Page 13 of Goode Tidings

Now, Oliver goes to the bathroom while I pull up my email. Glaring at me from the top of my inbox is the all-caps subject line GREAT WORK MISSING OUR CALL TODAY.

Heat burns the backs of my eyes. It's not sadness causing this threat of tears. It's frustration.

I quit. I quit. I quit I quit I quit.

Heaving a sigh, I tap the screen and the email springs forth.

Eden,

Sending your supervisor to voicemail numerous times is a bad look, wouldn't you agree? You might be talented, but so are other artists. Can I expect to see your design concept any time soon, or will that be too much to ask of you?

Charles Burkhardt

Senior Surface Pattern Designer

Blossom Paperie

Charles wasn't always this bad, but in the last year since his wife divorced him, he has turned into a top-tier jackass, hell-bent on being as cutting as possible. I'd love to ask the other artists on staff at Blossom if Charles treats them similarly, but what if one of them tells Charles I'm asking questions? Because this is a mainly work-from-home gig, I don't know my colleagues well. I send my rough sketches to Charles, who either approves on the first pass or loops in Angelique, the creative director. We decide what works and what doesn't, or if I'm headed in the right direction. After that, I'm on my own. There is very little interaction between me and the other pattern designers.

Tamping down the streak of irritation that jolts through me, I fire off a pleasant response to Charles and attach the rough sketches I finished up this morning before loading up my car and hitting the road. Hopefully my response satisfies him, and he's off my back until Monday.

Oliver and I travel the short distance into the quaint town of Snowflake. We head for the heart of the place, the main street. There's a sign as we approach that literally says Main Street: the heart of Snowflake with a red heart in the background. Brick in a herringbone pattern paves the street and sidewalks. One store leads into the next as if they share walls, and iron street lamps light the way on either side, connected by overhead strings of lights criss-crossing the street. Skinny-trunk trees grow at regular intervals between the street lamps. Cottonwoods, I think. A thrill runs through me when I think about them turning color.

"I thought this place would be old," Oliver says as we inch down the street.

"Me too," I admit. I wouldn't have minded an outdated small town, but this is cool. Light spills from the storefronts, even though a handful of them are closed. A bar called Roosters is open, and across from it marquee lights shine. A theater. People crowd into a diner, and others peruse a western art gallery.

The supermarket at the end of the street is surprisingly well-stocked. My stomach grumbles as we dash down the aisles, the shopping basket making indents in my forearm as the weight increases with every item we toss inside. I didn't check the fridge to see how much space there was before we left, so I'm only buying what we need for tonight and tomorrow. Coffee is nonnegotiable, and I nearly squeal when I see toffee-flavored syrup. Oliver sneaks glazed donuts onto the heap and tosses a package of strawberry gum on the conveyor belt at checkout.

The cashier doesn't say a word to us following her dispassionate hello, too busy sucking what I'm assuming is a lemon drop based on the color of the candy and her tongue. Oliver's gaze slides to mine, and I shrug like I'm saying what can you do?

"Great first day in our new home," Oliver gripes, bringing a bag of potato chips into the front seat of the car with him. "Dad's ex-stepbrother, who obviously doesn't like him but is staying at his cabin, and the girl who wouldn't speak to us." He tears open the bag of chips, frowning. "Do you think it's because we're new? Will the whole town be like that to us?"

I think what Oliver's really asking is if this is what he should expect from his new school.

"No, definitely not," I assure him, though I really haven't a clue. Maybe we just moved to a town where the residents hold contests to see who can be more off-putting. My job, as Mom, is to tell Oliver that everything will be all right, even when I am not certain it will be. "I bet the cashier was having a bad day. As for Callum, well, I'm not sure what to say about that."

Oliver nods and stuffs a handful of chips into his mouth.

By the time we return to the cabin, the sun has disappeared entirely. Disappointment settles in my chest. On the drive up here from Phoenix, I'd entertained visions of watching the sunset over the lake this evening, a visual welcome to our new home. Unloading the groceries in the kitchen, I remind myself there's always tomorrow, and the day after that, on and on. If there's something that can be counted on, it's the rising and setting of the sun.

The backyard gently slopes down to the lake. A light is on in the small building Callum called his office. It's hard to see directly in from the kitchen window, but there's movement inside the small structure. Is Callum making dinner? Does he have food to eat? Presumably, if it's where he works every day, he keeps some kind of sustenance on hand.

I turn back to the kitchen, begin poking through cabinets and drawers. Orienting myself with the space. I've stayed in a few Airbnbs over the years, so I know what it's like to step into a stocked home. This is decidedly not what that feels like. This feels like a moderately hostile takeover, and I am the greedy party.

What I discover in the kitchen confuses me. The cabinets house cooking gadgets; the drawers are home to an array of spices and utensils. But the fridge? Almost bare. And the pantry? An impressive collection of canned food.

My fingertip runs along the cans as my romantic notions come crashing down. Callum is not making homemade stew and settling beside a roaring fire. If I were to believe what I see here in this pantry, I'd say he is surviving on an exclusive diet of canned chili and beef stew. I poke at a box. And saltine crackers.

So, what's with the beautiful kitchen and selection of cooking gadgets? This man doesn't appear to have need for anything more than one bowl, one spoon, and a microwave.

I set about boiling a pot of water on the stove and browning the sausage and ground beef for baked ziti. Oliver wanders in, lured by the scent of cooking meat and Italian seasoning.

"Ziti?" he asks, peering over my shoulder into the pan.

"Yep." It's a regular in the rotation, along with green chili chicken tacos and summer veggie tostadas. Oliver saunters to the sink, glancing thoughtfully out the large window toward the lake.

"What do you think he's doing down there?" Oliver asks.