Love In Magnolia

CHAPTER ONE

M agnolia Springs was officially the prettiest town in Alabama. I closed the digital travel magazine that’d been kind enough to honour our small town with that accolade. I could see why; it was a town nestled alongside the Magnolia River, with historic buildings, kind people, and charming oak tree-lined streets that I admired daily from the comfort of my porch. There were circa 800 residents in Magnolia, and I was lucky enough to be one of them.

I, Riley Wilson, am a twenty-nine-year-old lieutenant with the Baldwin County Sheriff’s Department, and I have lived in Magnolia my whole life—minus the time I spent in Montgomery right after I graduated from the police academy. The sixteen weeks of field training in Alabama’s capital taught me a lot. Montgomery’s violent crime rate was notably higher than the national median, so my training accelerated quickly.

Three years later I was promoted to Sergeant with the Valley Police Department, and I spent the four years after that building my reputation. I come from a long line of law enforcement officers. My dad was a retired Captain, and my grandfather was the sheriff of our wonderful town before him. You could say it runs in my veins.

The Valley Police Department saw me climb another rank to Lieutenant before heading back home to Magnolia Springs as a senior officer with the Baldwin County Sheriff’s Office. I’ve been back in town for two years, and it feels as though I never left.

The black rocking chair nearly gave way beneath me. I received two with the house, courtesy of the previous owners. They’d left a lot of stuff behind; some things I found useful, like the vast collection of tools in the shed and the thick wooden benches that overlooked the fenced private garden in the back. However, the outdoor tub that resembled a pig trough and the old mattress that reminded me of a worn canine unit bite suit I disposed of immediately; the mattress had seen better days.

The chairs were much more appealing to me once I repainted them and removed the abundance of weeds crawling onto the porch. After that, the view was bearable. It took a little longer to trim back the trees, but eventually my view became what it was now—an unobstructed, tree-lined pathway in a garden reminiscent of a jungle.

The chair bounced back like a piece of elastic when I stood. Glancing up, I saw Mr. Henderson. He waved.

“Lieutenant.” He nodded.

“Mr. Henderson, are you keeping well?” I asked. The six or seven strides to get to the top of the yard didn’t require much of my energy.

“Yes. It’s nice to see you finally cut down the Baby Jade Boxwood.” Mr. Henderson pointed to my left where the green foliage once was. The Baby Jade border hedge had become a fully grown adult over the years.

“Yes.” I smiled.

The yard hadn’t changed since the week before, when he walked by, and we’d had the same conversation. Mr. Henderson was getting forgetful in his old age, but he reminded me of all the things I loved about Magnolia. He was a friend of my grandfather’s and the great great grandson of one of the original soldiers who settled in Magnolia after the Civil War. His family were an integral part of Magnolia’s history.

“If you want me to come by next week, I can take a look at the Abelia along the side there.” He pointed his walking stick towards the shed. I assumed he was referring to the golden-yellow evergreen growing out into the pathway; he knew his foliage. In his prime, Mr. Henderson used to be the town’s professional landscaper.

“Sure, that would be great.”

He nodded his head and set one foot in front of the other, but before he reached the edge of my property he looked back, puzzled.

“Did I call you last night, about the kids next door?”

“No, Mr. Henderson. You called me last month. I went to check, remember?”

Mr. Henderson lived on the edge of town. His house and two acres of land desirably led out onto Fish River, but the plot to his left had been abandoned and unoccupied for eight years. The local kids from surrounding towns had taken it upon themselves to use the house as a playground.

A woman called Mrs. Baker used to occupy the property. Sadly, she passed away at the age of seventy-eight, but according to my late grandfather she’d been alone in the house since she moved to Magnolia twenty-three years prior. I’d been told she had estranged family, and the house went to somebody when she passed, but I didn’t know who. I did know they had no intention of making a life in Magnolia Springs.

“They were at it again yesterday. Every day this week I’ve heard them banging and crashing. ”

“Did you see their faces?” I asked.

“No, the damn trees are too overgrown.” He frowned.

“Okay, well you have my number, be sure to call me when they come back, and I’ll come over. Okay?”

“I will. Thank you, Lieutenant.”

