Page 3 of The Sun and the Moon

Cadence

Nika lays a fifty-dollar Visa gift card in the palm of my hand and meets my eyes.

“Did she look like she was in distress?” Nika asks. The deep brown of her eyes always feels pragmatic and prescient at the same time. The she in that question is referring to the owl.

Devin and I returned to headquarters after I captured the picture and he grumbled about not getting to see the bird in person. Not my fault his heavy footsteps over dried leaves alerted her to our presence, scaring her away before he could get a look.

“She didn’t. But she was alone as far as I could tell.” I pocket the gift card. “If you want me to go back up there to observe, just say the word.” Nika’s lips pinch. She’s got a strong face, full cheeks, and big, bright eyes.

“How thoughtful,” she says, her tone playful but still authoritative. Devin snorts, dropping down into his swivel desk chair. She cuts him a withering look and he wilts. Her eyes shift back to me. “Can we talk in my office?”

A pit forms in my stomach.

“Of course,” I say, my throat throbbing, but my voice remains stable.

The problem with loving your life, enjoying your work, is that at any moment, that work can be taken away or changed into something you don’t love as much, that isn’t what you wanted to do when you started but is somehow what you are expected to do if you continue.

I follow Nika to her office, watching her long, thick chestnut braid swish between her shoulder blades as she moves.

Inside, she’s decorated with mission-style furniture and a large painting of the Great Smoky Mountains, where she grew up.

A photo of her family—wife, son and daughter, dog—sits on the shelf behind her.

Nika is Greek. She comes from a huge family and is always bringing in leftovers to share with us in the break room or vegetables she grew in her garden for us to take home.

She’s funny and smart but also deeply intimidating.

I admire her.

She takes a seat at the desk, motioning for me to take the spot in front of her. I would much rather stand, but I don’t think refusing to follow her instruction will garner me favor. I cross my ankles, the thick laces and rubber soles of my hiking boots scratching together with the motion.

She leans back in her chair, a more relaxed posture than I expect her to take if she is giving me bad news.

I don’t match her energy, choosing instead to sit up tall.

She’s got a discerning gaze. I can tell by the way her dark brows subtly shift as she watches me that my behavior is perplexing her.

Which, well—good. I am perplexed as well.

“You have been with us for two years now,” she says, steepling her fingers into a tent shape in front of her. I don’t think it’s a question, so I don’t answer it. “And I barely know anything about you.”

That is so not what I expected her to say. I blink, curve my brows into a squiggle.

“Is that required for this job?” I know it’s not. She shrugs.

“Not in the slightest, but it does worry me how you isolate yourself. Not just from the public—even though you are more than qualified for an interpreter position.” Park interpreter is what the guides who interact with the public are called in the National Park Service.

“I love what I do here,” I say, the beginning of a plea rough in my throat.

Her expression softens. “That much is clear.”

I don’t know if she’s wanting me to say more, to argue my case for why this introvert with an anxiety disorder who can’t stand crowds—or people, really—should be allowed to continue to walk the trails and observe the wildlife instead of guide people through the park, explaining why the place matters.

So, again, I stay quiet.

“I have a daughter like you—smart as a whip but a bit rough around the edges,” Nika continues. My eyes instinctively shift to the photo behind her—the dark-headed daughter. I don’t see the problem with what she’s describing, and also, her daughter looks plenty happy. “She prefers her solitude.”

Preferring solitude is different from seeking it out of necessity.

“If this is because I didn’t come to Fran’s birthday party last week—”

“Or the Fourth of July picnic. You also didn’t attend the retirement party for Bethany, who helped train you here at Acadia.” I open my mouth to protest, but she raises her hand to stop me. “Two years and you have attended one social event. Bird watching with the ornithologist from Cambridge.”

“Birds are fascinating,” I defend.

“I am well aware that you like them,” she says with a smile. “Them, and most other animals that aren’t humankind.”

She’s not wrong. I don’t argue.

She leans forward, pulling her desk drawer open.

She reaches inside to lift out a small navy-blue square envelope, then shuts the drawer with a click.

She extends the envelope toward me, and it takes my brain a few seconds to catch her drift that she wants me to take it.

With a jolt, I reach for it, my eyes trailing from her face to the words written on the front.

My name.

The swooping, chaotic script it’s written in is immediately recognizable.

“What is this?” I drop the envelope back on the edge of her desk like it’s a hot potato and I don’t want to get caught with it.

“It was delivered here, and I’m assuming it’s personal, considering…” She points to it as if the proof is in the visual. “And by your reaction, maybe unwelcome.”

Return address: Kismet . The word dances through my brain, just like her swirling, twirling handwriting. I take a deep inhale and force my eyes to focus back on Nika.

“Very much,” I say. The last thing I want to do is receive correspondence from my mother.

I am basically no-contact with her now, but when I made the move to Bar Harbor, we were still texting, engaging in the occasional phone call.

I told her about Acadia but never sent her my new in-town address.

Her last known address for me was the rangers’ housing in the park.

I left that last year—too much community for me.

She could have done this on purpose . The thought menaces.

Somehow, she might have known Nika would see it, be curious, try to talk to me about it since I never ever reveal anything about my family.

It’s stupid to think that. My mother isn’t all-seeing, all-knowing, despite what she says at parties.

“It’s from my mother,” I say, a tightness in my chest. “We aren’t on great terms.” I reach out, grabbing it back up. The weight feels too hefty, like the contents contain a magic that makes it heavier than a regular letter.

“Ah,” she says, nodding as she presses her pointer finger to her temple. “The address makes a lot more sense now.”

“It’s been strained for years, but I haven’t spoken to her since I moved out of the rangers’ lodging.

” I turn the envelope over. It’s sealed with red wax.

Stamped with a K for Kismet . The sight is an arrow straight to the heart.

All the packages that are shipped out of the shop come with a note in an envelope bearing this wax seal.

I used to help her with the task after school.

She’d sit me down at the kitchen island and put me to work.

I never did mind it, not even when I started to mind other things related to her work.

Nika is still watching me carefully when she says, “Do you think you’ll open it?”

I blink because my eyes feel hot, stinging. When I look at her, I know she can tell I’m holding back tears.

“You don’t have to,” Nika continues. “There’s a reason you’ve chosen not to communicate with her.”

“I feel there’s a but in there,” I say, trying to smile. Nika’s is genuine, definitely more so than mine.

“But if this is part of the reason why you shut people out, which is not sustainable long-term and leaves very little room for growth”—she doesn’t mean my personal growth, not exclusively, anyway; this is a job that requires teamwork, and I am the opposite of a joiner—“maybe it wouldn’t be a bad idea. ”

“Opening it isn’t going to fix anything,” I say.

“No, but it might start you on the road to fixing something,” she replies. “If that’s what you want.”

I look back down at the envelope. Too heavy. Imbued with too much meaning.

“Thank you, Nika,” I reply, uncrossing my ankles. “Is this all you wanted to discuss?” She observes me for a moment in that kind but stern way of hers before nodding, releasing me to leave the way I came in.

Letter from my mother clutched firmly in hand.