Page 22 of Goode Tidings

"It's a lot, ok?" Oliver uncaps the salt shaker and dumps half on his nearly empty plate. "Moving to a new town at the same time my dad tells me I'm getting a new stepmom who I will probably never see." He spreads the salt around, creating a canvas. "And honestly, when am I ever gonna see my dad again?" He starts drawing something. I can't tell what it is. "I never saw him much in the first place, but there was always a possibility that I could. Now there's not because he's half a world away."

My heart twists. "Oliver⁠—"

"Mom, seriously, I don't want to talk about it."

He sits back against the booth, crossing his arms. I'm not sure what to say or if there is anything left to say, so I signal Flo for our check.

"You sure you're staying on Lake Circle?" she asks as she pushes the check across the table.

"Yes," I say tightly. I thought we were going to waltz into an idyllic small town and make a hundred new friends and drink apple cider on front porches while fall foliage provided a backdrop. None of this is going how I thought it would, and I'm struggling to maintain a good mood.

Flo smiles like she feels bad for me. "It's just that there aren't any houses available on Lake Circle."

"We're"—I search for the best-fitting word—"guests of Callum Goode."

"Hermie?"

I hand her my credit card, shaking my head. "Callum," I repeat. "Who's Hermie?"

She slips my credit card into her apron pocket and stacks our finished plates. "They are the same person," she says, amusement softening the harsh wrinkles around her eyes. "But don't tell him that's what we call him. He doesn't know."

My head bobs slowly as I absorb this new information. First, the people in this town act like they can't believe it when they learn we're staying at his cabin, and now I hear they have a nickname for him? What is going on here? "Is Hermie short for something?"

"Sad Man Hermit," she says, her eyes glittering.

I feel a little bad for Callum. The nickname isn't cruel, more simple and descriptive than anything else, but still. The townspeople had to come up with it, which means they needed to talk about him. It's unlikely any of this chatter happened to his face. Callum probably wouldn't care about this nickname, but I do, just a little. I have the oddest urge to defend him.

Flo leans closer, like we're conspiring, even though nobody is within a six-foot radius of us. "That man showed up two years ago and started renovating the old place. He rarely speaks when he comes to town, and he never participates in anything town-related. Tim over at the hardware store knows him best, and even he said he barely knows him. The most Tim's been able to get out of the guy is that he runs some kind of website."

My urge to defend him wavers. "What kind of website?" I ask, trying to sound curious instead of suspicious.

"If you're his guests, shouldn't you already know?" Her eyes glimmer again. I think I've inadvertently made us her next topic of gossip.

"We don't know him well yet." I place emphasis on the last word. "It's a long story." My hand waves like the story isn't that interesting.

"I might be old, but my nose works just fine and I know bullshit when I smell it."

Oliver coughs out a laugh.

Flo leaves our table with a pointed look in my direction. My mind is stuck on the revelation about Callum's website, my imagination running wild with possibilities. The website could be as innocent as listing the local flora and fauna, but the guy lives alone in a house his name isn't attached to. Isn't that the perfect setup for someone who's doing something illegal? What if Callum isn't his real name? What if he assumed Callum's identity? What if the real Callum Goode is in the garage I haven't looked in yet, hung from a hook on the wall?

"Goode Tidings," Oliver announces, eyes locked on his phone.

"Huh?" I've never been so grateful to have my train of thought interrupted. It was going off the rails.

Oliver reads from the screen. "Callum Goode is the founder and operator of Goode Tidings, a website dedicated to spotlighting heartwarming true stories."

I picture Callum's grumpy face, his rough demeanor. I think he tried smiling yesterday, but it looked like it was causing him actual physical pain. That's the same guy responsible for a website that only publishes uplifting true stories?

"Is there a photo?" I ask, hand extended for Oliver's phone.

"Yeah," Oliver says, swiping to bring up the page. "But it looks nothing like him."

I knew it! Whoever is staying in that man-shed by the lake is not Callum. We've all been duped, and honestly, we're lucky we weren't murdered.

I take Oliver's offered phone, prepared to see the very opposite of the man I watched nearly get sprayed by a skunk this morning. Except, well, it's definitely Callum. Shorter hair, tidier style. Smooth cheeks, not a hint of a couple days' worth of five o'clock shadow like he has now. He looks calmer here, the kind of guy who nurses a beer at the neighborhood barbecue and volunteers to take out the overflowing trash for the hosts. The real difference, though, is his smile. It's wide, a full-tooth grin, the corners reaching for his ears. Even his eyes look happy. The man in this photo could definitely run a good news website.

There's a twinge in my chest, something tight and uncomfortable. The Callum I've known for twenty-four hours? He is not this man. People don't go from smile of the year to hiding away from the world in a small town for no reason.