Chapter One: Goddess, Bodice (Part One)

Mark Collins arrived at his perfect spot in the Starved Rock State Park, only to find that it was already occupied.
He’d risen early that morning.  At first, he’d been vaguely intending to use his day off to deal with the bills in the bill box, and to replace those smoke detectors—the one that had gone peculiar in the night, and the others in the house, which he thought were probably of the same surprising age.  But then, looking out his bedroom window, Mark hadn’t been able to face the thought of being inside all day.  He’d decided that he needed his day off to be—well, a real day off.
After a quick breakfast, he’d put his iPad, a couple of Granola bars, and some sunscreen in his pack.  He’d filled a water bottle for the side pocket and headed out the door.  He’d felt the cool morning air on his face, and listened to the cicadas in the old tulip tree by the driveway, noisily predicting that it would be hot soon.  And he’d made a new plan for the day.  He would drive over to the Starved Rock State Park, hike in for a bit, and then sit someplace quiet.  And he knew just the perfect spot.  It was a place where he’d written a song last spring—a song that had turned out rather well, he thought.
He’d avoided the interstate and used the county highways instead.  He’d found himself stuck behind some farm equipment for a while—a big detasseling carrier, rolling along magisterially in front of him.  But he’d settled into its pace and resolved not to be in a hurry.  That’s what you get for driving on county highways in Illinois in July, he’d said to himself.  At this speed, anyway, he could roll the windows down.  The summer air had been warm and, for once, not too humid.  It had smelled of dirt and hot asphalt.
The park wasn’t crowded—not like it would be on the weekends—and he’d headed cheerfully into the woods on foot.  It was much drier than it had been the last time he was there.  After a couple of weeks without rain, most of the little rills and streams were nearly empty.  His spirits had risen and his head had cleared as he walked.  Too much work, he’d told himself, is not good for any man.  He’d resolved to come more often.
But now, his plan was dashed.  Right there, right in his perfect spot, right under his favorite tree, a stranger was sitting.  Mark froze when he realized that he wasn’t alone.
The stranger was a woman, sitting cross-legged, facing away from him, with thick, long, straight brown hair falling halfway down her back.  She was leaning forward, working on something on the ground in front of her, and Mark could hear the scratching of a pencil on paper.  Writing, then; and in any case, one should consider her privacy, thought Mark, and also her probable alarm at finding herself alone in the woods with a strange man.  As quietly as he could, he began to back away.
Without turning around, the woman spoke.  “What rhymes with ‘goddess?’”
“Um,” he began—this was a surprise, but rhymes he could handle.  “How about ‘bodice?’”
The woman turned, and Mark saw that she was thirtyish, perhaps somewhere around his own age.   She had a nice smile, though her blue eyes gave him the oddest sensation of meeting the wary gaze of a wild animal.  Like surprising a fox, he thought; but he walked slowly up to her and went on.  “Course, that’s not a word most of us can use without sounding twee.  How about a slant rhyme?  ‘Modest?’  Or ‘Oddest?’”
“‘Fraid not,” she laughed.
“You’d do better with god than goddess.  Lots more possibilities.”
“Well, sure,” she said, “if you like odd … or flawed … or scrod.  Anyway, it has to be goddess.”  She turned away again, staring at the notebook on the ground in front of her.
“Well, good luck with it,” said Mark.  “Sorry I disturbed you.  I didn’t realize you were here—was just about to leave you to it.”
“I’m not disturbed by you.”  But she closed her notebook and sighed.  “Tell you what, though: is that water in your bottle?