Page 3 of Goode Tidings

My eyes leave the road briefly to press play on my music app, and I settle in for the remainder of the drive.

It'll all be ok. Oliver and I will be fine. A year in this cute mountain town will do us a world of good. We'll probably meet nice people. Maybe we'll have the kind of neighbors who say howdy and happy hour on my front porch tonight?

Small towns like Snowflake must be chock-full of welcoming people ready to smile at newcomers.

Right?

CHAPTER 2

Callum

There are three reasons my cabin on Lake Circle is my own personal hamlet. First, and most importantly, it's private. A thick copse of ponderosa pine trees separates all six cabins in the lakeside community. No nosy neighbors peering into my life. Mostly, anyway. Marco, the eight-year-old kid next door, fancies himself a spy. He likes to wander through the trees between our homes and leave me messages nailed to a tree trunk. I don't know what these messages say because, according to Marco, the ink he uses is invisible.

Second, little else rivals the natural beauty I'm afforded every day. A sizable lake gently lapping at the rocky shore, the towering trees where Great Blue Herons nest, and a sky kissed by the tops of said trees.

The third reason, which I am enjoying at this very moment, is my hot tub. After a day spent bent over my computer keyboard, the hot water is what my aching back and neck muscles yearn for. I'm convinced I'd be a hunchback by now if not for this modern marvel.

I lean back on the lounge seat in the corner, hot water inching up my chest as I sink lower and stretch out my legs. Tipping my bottle of beer to my mouth, I take a deep pull of the cold liquid. After spending the day parsing through submissions for my website, Goode Tidings, I need a drink or two. For a website that only publishes uplifting content, I receive a depressing amount of deplorable stories. And it seems the frequency with which I receive these deplorable stories has steadily increased over time. It's not a positive trend.

I'd started the website because I needed to be reminded of all the good in the world that goes unreported, and I assumed others had that same need. Lucky for the visitors of my website, I am the sieve that filters submissions ranging from heartwarming stories of strangers caring for one another to confessions of extramarital affairs and beyond. I've honestly toyed with the idea of creating a second website where people can anonymously send in their confessions. It seems some people need to tell on themselves, and it would keep them from clogging up my inbox with their tales of misdeeds. Seriously, why do people disclose poor behavior to a website meant to highlight uplifting stories?

Setting aside that perpetually unanswered question, I take another healthy swig from my beer, then let my head tip back against the hot tub's edge. A plane glides far above me, a mere dot in the deepening blue sky. So many people traveling up there, but down here, on this peaceful plot of land, it's only me. All alone.

Just the way I like it.

I wasn't always this guy. Sad Man Hermit, or Hermie, for short, a moniker given to me by the collective townspeople of Snowflake. They think I don't know what they call me behind my back, but it's impossible not to be clued in. The town's most animated purveyor of gossip, Marie Claire, wouldn't know a whisper if it bopped her on the end of her nose. I'm not sure how a person gets to the ripe old age of seventy-two and hasn't learned to keep her personal volume lowered.

The bubbles around me cease as the timer they're on winds down. Reaching out with my foot, I toe the button. The hot tub gurgles, then restarts, bubbling all around me. Like Pavlov's bell, it's the sweet sound that signals to my brain I won't be working on Goode Tidings until tomorrow morning.

I sigh and scratch at an itch in the skin beneath my multi-day facial growth, trying not to remember the worst submission of the day. Honestly, if another person⁠—

My head snaps up. What was that sound?

Gravel displaced by tires. A car door. A second car door. Voices—faint but growing clearer with every passing second.

What the hell?

Pushing up from this awkward supine position takes effort, and I smack my elbow hard in my haste. My nearly empty beer bottle hits the water. Great. I'll have to fish it out from the bottom later.

Through the quiet trees comes the sound of crunching underfoot. Sure steps on dried pine needles. Whoever that is, they are coming this way. And I am naked.

My towel, draped over a chair about fifteen feet away, is my goal now. Slinging a leg over the lip of the hot tub, I barely have a moment to properly lament the painful crushing of my private area. The mangling of one's nuts deserves a keening wail, but there isn't time.

Cupping my throbbing anatomy, I slide down the side of the hot tub and wobble on the landing. The small step ladder is on the other side of the tub, in the opposite direction of my towel. Wincing, I hurry for the chair. Why is it so far from the tub? Oh, right, because nobody comes here. Ever. Because nobody is invited. Ever. Keeping a towel close at hand is out of an abundance of caution, and really only for the benefit of undercover agent Marco.

A woman's voice rings out. Clear, bell-like. High-pitched with excitement. "The lake is this way. Come check it⁠—"

A pause.

Then a howl, a loud string of ahhhh!

Because at this precise moment she's getting an eyeful of my bare ass. It was that, or full frontal. An easy decision. To really top off this moment, I have no choice but to sidestep the remaining few feet to my towel. Whilst cupping my junk.

Finally, I snatch the towel and secure it around my waist. I whirl on the trespasser, mouth open to tell her to move the hell along.

And I plan to. I really do. My entire being overflows with indignation because of this invasion of my peace and privacy.

But I'm stunned.