Free Wild Flower by Abbie Williams

again out the window. “I don’t recognize the car.”
    We all watched as the unfamiliar vehicle, a small green canoe strapped to its roof, came to a halt near the porch, its bumper scraping the raised cement strip separating the parking lot from the grass. A man climbed out, straightened his sunglasses and then cast his eyes towards the café.
    â€œLost, maybe?” Aunt Ellen wondered aloud.
    He climbed up the porch steps and either didn’t notice or totally disregarded the CLOSED sign on the screen door, stepping inside without so much as a knock.
    â€œCan we help you?” Mom asked in her most contrary voice, the one I recognized from my high school days, pruning up her lips. We all studied this intrusive stranger with varying degrees of irritation. He was wiry and very tan, and as he removed his sunglasses, I saw that his eyes were just slightly too close together, giving him a vaguely eerie appearance. Though it seemed uncharitable at first, as his gaze skimmed over all of us and decided to rest on me, I felt a distinct flutter of misgiving.
    â€œSorry to interrupt you, ladies,” he said then, in an easy tone, causing me to second-guess my apprehension. He sounded normal, even nice. He added, “Eddie Sorenson directed me out this way. I’m over from Moorhead State, collecting water samples in the county. Eddie said your place had the best coffee on the lake.”
    Mom gave him a grudging smile. She said, “Well, we aren’t technically open this morning, but I suppose we could offer you a cup.”
    â€œHave a seat, young fellow,” Aunt Ellen invited, and he grabbed a chair from an adjacent table and joined us at once, plunking down between Camille and Aunt Ellen, which put him almost directly across the table from me. He smelled rather strongly of aftershave, not pleasantly so, settling his sunglasses so they fit like a headband. He was probably in his late twenties, with close-cropped hair, a lean face and those odd eyes that gave him the impression of something vaguely reptilian, even as he smiled at me with apparent friendliness. Maybe it was the mascot image of the curling, fire-breathing dragon on his Moorhead State t-shirt that put the thought in my head.
    Camille rose and poured him a cup of coffee; he accepted it with a polite thank-you.
    â€œZack Dixon,” he said by way of introduction.
    â€œJoan Davis,” Mom said, shaking his hand firmly, and then indicating the rest of us. “This is my sister Ellen Davis, my daughter Jillian Miller, and my granddaughter Camille Gordon.”
    â€œAnd you guys run this café?” he asked Mom, taking a sip of his coffee.
    â€œIt’s been in our family for decades,” Aunt Ellen explained.
    â€œThat’s great,” he said, leaning back and tipping the chair on its hind legs. He said, “Ed Sorenson spoke highly of you guys. He said you’re one tough family.”
    Mom and Aunt Ellen laughed at this, rolling their eyes. Mom replied, “We prefer ‘wise’ to ‘tough,’ don’t we, Ell?”
    â€œEddie’s been on the receiving end of your temper a time or two,” Aunt Ellen reminded Mom, who laughed a little in agreement. “It’s a fair statement.”
    â€œAre you staying long in town?” Mom asked Zack, still smiling as she refilled her cup.
    â€œI drove over yesterday from Moorhead and got a room at the Angler’s Inn,” he explained. “I plan to hit Itasca and Tamarac on the way back.”
    â€œDo you teach at the university?” Mom asked.
    â€œNo, I’m doing grad studies,” he said, his eyes again flashing over to me, though I sat silently, not contributing to the conversation at all. He kept his gaze steady as he added, as though speaking just to me, “I have a month or so to do some research around here. I plan to fish and do a little hiking in these parts. It’s great here. You guys are lucky to