Page 37 of Goode Tidings

Paisley: Oh, babe. I'm sorry that happened.

Cecily: I'm going to break his kneecaps.

Paloma: No, no. Boiling water in his ear. I'm telling you. Untraceable.

Eden: We're not killing him, Paloma. But I wouldn't object if you pour it on his lap.

Paloma: Plotting…

CHAPTER 19

Callum

I continue to live in the Shed House Hut Office Thing. Justin doesn't call, surprisingly. I can't imagine the Justin of my memory missing an opportunity to order me around. Especially in this instance, since the law would be on his side.

Oliver finishes out his first week of high school, a fact I know because the school bus makes an unbelievable amount of noise when it picks up and drops off. Marco, Eugenio, and Oliver are the only children out here who need the bus.

Tuesday, the day after Eden's minor meltdown and cupcake punch, she sent me a text midafternoon.

There's something for you on your front porch.

Is it a skunk?

Open your door and find out.

I did as she said, and found a flat white in a paper to-go cup. I took a sip, and tasted two sugars. She was paying attention while I was making my coffee the way I like it? The gesture is unexpectedly sweet, but not out of character for what I know of Eden. I think she likes taking care of people. I text her my thanks, and she responds you're welcome.

It's Friday now, and I'm sipping another coffee drink. The fourth in as many days, delivered to my front door at two every afternoon. Every day since that first text message, I've turned from my desk at 1:59. I watch Eden leave the back door of the cabin, cup in hand, and make her way over the gentle slope toward the office. She's always in blue jeans in various washes, and they always look soft and worn. I can't figure out why I'm so focused on that detail about her.

Today, about an hour after the school bus jackhammered its way into my flow state, I notice Eden standing next to a tree in the backyard. She's holding something that appears to be a large notebook and leans in to look at the trunk of a tree. Her hair hangs from a ponytail at her crown, and she wears an oversized sweatshirt and those damn blue jeans.

Eden straightens up and writes something down. What is she doing? Is this how she gets ideas for her wax seals?

She leans closer again, until the tip of her nose nearly touches the trunk. The notebook is angled in front of her body. Without looking, Eden's hand smoothes over the paper in short arcs, like she's drawing. It's a sketchpad.

I like to work with my hands. I've replayed her saying that, the way the simple words somehow encapsulated and held back meaning at the same time. I'm ashamed to admit I've applied a personal meaning to her words, working with my own hand in the shower at night, picturing the way her pink lips formed those words. Hello, my name is Callum, and I'm fantasizing about my former stepbrother's ex-wife.

It's not just that provocative sentence that has me spiraling. It's the way Eden smiles without reservation, how she sees my standoffish behavior but doesn't accept it. She could let me rot down here by the lake, but she chooses not to. And those jeans. Always with the jeans. Who am I? I've never, not once in my life, looked at a pair of well-worn and loose fitting jeans and felt my blood run hotter.

The thought sends me upright, my chair lurching sideways. I have to know what Eden's staring at.

She's so engrossed in her activity that she doesn't hear me walk up behind her. I stop a few feet away, in an effort to respect her personal space. "Legolas! What do your elf eyes see?"

She startles anyhow. Her pencil, which I can see now is a brown colored pencil, scratches over the page.

She straightens and turns around, dragging in a deep breath. "You scared me."

"Sorry about that." I incline my chin at her paper. "What are you drawing?"

She looks back at the bark, pressing her lips together in a tight line, a pleat forming between her eyebrows. "I'm trying to get the bark just right."

"For your wax seals?"

She looks back at me, pausing as if my question confuses her. "What? No."

"For...fun?" I press. I can't imagine drawing as a means of fun, but to each their own.

"Um, no. For an income."