The evening air in Cavendish was different than in Ottawa. It didn't carry the hum of electricity or the distant roar of a highway; instead, it was a heavy, living silence, punctuated only by the rhythmic shick-shick-shick of Johnson's whetstone against a carbon-steel blade.
Johnson sat on the expansive wraparound porch of his new estate, a sprawling Victorian farmhouse that he was restoring to its former glory. A single lantern cast a warm, amber glow over his workspace. He was a man who found meditation in maintenance. To him, a dull knife was a sign of a dull mind.
His phone, resting on the cedar small table beside a glass of neat bourbon, vibrated with a sharp buzz. He didn't answer immediately. He finished the stroke, wiped the blade with a cloth, and only then picked up the device.
"I assume you're calling to ask if the air is actually breathable out here, Marcus," Johnson said, his voice a low rumble that blended into the crickets' chorus.
"I'm calling because Sarah won't stop texting me," Marcus's voice crackled through the line, sounding far too energetic for the hour. "She said Jessica disappeared. Apparently, she fled the city in a fit of 'anti-traditional' pique. Please tell me you haven't seen a silver SUV stalking the cow pastures."
Johnson paused, his gaze drifting toward the small, flickering light of the Miller cottage visible through a break in the heavy oak trees at the edge of his property.
"I didn't just see the car, Marcus," Johnson said, taking a slow sip of his bourbon. "I met the driver. At Gower's General Store, no less. She was trying to buy 'ready-to-eat' wraps in a town where the most advanced technology is a hand-cranked grain mill."
There was a stunned silence on the other end of the line, followed by a loud, disbelieving laugh. "You're joking. Jessica? In Cavendish? Johnson, that's like putting a tropical bird in the middle of a tundra. Did she survive the encounter with the floorboards?"
"She survived," Johnson said, a small, grim smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. "Though she looked remarkably out of place. She was wearing silk in a hardware store, Marcus. And she bought a jar of honey and a loaf of bread as if she were preparing for a famine. But I'll give her this... she's even more striking in person than she was in that photograph you showed me. The camera actually does her a disservice."
"Wait," Marcus said, his tone shifting. "The Great Johnson Lawson is admitting a city woman is beautiful? The world must be ending. Is the country air softening your brain?"
"Beauty is a biological fact, Marcus. It doesn't mean I approve of the packaging," Johnson countered, his tone regaining its icy edge. "She's my neighbor. She's staying in the Miller cottage, which is practically an extension of my north fence. I spent five minutes in her presence and confirmed everything we discussed. She is loud, defensive, and utterly convinced that her 'modernity' makes her superior to the very environment she's currently failing to navigate. I wonder what a woman like that is actually doing here. This isn't a resort; it's a place of work."
"Maybe she's there on a pilgrimage," Marcus joked. "Maybe she realized after our date that she needs to learn the basics of life. Perhaps she's in that cottage right now, hovering over a wood stove, trying to figure out how to boil an egg without an AI assistant."
"If she is, the cottage will be ash by morning," Johnson remarked. "She doesn't want to learn. She wants to 'manage.' She told me 'traditional' was just a word for 'outdated.' She's here to prove she doesn't need the foundation we value."
"Well," Marcus said, his voice turning uncharacteristically casual. "That leads me to my next question. That estate of yours... it has about six bedrooms, doesn't it? Do you have an excess of room to host a weary traveler? Because I'm thinking of driving down tomorrow."
Johnson stopped sharpening. He held the knife still, his brow furrowing. "Tomorrow? You hate the countryside, Marcus. You once told me that anything further than ten miles from a Starbucks was 'the abyss.'"
"I'm an adaptable man, Johnson. And besides, you said it yourself—she's gorgeous. Too gorgeous to ignore, really. Now that I know she's tucked away in a quiet little town with no distractions... well, maybe she just needs the right influence. People change, don't they? Maybe the Cavendish air will do for her what the city couldn't."
Johnson's grip tightened on the whetstone. An inexplicable flash of irritation—sharp and hot—surged through him for no reason.
"You said she wasn't your type," Johnson reminded him, his voice dropping an octave. "You said you felt pity for the man who'd marry her. Now you're willing to drive three hours because she's 'too gorgeous to ignore'? Your obsession with beauty is going to be your downfall, Marcus. It blinds you to the fact that a beautiful house with no foundation is still going to collapse in a storm."
"I'll take my chances with the storm," Marcus laughed. "So, do I have a room or not?"
"You have a room," Johnson snapped, standing up and blowing out the lantern. "But don't expect me to facilitate your 'mission.' I have a property to manage and a garden to plant. I don't have time for city games."
"I'm not asking for help, Johnson. I'm just asking for a place to crash. See you tomorrow."
"Whatever," Johnson muttered. "Just don't bring any 'ready-to-eat' wraps with you."
He hung up the phone with a sharp click, the silence of the porch returning with a vengeance. He looked out toward the Miller cottage again. A small, erratic light was moving behind the kitchen window—Jessica, likely struggling with a lantern or a pilot light.
"Disaster," he whispered to the dark.
He went inside, his footsteps heavy on the hardwood, feeling a strange, nagging restlessness that he couldn't think of what had caused it.