Page 12 of Goode Tidings

I expect her to look hurt at my unkind tone, but she doesn't.

"No," she mimics, deepening her voice like she did before, the word coming out like a growl. This woman has no reservations when it comes to teasing me. None. She leans right, her shoulder coming to rest on the doorframe. Arms folded in front of her, one ankle crossed over the other, she says, "I have a teenager, remember? You can't faze me."

"You sure about that?" I motion with my chin at the way she's standing. I'm grasping at straws here, but I need something, anything, to put us on a more even playing field. "You look like you're trying to appear formidable. That's not something someone unfazed would do."

A grin breaks onto her face. Something flashes through me, the mental equivalent of being knocked off-center. "Is it working? Are you intimidated?"

"By an Andes Mint? Hardly."

"I bleed for one fifth of the month and I don't die, so maybe you should be at least a little afraid of me."

I blink at her. If I'm going to fear anything about this woman, it's her willingness to say what she's thinking.

She wiggles her fingers in my direction, steps back from the door, and closes it.

I stand frozen, staring at the space she occupied. My space. My cabin. My doorway.

But not really.

Grief will make people behave out of character. Two years ago, I was in the worst place I've ever been in.

I didn't think about how my choice to take over this cabin would conclude, but if I had, I wouldn't have dreamed the end would be delivered to me by a beautiful woman and her teenage son.

CHAPTER 6

Eden

Callum retreats to his office closer to the edge of the lake, and I help Oliver bring in our things. It takes us three trips each to empty my car. Oliver's reaction to the inside of the cabin is much like my own.

"He really lives here, doesn't he?" Oliver asks, looking around the living room.

"It would appear so," I answer remorsefully, my lower lip captured between my teeth as I follow Oliver's gaze.

"You were in here for a while." Oliver looks at me in a protective, almost parental way. "That's why I called the police."

"I'm sorry I worried you," I say, and even though I'd rather not worry him, I'm touched he would do something as big as calling the police in an effort to keep me safe.

On my walk through the main bedroom, Callum's room, I'm assuming, I find shirts hung in the closet, a couple drawers with folded sweaters and sweatshirts, sweatpants and shorts. Free weights set up neatly in a holder in the corner of the room. The bathroom has been cleared out, not a product in sight, but a decidedly male scent lingers.

A small stone of guilt settles in my belly. Callum wasn't supposed to be here, and it's unclear why he was here in the first place. Still, it's...his. It's furnished, but not decorated. Lived in, but I don't know that it's loved. Despite its lack of décor, it's cozy. Who would look around this place and say it's not his home?

Oliver wanders to the single bookshelf in the corner of the living room, closer to the fireplace. Using a fingertip, he tilts a paperback onto its bottom corner. "I feel kind of bad for him. Don't you?"

"Yeah," I answer, crossing my arms as I watch my son peruse Callum's paperback selection. Callum was perfectly happy to poke at Justin, but he quickly stepped aside to allow for me and Oliver to take over his space. The action speaks to his character, even if his tone and word choice makes him sound like a bit of a brute.

"Where will he go?" Oliver asks. "He can't stay in the small office out there for very long, can he?"

I shrug. I have more questions than I do answers. "Here's what I know, bud. You need a bed, and we need to eat. Plus, we need groceries. Give me five minutes to attempt to explain the last hour to my boss, and then we'll go to the grocery store, ok?" I glance down at our bags covering the floor space in the living room. "Unfortunately, I can't solve the bed problem as easily. I doubt the town of Snowflake has a store with a bed ready for us to purchase on a Friday night. So, we can have a sleepover in the main bedroom, or⁠—"

"I'll take the couch," he says quickly.

I smile and nod to cover up the sting. He's fourteen, of course he doesn't want to share a bed with his mom, even if it's for one night and out of necessity. "Sounds like a plan, Stan."

Oliver gives me a droll look. "Mom, nobody says that."

"Someone does," I argue good-naturedly. Pointing a fingertip to my chest, I say, "Me. And I've been saying it for years. I doubt I'll be stopping anytime soon."

When Oliver was little and I said it, he'd very seriously inform me that his name was not Stan. And I'd say Are you sure? I could've sworn I named you Stan. And then he'd giggle and tell me I was so silly.