Page 66 of Goode Tidings

We arrive at the park where the majority of the festival is held. It's a two-day extravaganza where visitors can drive on a slow and winding path through miles of forest that surrounds the town. When they're done driving and parking roadside to get photos, they can come into the town and enjoy the festival. And, if Marie Claire has her way, leave with a dachshund puppy.

I park behind a row of stores on a side street.

"Brr," Eden says the second she's outside the vehicle. She threads her arms through her rust-colored sweater, guiding her head through the neck hole. Her hair is caught inside, and she tips her head slightly, using some kind of girl magic to capture her hair with her fingers and make it into a ponytail before gently lifting it free. Then she lets it go and shakes her head out, hair shifting around her face. The breeze picks up her black cherry and cinnamon smell and hits me with it like a freight train. Enveloping and walloping me at the same time.

I'm aware Eden does not intend to mesmerize anybody with her hair and her mannerisms and her scent. But the result is the same even if her every move was intentional.

I am so damn attracted to her. And that's terrifying.

We leave my car behind and make it out onto Main Street. The place is decked out for the event. Every storefront proudly displays their wares. Mums in red, yellow, and orange burst from hanging baskets. Hay bales flank the entrance to the diner, an assortment of gourds decorating the space around them. "My little desiccated desert heart is combusting right now," Eden says, hands pressed together in front of her mouth as she vibrates with excitement. "See this guy?" She taps a particularly ugly gourd with the toe of her shoe. "He's oddly-shaped and covered in warts and I love him."

"That's what she said about her last boyfriend," Oliver jokes.

I laugh, and Eden punches him lightly in the arm.

Marie Claire spots us from the park and waves us over with an impatience she shouldn't have. This isn't a paid position, and we're ten minutes early. Still, we make our way over to her.

"See you later," Oliver says, peeling apart from us. His survivalist class has a booth at the far edge of the lawn where they will teach people how to tie different types of knots and identify edible wild plants. Oliver and Eugenio volunteered for the first shift.

"Hang on," Eden says, stopping him with a hand on his shoulder. "Where will you be after your shift is finished? Who will you be with? Do you need money?"

He shrugs. "I don't know, Mom. I'll just be around, ok? I still have some of the money left over from last weekend." Esme had driven her sons and Oliver to a bigger town nearby where they have an arcade.

"Make good choices," Eden says.

"Sign my camping field trip form," he shoots back.

Eden stays quiet. Oliver walks away.

"Let that boy go have some fun," Marie Claire scolds. "The school has been taking students camping every year for I don't know how long." She steps out of the pen she's using to keep the puppies contained. They prance around, maybe even cuter than they were last weekend.

"It's not like I keep him locked up in his room," Eden defends.

"The look on your face says you're not certain he should be out from under your direct supervision."

"I'm not," Eden grumbles. "Do you have kids?"

Marie Claire nods. "I'm so old my children have grown children. That's how I know your generation has the damnedest time letting go of your kids. Me? I swatted them out of the front door with the broom. I told them not to come back until the streetlights turned on."

"But what if⁠—"

"They got hurt? In trouble? Honey, I'm sure they did. But they learned how to figure it out on their own. Those are lessons that can't be taught from the sidelines. You gotta let him get out there. Navigate life."

"He's only fourteen."

"Tomorrow he'll be twenty. I tell ya, it goes by in a blink."

"I know it does," Eden says, her voice dipping with emotion. Marie Claire offers her a knowing smile, and Eden returns it.

"Well," Marie Claire says briskly, clapping once. "Maybe that mothering instinct of yours will help me get these puppies adopted. I cannot spend another night listening to them yap. One of them gets started, and then the whole crew joins in. I've got a puppy boy band in my living room."

Marie Claire explains how everything goes, and what she's looking for in a potential adopter. "They have to go to good homes. Say no to anybody who looks like they hurt puppies." She glances at me.

"No way." I shake my head. "Don't look at me like that. I'd swerve and wreck my car if a puppy ran out in front of me. I promise. I'm not your guy."

"Hmph," she says. Then she leaves to go torture someone else.

Eden settles on one of the two stools behind the plastic folding table. A hand printed sign hangs across the front of the table that says Puppy Adoption. There's a blob at the end that leads me to believe Marie Claire (or whoever made the sign) attempted to paint a puppy and wasn't successful.