Chapter 6
Itold myself Saturdays were about lesson plans. I was an excellent liar.
"The seed is scared," Sarah announced, frowning at the picture book spread across my coffee table. "But why? Doesn't it know it's going to become a flower?"
The question landed somewhere deeper than a children's story should reach. I paused, feeling the unexpected weight of it settle in my chest.
"Change is scary," I said carefully, "even when it's good. Even when we know something beautiful might be waiting on the other side."
Sarah considered this with her characteristic seriousness, her brown eyes thoughtful. "Like when Uncle C made me try broccoli for the first time?"
"Exactly like that."
"I still don't like broccoli though."
"Growth is a process, sweetheart. A long, vegetable-filled process."
Chloe giggled from her spot on the rug, her red braids bouncing. Leo, our quietest member, was tracing the illustration of the seed with one careful finger, absorbed in the tiny details.
"Leo, can you find where the seed is hiding in the picture?" I asked gently.
He pointed to the dark soil in the illustration. "There. It's underground where nobody can see it."
"Perfect. And what do you think it's feeling down there, all alone in the dark?"
"Scared," Leo whispered, barely audible. Then, after a pause: "But maybe also... excited?"
"That's such an interesting answer." I smiled at him warmly, and he ducked his head, pleased by the praise. "Sometimes we feel both things at exactly the same time. Scared and excited together. That's completely okay and completely normal."
Tutoring had become our Saturday ritual; at ten o'clock sharp, four eager faces gathered in my living room like clockwork. Chloe, with her bright red backpack and boundless restless energy, was always the first to arrive. Leo, shy and carefully observant, was finally starting to raise his hand without being prompted. Tommy, whose vibrant energy matched Chloe’s, was probably why they were always on each other’s toes.
And Sarah, who'd transformed from a quiet, watchful girl into someone who offered predictions and insights that regularly surprised me with their depth.
I told myself it was just good teaching. Small-group attention, targeted instruction, and the deep satisfaction of watching lightbulbs of ideas flicker on behind young eyes.
Cole staying to "wait on the porch" was merely neighborly.
A practical man seeing practical problems and solving them.
The first week, he'd fixed the squeaky boards and the wobbly railing.
The second, he'd rehung my storm door so it finally swung true and silent.
Last week, he'd cleared the clogged gutters on the north side of the cabin.
At this rate, my cabin would be better maintained than the day I'd bought it.
I should probably start breaking things on purpose just to keep him coming back.
"Ms. Reed?" Chloe's impatient voice pulled me back to the present moment. "Is it snack time yet? My stomach is making weird noises."
I glanced at the clock on the wall. "Five more minutes. Let's finish this page first, and then we'll take a break. Sarah, will you read the next paragraph for us?"
Sarah straightened proudly in her seat and began reading aloud. "The little seed... pushed through the dark soil. It was hard work. But the seed... remembered what the sun felt like. And that memory gave it strength."
"Beautiful reading," I said, genuinely meaning it. "You didn't rush a single word. I'm so proud of your progress."
"Uncle C says rushing makes you miss all the good stuff."
"Your uncle is a very wise man."
Through the window behind the children, I could see Cole on the far side of the porch, kneeling with his back to us. He'd found something else to repair. Of course, he had. The man was physically incapable of sitting still for more than five minutes.
"Okay," I announced, closing the book gently. "Snack time. Five minutes outside to run around, and then we'll come back and finish our story. Deal?"
"Deal!" the children chorused.
They exploded toward the front door with the enthusiasm unique to children who'd been promised both freedom and sugar. I gathered their juice boxes and apple slices onto a tray, then, on a new impulse that compelled me, I poured a tall glass of lemonade from the pitcher in my fridge.
For the man who was single-handedly renovating my entire porch. Purely practical. Common courtesy. Basic hospitality.
I stepped outside into the crisp autumn air and took a deep breath. The mountains looked painted today, all burnished golds and deep russets against a piercing blue sky. The kind of day that made you believe the world might actually be beautiful.
Cole was removing a rotted section of railing, measuring a fresh piece of pale pine with focused precision.
His flannel sleeves were rolled up past his elbows, revealing the corded muscles of his forearms as he worked, dusted with sawdust and fine dark hair.
