Page 31 of Off the Trail

“There’s a hardware store over in Naples. We can get you a pair there,” Blaze says.

I like the way he says “we,” like the gloves are a problem we’re solving together.

“You hungry?” I ask.

“Sure.” We say goodbye to Joe after I give him the fee to save my spot in tomorrow’s class. I head for the truck, but Blaze throws his thumb over his shoulder in the opposite direction.

“We can walk. You’ve got two options. There’s a not-bad pizza-and-wings place. Mostly people do takeout from there, but they’ve got a few tables. Then there’s a surprisingly good Mexican restaurant. Best chiles rellenos in Maine.” He cocks his head and adds doubtfully, “Or there’s fast food.”

“What about that place?” I point across the green to a large white Victorian-style house with a small sign out front advertising “Saturday dinner.”

“Oh, the bed-and-breakfast. I forgot they do food on Saturday night. I’ve never been. I’m not sure if you need a reservation.”

“Let’s ask.” It’d be cool to offer Blaze a new experience, since he’s such a dyed in the wool local.

He looks down at his clothes. “It might be fancy,” he says, reluctance in his voice.

“You look great.” There’s nothing dressed-up about his worn-in boots or plain blue jeans, but the brown canvas jacket over his flannel is clean and complements his broad shoulders. “Come on, my treat.”

I start confidently across the green before he can argue, and before I can overthink both my compliment and my offer. He’s done a lot for me; I might as well attempt to return the favor.

But after I climb the five granite slab steps up to the front door of the bed-and-breakfast, I hesitate. Should I go inside? Ring the old-fashioned bell? I glance over my shoulder uncertainly. At the foot of the steps, Blaze looks up at me with an amused expression on his face.

I started this. I can finish it. I turn back and knock loudly on the front door. A good twenty seconds pass before someone on the other side slowly pulls the door open. I find myself peering down into the face of a middle-aged woman, her gray hair cut pixie style. She’s two heads shorter than me, and wearing a version of Blaze’s outfit, with a fleece vest over her purple flannel shirt. I feel overdressed in my sweater.

“Can I help you?” she asks.

“We don’t have a reservation, but we were hoping to have dinner,” I say, determined to see this through.

“Sure, come on in,” she says, opening the door wider. “We’re serving in the solarium. Blaze?”

He’s right behind me, crossing into the clean, slightly dim entryway. “Hey, Billie,” he says, leaning over to hug the diminutive woman.

“Call ahead next time and we’ll have bratwurst,” she says, leading us through the house. We pass an old-fashioned sitting room, updated but with the feel of a bygone era. I hear noises off to the right, but we go left to the back of the house and into a bright, mostly glass room set up with four or five tables and dotted with pedestals topped by large ceramic pots filled with leafy green plants of all shapes and sizes. There’s what looks like a miniature citrus tree in a huge container in a corner, and a palm tree that nearly scrapes the glass-paned ceiling. It’s warm and a little humid in the room.

Billie leads us to a circular white wicker table with two chairs across from each other. The other tables are empty, but she doesn’t seem concerned.

“It’s a set menu. Gail’s making pork chops. Any allergies?” We both shake our heads in the negative, and then she asks what we want to drink. “We’ve got pretty near a full bar, wine, beer, or sparkling water.”

Blaze asks for a beer, so I do the same, and then Billie leaves us alone in the solarium. I take a seat on the matching wicker chair, feeling a bit like an ogre in a doll’s house. Blaze takes off his jacket, and I remove my sweater, feeling more comfortable in the somewhat damp heat with the layer gone.

“This is an adventure,” I say, looking around the room. “Cool place.”

“I’ve actually never been here,” he says. “But yeah, it is.”

“I guess you wouldn’t have any reason to stay here. But of course you know the owner.”

“Of course?”

“Don’t tell me you don’t know most of the locals.”

He shrugs. “That’s what happens when you live in the same place for twenty-nine years.”

“I’ve lived in my apartment for ten and I barely know my neighbors’ names.”

“Really?”

“It’s different living in a city.”