“Have you ever been on the other end of charity?” His voice has lost the teasing tone from when we were talking about muffins. Softer around the edges, it hints at a vulnerability I haven’t seen in him before.
Hesitating about how much I want to share, I pause before answering him.
“That’s what I thought. Easy to be magnanimous if you’re the one doing acts of goodwill, patting yourself on the back for being so generous.”
“I know what it’s like to have nothing.”
He grimaces. “Sorry. I wasn’t thinking. Being on your own at eighteen had to have been difficult. I bounced around from grunt job to grunt job until I got my shit together and earned a decent paycheck.”
“Park rangers don’t make a lot of money, especially seasonal employees who might work six months at a time with long periods of downtime. Pile on student loan debt and car payments, and there isn’t much left over at the end of every month.”
“No, I imagine there isn’t.”
“Farming can’t pay as much as a chef.”
“Barely covers my expenses.” He nods. “What’s that Bible saying about something’s price being above rubies?”
I suck in a breath and hold it. Why is he asking me about this verse?
“Do you know it?”
Closing my eyes, I recite from memory. “‘Who can find a virtuous woman? Her price is far above rubies.’ From Proverbs.”
He drums his fingers on the steering wheel. “Maybe I’m thinking of something else.”
“There’s another version, also in Proverbs, which I’ve always preferred. ‘For wisdom is better than rubies; and all the things that may be desired are not to be compared to it.’”
“Yes!” His hand slaps the center of the wheel. “Wisdom. I think one of my grannies told me that one. The other quote sounds like some predator selling virgins.”
I choke out a guffaw. “I don’t think that’s exactly how the writers intended their words to be interpreted.”
“How do you know the Bible so well?”
“Oh, you know.” I keep my tone as casual as I can. “Sunday school.”
He gives me side-eye. “I saw your bookshelves while you were napping.”
“Oh, those. Some are from a world religions class in college. Others are more recent.”
“You’ve moved them around the country?”
“I have. I find myself reading them over and over again. They all fit in one box. Wisdom over things.”
He presses his lips together as he bobs his head. “Why not download the ebook version?”
“I like to write notes in the margins, and seeing the collection all together brings me comfort. I can remember where I was when I bought each one.”
“Kind of like my postcards. I kept a journal of sorts by writing them to myself.”
“I love that idea.” I wonder what past Odin wrote to himself while he traveled. “I’ve never kept a diary or journaled.”
“Rereading them can be cringe-inducing, but they’re a good reminder of who I was then compared to now.”
Introspective Odin wasn’t on my bingo card.
Chapter Twenty-Five
Odin
I’ve said more to Daphne about myself than I have to anyone else. Ever.
There’s something about her that allows me to open up, though not because she’s an open book herself. On the drive home last night, I realized we spent most of the evening talking about me and she shared very little about her own history. I suspect she has more secrets than I do. Like seeks like. If only I could get her to trust me enough to be real. I’m hoping showing her the orchard today will be a good first step.
I want to know her, the real Daphne, and I want to be known by her.
We pass through the entrance to Cades Cove and I turn left onto the main road.
“Remind me where we’re going? Cooper Road is back thataway.”
“We’re sneaking in through the back door.”
With narrowed eyes, she worries her bottom lip with her teeth before pulling out her phone and opening an app. She hold it up, so I can see the screen and swirls her finger in the general area of the trail. “According to this map, there is no other entrance by car. No roads.”
“No paved roads,” I correct her.
Glancing in my rear-view window for the twentieth time to make sure we aren’t be followed, I slow at the familiar curve. Up ahead, I spot the pale-green, plastic tie I left around a poplar tree to mark the road. I’ve thought about putting up No Trespassing signs but changed my mind when I realized they’d only draw attention.
I haven’t driven on the logging path in a long time. It occurs to me that with all the rain we’ve been having, we might have an issue with mud, but the truck should do okay even if there’s standing water. I hope.
Daphne lifts my favorite knife from the tray on the console. “What’s this for?”
“Mostly mushroom foraging, but a good blade can serve many purposes. With a knife, string, and duct tape, you can get yourself out of a lot of binds.”
“Or kidnap and murder someone.” She leans forward so she can see my eyes.
I can’t really take them off the road as I navigate the ruts and dips of the old path, avoiding thicker tree branches and underbrush, but I cast a quick glance at her. “You’re kind of fixated on the kidnapping.”
“Am I? That sounds like a weird thing to say to someone.” Her brows pull together.
“You mentioned it after I found you in the woods, advised me to use candy or ice cream to lure you inside.”
“Is that why you brought me a muffin?” She cringes.
“Could be.” I find myself smiling at the memory of that afternoon.
Her voice softens. “Ahh. The things you remember and I don’t. A part of me wishes there was a video I could watch to help me recall all the details … a very, small, tiny part that’s immune to embarrassment.”
“No reason to be ashamed. For the most part you were funny and charming.”
“It’s the hedging in your statement that worries me.”
“You were fine.”
We successfully arrive at the edge of the glen without getting stuck in the muck. I feel like we survived the Oregon Trail game.
Daphne taps her phone’s screen and waits for the map to update. When it doesn’t, she sighs in disappointment. “No service.”
“I know where we’re at. Come on.” I step out of the cab before she’s unbuckled her seatbelt.
Taller grass indicates the end of the road where a chain or barricade would normally be. There aren’t any other obvious tire tracks in either direction, so I’m fairly certain no one else has been here since my last visit.
“Where’s the trail?” She hesitates near the hood.
“We have to forge our own for a few yards.” I take the lead and she follows.
Single file, we march through grass and underbrush until we head down a slope and into the orchard.
Small red and green swirled apples decorate the sinewy trees, their branches covered in lichen and tangled together from neglect.