A faint sheen of sweat caught the sunlight.
I absolutely did not notice any of this. I was a professional educator.
"You're going to run out of things to fix," I said, approaching with the lemonade glass extended.
He startled slightly at my voice, then looked up. A smudge of sawdust marked his cheekbone like war paint. He accepted the glass, his rough, calloused fingers brushing mine in the transfer.
"Your rain gutter on the east side is pulling away from the fascia," he said matter-of-factly, taking a long drink. "I noticed it when I was up on the ladder last week."
"You just noticed that? From inspecting my gutters?"
"I notice a lot of things."
His blue eyes met mine, completely unguarded for once, and suddenly we weren't talking about gutters or fascia boards anymore. My breath caught somewhere high in my throat.
"That's..." I searched for adequate words and found none. "Observant of you."
"Comes with the territory." He set the glass down on the porch boards carefully. "Wilderness survival training. You learn to read your environment constantly. Notice changes. Spot problems before they become emergencies."
"And I'm part of the environment now?"
The question slipped out before I could stop it, bolder than I'd intended. His steady gaze held mine for a beat too long.
"Something like that," he said quietly.
Heat crept up my neck and across my cheeks.
I settled onto the porch step, suddenly needing to sit down before my knees did something embarrassing like buckle.
He finished securing the new railing section with practiced efficiency, tested it twice with firm pressure, then gathered his tools and came to join me, leaving a careful foot of respectful space between us.
The children were chasing something at the clearing's edge, their delighted laughter floating back to us like distant music.
"Tell me about the bees," I said, wanting to hear him talk about something he loved, to see that light I'd glimpsed before. "What happens to them this time of year?"
The transformation was immediate and remarkable. His broad shoulders relaxed visibly. Something soft and warm entered his usually guarded eyes.
"They're hunkering down for winter," he said, his deep voice warming with genuine enthusiasm. "Fall nectar flow is completely over, goldenrods and wild asters are withering. Now it's purely about survival for the colony."
"What do they do to survive?"
"Cluster tight together for warmth. Protect the queen at the center.
Live off the honey they worked all summer to store.
" He glanced at me, checking if I was actually interested.
"It's a quiet time for beekeeping. You don't open the hives much because you'd release their heat. You just observe from outside. Listen."
"Listen to bees?"
"On a still morning, you can hear the hum from ten feet away. Thousands of them, vibrating their wing muscles together. Keeping each other alive through sheer collective effort." He almost smiled, a rare softening of his features. "It's the most peaceful sound in the entire world."
I could picture it perfectly—him standing alone in a frost-tipped meadow at dawn, breath misting in the cold air, listening to that ancient, vital hum.
"It sounds beautiful," I said softly.
"It's the only thing that's ever made complete sense to me." He paused, staring out at the trees. "Well. That and Sarah."
"She's doing so well, Cole. Her reading level has jumped a full grade since we started."
"That's because of you."
"It's because of both of us working together. She feels supported. Safe. Confident enough to take risks." I turned to face him more fully. "You're doing great. Take your flowers."
The light in his eyes dimmed immediately, replaced by that familiar shadow of self-doubt I'd seen before.
He shook his head slowly. "I don't know what I'm doing, Emma.
Honestly. The wilderness, the bees, I understand those completely.
A six-year-old girl who needs emotional support after losing her mother before she ever knew her?
" He exhaled slowly, heavily. "I'm improvising.
Every single day. Just hoping I don't mess her up in ways I can't even see yet. "
"Ms. Reed!" Chloe's excited voice cut through the moment. "Leo found a caterpillar! A really fuzzy one!"
"That's wonderful, Chloe! Don't let it crawl up your arm!"
"Too late! It tickles!"
I sighed with fond exasperation. Cole's mouth twitched with suppressed amusement.
"Caterpillar emergency?" he asked.
"Constant vigilance required with this group." I turned back to him, refusing to let the important moment slip away entirely. "You're not just improvising, Cole. You keep showing up for Sarah when she needs you to."
"That's just—"
"That's loving her," I interrupted firmly before he could dismiss it. "The best way you know how. And honestly? It's a pretty wonderful way."
He was quiet for a long moment, his jaw working with suppressed emotion.