“You’re welcome.”

When Mr. Henderson vanished from view, I made my way to the garage to gather some more wood. A week ago, I’d started constructing a built-in shelving unit for the dining area. Netflix was costing me more than the monthly fee. After watching three episodes of Dream Home Makeover, I had more ideas than I knew how to process. There was a reason people got paid to be interior designers. When I looked online for some inspiration, one article stipulated I needed to transform the features of the room to make it functional and stylish but also homely. I had no idea what that meant or how I would go about doing it.

The 1700-square-foot home by Magnolia River had three bedrooms and two bathrooms. It was charming, mostly brick on three sides with an almond white vinyl front. The rural style double hung white windows along the face were accentuated by the black shutters on either side. The landscaping around the property was what initially sold me on the home. The oak trees accompanied the magnolias in shading the porch area, creating a serene space where I spent most of my evenings. The fruit trees included lemons, pears, and blueberries. They created a shelter around the perimeter that made the large grassed area feel more intimate.

I bought the property for a comfortable fee at the lower end of my budget, which allowed room for the improvements. My mom had some pulling power in town, being the highly sought after realtor that she was, she often had the pick of the market. The property needed a full remodel; it was loveable but outdated. The previous owners were in their seventies. The furniture, the fittings, and the tile flooring all the way through had seen better days.

Initially, I had a vision of long weekends covered in paint, countless trips to the DIY store, beers on the porch with my family, and takeaway cartons piled high in the dust covered kitchen. I liked the idea of modernising the properly myself, with my dad’s help and maybe the occasional support from my uncle, but I’d underestimated the amount of work needed, and subsequently the six months I had to spend at my parents’ house whilst the house was one big chemical filled box. I hired a plumber to remodel the ensuite bathroom and a builder to redesign the kitchen. A wall required removal, a new beam needed erecting, and the sliding doors leading out to the yard needed shimmying to the right by a foot. I was handy with a power tool on occasion, but I absolutely could not be trusted to remove walls and windows; that was a job for the professionals.

I dodged the plant pots outside, the weight of the wood on my shoulder dug into my trapezius muscle. It was still painful from overexerting myself on a competitive kayaking trip with my colleagues a whole weekend ago.

My aim was to maximise storage. There was a small, potentially OCD, part of my brain that felt relief when everything was stowed away neatly. The white wall currently had wood panelling surrounding the TV unit. I didn’t dislike it, but it hadn’t aged well. What once would’ve been a notch or two in the smooth panelling was now reminiscent of a sledgehammer taken to drywall. Okay, maybe not a sledgehammer, but the wall had more character than it needed.

I’d pushed the dining table against the far wall and covered it using several of the two thousand dust sheets from the garage. The kitchen was no longer just cabinets filled with utensils, and tins of produce with expired sell-by dates. It was my favourite part of the house. The two-tone cabinetry was a light cream on the adjacent built-in wall and a moody charcoal in the rest of the space. I’d spent months deciding on the colour, and then weeks deciding on whether brass handles or silver would look best. The quartz countertop had been the easiest decision; my mom insisted on it, and I quickly saw the reason why. It tied the whole thing together.

There was still some work to do, but the heavy house-destroying elements were done. How hard could it be to build some shelving? There were countless tutorials on YouTube. All I needed was a tape measure, a pencil, a power drill, a circular saw, sandpaper, glue, wood, screws, wood filler, and a carpenter’s combination square.

Two hours into the build I had the wooden base in place. The overactive tube of glue stuck my fingers together, and every time I reached up to brush a strand of hair from my face I forgot. My hair resembled a tub of high strength hair wax. My left index finger fell victim to a large splinter, which took me ten minutes to remove, and my right forearm collided with the edge of the dining table—instant bruise. When my phone began vibrating its way across the quartz surface I felt instant relief.

Oh, thank God.

I jumped up, making a beeline for whatever might save me from my DIY nightmare.

“Hi, Mom. ”

“Hi, sweetheart. What are you doing?”

“I’m attempting to build some storage units in the dining room.” I wiped my forehead with the back of my hand.

“Can’t your dad help you with that?” she asked.

