Bangor, where at least half the population is Alaska Native—a mixture of Yupik, Athabascan, and Aleut.

“A bit busier than that first time you came in here, huh?” Toby asks.

“A bit,” I agree with a laugh. “Who are all these people?”

He pops the cap and slides the beer across the counter. No lime, I note. Based on the price of them at the grocery store, I can’t say I blame them. “A lot are locals, but we’ve got more of the seasonal crowd coming around now, too.”

“Yeah. I noticed them on our way in.” Cabins showing signs of life—chains down, cars parked. One woman was nailing a new wooden Welcome sign to a tree at the end of her driveway.

“The rest are from the resort. Most of our cabins are rented out for the weekend. There’s even a bunch of campers in.”

I shudder at the thought. It was barely above freezing last night.

“We’ll have them straight through until snow. Just wait until peak salmon season in July, when the resort is booked up and all the cabins are in use. It gets busy around here. They’ll be fishing shoulder to shoulder. You fish, right? I can’t remember …”

I give Toby a cockeyed look that makes him laugh.

He drags a rag over the counter, though there doesn’t appear to be anything spilled. “So, how’s the garden coming?”

“You know what? Surprisingly … okay.”

“Mom said you’re so bored, you’ve started decorating out there, too.”

I can only imagine Muriel’s tone when she said that. “I put in new plant markers.” The recycled orange-juice-jug tags that Muriel made to identify the vegetables were small and unappealing. I replaced them with bigger, nicer ones I designed using old paint stir sticks I found in the workshop—an idea I came up with after seeing something similar on Pinterest.

I also painted Calla’s Garden in white across a rusty shovel that I found in the dilapidated greenhouse and propped it at the gate, to give the old tool purpose and to give me cute Instagram content. It was so simple and yet followers loved it enough that Diana has been texting me once a day to start doing a weekly Alaskan garden post. Of course, Muriel noted, with a frown, the shovel is still functional, and the white markers will get dirty every time it rains.

Toby’s gaze wanders over to where Muriel stands, having nudged Teddy away with an elbow to take over doling out samples. “I know she can be a bit opinionated. Pushy, too.”

“No way,” I say with mock surprise, but I add a smile to let him know I don’t harbor any ill will toward her.

He laughs. “She likes you, though. Talks about you all the time.”

“Really?” This time, my shock is genuine. “I’m convinced she thinks I’m an idiot.”

“Yeah, I get that. Happens to me, too, and I’m her son. But do you think she’d bother with you if that were true?”

“Honestly? I don’t think she can help herself, no matter what.” Muriel’s the type of person who likes to be the one holding all the answers.

A wiry man three seats down waves his empty bottle in the air, and Toby swiftly and wordlessly replaces it. “She likes to keep busy with tasks and projects, is all. She’s always been like that. And then after Deacon died …”