“What’s your name, bokkie?” she asks, turning to me with kind, curious eyes.
“Jude,” I offer. “It’s nice to meet you. I’m staying here on the retreat.”
“Hm.” She looks me up and down. “And you’re friends with Woody?”
“Um.” I tilt my head, not wanting to lie to her, but Nandi’s already shuffling toward the bungalow door.
She stops when she gets there and turns to me.
“Word of advice from an old woman? The color of a man’s eyes doesn’t matter. It’s the color of his soul. And that boy’s? His is golden.”
Her face creases with a warm smile, then she’s gone.
I glance around the workshop again, my eyes landing on the pile of money she just left. Guilt claws at me.
He may not want to tell me anything about himself. But he can’t stop me from talking. And maybe his reaction is all I’ll need to sort the truth from the lies.
It’s after dinner by the time I see him again, walking up one of the paths that leads from where his workshop is. Maybe he’s been there all day, working on his long list of orders. But whatever he’s been up to, I swear he’s avoiding me.
“Back in a minute,” I whisper to Mel.
She looks up from the firepit where we’re sitting chatting with Declan, the two British girls, and the married couple. The husband has taken his time, but he’s finally starting to ease into the routine here, and his wife hasn’t stopped smiling since seeing him slowly relax.
“Okay.” She gives me a knowing smile as she spots Woody in the distance. “Have fun.”
He sees me approaching but doesn’t slow down. I have to jog to catch up with him as he strides along the path that leads to the beach.
“Nandi was looking for you earlier,” I say, falling into step alongside him.
“I know.”
“She’s nice,” I add.
“You going to try and make small talk with me, New York City? Or are you going to tell me the real reason you came chasing after me?”
“Ugh, please.” I scoff. “I’m not chasing you anywhere.”
His eyes slide to mine as we step out onto the beach. I could return to the group to prove a point. But then I wouldn’t get any answers.
He walks over to where the snorkeling equipment is hanging and grabs a dry T-shirt that’s hanging up on a makeshift laundry line.
“Who are you?” I say to his back.
The muscles in his shoulders ripple beneath the fabric of the light blue T-shirt he has on, which is covered in patches of fine sawdust.
“I’m no one.”
“So you’re a ghost?”
He pauses for a second before tossing the clean T-shirt down onto a sun lounger beside him.
“Maybe if you’re lucky, you’ll see me disappear through a wall next,” he mutters, annoyed.
“You’re a jackass,” I huff, folding my arms.
“Yeah?” He glances at me over his shoulder.
“Yeah.” I widen my eyes at him, driving home my words.