“Maybe, but I thought I’d give him the weekend off.” My dad had essentially project managed the majority of the remodel.

“Okay, well, you must need a break. Me and your sister are going to Cooper’s if you want to join us for lunch.”

“Sure, just give me twenty minutes to freshen up.”

There was absolutely no way I would be ready in twenty minutes. I had so much dust in my hair that the dark brown colour looked grey and cloudy, and my arms were covered in enough glue that I could’ve rolled myself in glitter and called myself a fifth-grade art project.

A short stroll down the road from where I lived was probably the best kept secret in the south—Cooper’s Diner. The small restaurant was considered a staple in the community; it was the perfect casual restaurant for locals, particularly if you were a fan of fresh local seafood and dry aged steaks. I enjoyed it particularly for the former. There was nothing quite like fresh fish tacos on a Friday afternoon at Cooper’s.

The diner was made to look like an old log cabin surrounded by twining vines and forest. A faded white picket fence surrounded the property. Every other fence panel showcased a piece of art, but some were so weather-worn I could barely make out the original picture.

The tradition started about fifteen years before. Foley High School held a local art fair every year, and one student from each year got to showcase their art. The winning piece got displayed outside the diner. I’m not entirely sure how it came about, but there was a piece of wood with the faded remains of a plant pot and several disproportionately sized azaleas that gave me eighth grade flashbacks.

Yes, somehow, my painting had won. There was a fond memory, or something that tied me to Magnolia in every corner of the town, reminding me there was no place quite like home.

According to my dad, the wooden sign hanging above the doorway was made from a piece of boat wreckage, hence its dishevelled look. It read— Cooper’s Diner —in a sloped semi-cursive style followed by the advice, Grab a fork! The outside of Cooper’s looked a little ramshackle, but that was all part of the charm. Inside, it was a fine-dining experience, especially in the evening with the appearance of smart tablecloths and candles. The staple residents of Magnolia dressed up in their perfectly creased dress pants and freshly polished leather shoes to sample Cooper’s famous entrées.

Lunch was a contrasting experience. My paint splattered jeans would’ve been excused, at least by the staff, not so much by my mother.

“Riley, couldn’t you have changed?”

I called it.

She opened her arms too wide; begrudgingly she hugged me, but only with the top half of her body. She made sure her beige dress didn’t make contact with the bottom half of my body .

“Mom, you called me a half hour ago.” I rolled my eyes. “Plus, I’m in the middle of building the cabinet.”

My sister smirked. She had on a tight pair of leggings and a baggy T-shirt, but her large bump could be seen pressing tightly against her top. She was seven months pregnant with her second child, which meant I was soon to become an auntie again. Katherine was my older sister, exactly six years older. We were born on the same day. The odds of that happening were 1 in 365, which didn’t seem that unrealistic when I thought about it.

“Hi, Ley,” Katherine said.

Ahh, the unnecessary shortening of my already short name. As a child, Katherine had trouble saying Riley; she had a speech impediment throughout preschool, which led to her calling me “Ley-ley” until I was twelve.

I made my way around to the opposite side of the table to give the bump a rub.

“Hey, sis, how’s the little guy?”

“He’s been pressing his foot so hard into my stomach I think he might be trying to escape.” She pressed my hand against the space below her belly button. “Can you feel that?”

“Woah. He’s really trying to dig his way out,” I joked. “Can you believe you’ve got a small person inside there?”

It wasn’t Katherine’s first rodeo, so she’d been fairly collected throughout the whole experience. It was admirable. I’d attended one appointment with Katherine’s OB, and I’d been more nervous than she was; it signified that I was absolutely not ready to have children of my own.

“Yes, I can believe it. Most days he makes himself very well known. ”

“I bet.”

Katherine was the miracle child. My mom lost her first child five months into the pregnancy. When Katherine arrived three years later there was elation in the Wilson household. My mom would’ve been happy with one, but my dad wanted to try for a boy. Instead they got me. I grew up climbing trees and playing sports and cops and robbers. I was always the cop—of course. Technically, he got what he wanted, just in female form.

“Where’s Dad?” I asked.

“Fishing.” My mom sighed.

My dad had been retired from active duty for five years. The only thing that kept him from going insane was fishing. My mom on the other hand refused to retire. She worked for herself, which allowed her the flexibility to work as little or as much as she saw fit. Her passion for showing and staging houses far outweighed her passion for golf, which happened to be her hobby, or more accurately, her four hours a week to gossip with her friends about all the small-town drama. If you took away the country club and the champagne stocked bar, I was positive she’d find a new hobby.

“Aside from building a cabinet, have you been doing anything else lately?” Katherine smirked.

“Nope.”

“Nothing at all?” Katherine probed.

“No.” I kicked her underneath the table.

“Okay, what are you two talking about?” My mom crossed her arms.

“Riley has been dating someone in town.”

“Dating is a strong assumption.”

You couldn’t count a one-night stand and a brief encounter at the gas station dating.

“You’re dating?” My mom perked up so fast her bum practically left the seat of her chair. Her eyes widened—the usual response whenever my name was mentioned in the same sentence as another woman that wasn’t family.

“I’m not dating.” I scowled at Katherine.

“Oh.” She sulked. There was that all too familiar face of disappointment.

Cooper approached the table, he was similar in height and build to my dad, similar age, but more weathered in appearance. His wrinkles and the receding hairline made him look older. In true small-town fashion, he’d dated my mom in high school.

“How are we, folks?” Cooper asked.

“Good, thank you, Coop,” Katherine responded. I nodded in agreeance.

“What can I get you?”

The lunch menu was small but delicious. I ordered a grilled chicken salad. My mom ordered the smoked shrimp salad, and Katherine got the grilled cheese sandwich with fries and a side of New Orleans barbeque shrimp.

“I’m eating for two.” Katherine shrugged.

Cooper chuckled. “I’m not eating for two, and I’d still have more than that. Anything else?”

“No, I think we’re good,” I said.

“This one’s on me, so enjoy.” He scribbled across the bottom of the small white notepad.

“Cooper that isn’t necessary,” I challenged.

“Lieutenant, I owe you. It’s the least I can do.”

“I was just doing my job, Cooper.”

He shook his head. “Regardless, it’s on the house.” He reached down and patted my shoulder before making his way back towards the kitchen.

“What did you do?” my mom asked.

“Do you remember me telling you about the out of town gang we charged for aggravated theft? Well, we couldn’t locate the fourth person. Cooper called me last week. He suspected someone was hiding out at the back of the restaurant, so I came by to put his mind at ease, and I found the suspect hiding out by the bins. We think he was going to hit the restaurant as soon as Cooper was alone. He was armed, so Cooper was grateful I guess.” I shrugged.

My job could be boring some days and exhaustingly memorable others. When I returned to Magnolia, the town suddenly held a level of respect for me that I was unaccustomed to. I guess it came with the uniform. I was now protecting a town and community of people I loved, which brought with it an extra level of pressure to deliver. Whether I was officially on duty or not, when they called, I answered, and that’s the way I operated.

“That’s amazing sweety,” my mom gushed.

Despite being the take it or leave it child, my mom loved me, and she loved that I worked for the sheriff’s department. She took great pride in telling people I followed in my dad’s footsteps and became a hero . Katherine had originally followed in her footsteps and decided to be a realtor; it had been the easy route, and I reminded her of that whenever she tried to embarrass me—like today.

“Was that the night you cancelled on Imogen?” Katherine asked.

“Katherine,” I said through gritted teeth.

“Okay, who’s Imogen?” My mom’s head swung from left to right.

“Nobody, Mom.”

“You girls never tell me anything.” Now she was really sulking.

“That isn’t true,” Katherine said falsely.

It was true. Mom couldn’t be trusted. In a town of 800 residents, gossip was a given. Did I want to know that Jean over on Woodland Ave had a pedicure at the local salon, and the pedicurist sliced her toe open? No, but I did. My mom knew everything about everyone, but to get to know gossip you had to give it in return.

“Imogen is just a friend over in Summerdale,” I clarified. She wasn’t a friend, not really. She was a head-strong broody artist with sexual needs similar to my own, and from time to time we fulfilled each other’s. It worked for us.

“So, is Imogen the girl you’re dating?” my mom asked.

“No,” I said immediately. “There’s no dating happening.”

“The person she went on a date with was called Julia,” Katherine confirmed.

“Will you give up.” I hissed. Katherine laughed.

“Okay, so there’s Julia and Imogen, but you’re not dating either of them?” My mom wanted clarification.

“Correct.”

“So, you’re just having sex with them,” she said matter-of-factly.

I almost choked on my root beer. There were two tables occupied to our left. I glanced their way. Katherine could barely contain the deep laughter erupting from the pit of her bouncing stomach.

“Mom!”

“Listen, I was young once, I get it.”

“Okay, eww.”

I didn’t need to know that.

“I just wish you would settle down.” She sighed. “I’m not getting any younger, and I would love some more grandchildren. ”

It wasn’t going to happen. My mom was obsessed with the idea of me settling down. I was categorically single and had been since my college days. I wished there was some deep heart-breaking trauma that caused me to be that way. At least that could explain why my relationships had expiration dates, usually it was a three-date limit before the walls came up and my heart refused entry.

“Mom, come on.” I rolled my eyes.

“Well, you never bring anyone home to meet us. I’m getting a little worried.”

“Worried about what? I’ve already told you I’m gay,” I joked.

“God, Mom, can you imagine if she brought a guy home? Maybe that’s the reason. Maybe she needs to go back in the closet.” Katherine reached for her drink to hide the grin.

I mouthed the words, I hate you .

“Whatever makes you happy, honey,” my mom chirped.

“She’s winding you up, Mom,” I said.

There would be absolutely no men, or closets. In fact, I would rather chew off my own arm. We spent the next thirty minutes talking through my serial dating history. It seemed inappropriate at first, until Mom joined in. She had an eidetic memory.

“Oh my God! What about Layla?” Mom lifted her fork excitedly, accidently flicking baby spinach across the table.

“I liked Layla. She had really kind eyes,” Katherine added.

“Erm, okay. I liked Layla too, but that was eight years ago, and she moved to Seattle.”

“Why did she move to Seattle?” Katherine asked .

“I don’t know.”

“How do you not know?”

“When someone says they’re moving across the country, you say ‘okay, good luck, take care,’ and you move on.” I shrugged.

“This is your problem. You’ve deromanticized everything,” Katherine said.

“It’s called realism.” I chewed on the last bit of chicken. I reached over to grab a handful of fries from Katherine’s plate; I should’ve ordered a side dish.

“You jump ship before there’s any chance for it to be real,” Katherine said.

“What would you have me do? Move to Seattle with someone I’d known for a month?” I scoffed.

“Yes! It’s in every romantic film ever. You meet, you fall in love after five seconds, this big life-altering thing happens, in this case someone moves to Seattle, and you go with them to live happily ever after, or you stay in Alabama and be eternally miserable. Hypothetically speaking.”

Katherine was a hopeless romantic. Her favourite film was 50 First Dates , and that’s how she envisioned her life. If she tragically developed amnesia, she wanted her husband to remind her every single day of who she was and the life they shared together. She believed that love could defy all odds. I respected that. I admired her conviction, and I loved the person she was because of it.

“Have you ever thought that maybe some people just aren’t meant to find their happily ever after? Some people are just happy unattached.”

It didn’t take a rocket scientist to figure out “some people” was me.

“Nobody is happy unattached,” Katherine stated, but Mom stayed silent, as expected .

My mom fell into the category of appearing happy and attached but only for the sake of the family. Secretly, she’d been shacking up with her high school sweetheart for five years. I’d found out the day after my eighteenth birthday. Katherine didn’t know, and I gave Mom the benefit of the doubt when she said it was over. I preferred not to give it too much energy. It had been ten years after all.

“Oh, sweetheart, before I forget. Will you drop by the B & B and help Cindy with the new camera she’s bought for the entrance. She can’t get it to work.”

“Sure.” I smiled.

“Why’s Cindy got a camera?” Katherine asked.

“She suspects one of the guests stole a pen from the reception desk.”

“Not a pen?” Katherine gasped. “Why didn’t I read about this on the front page of the newspaper?”

“Sarcasm doesn’t suit you, honey,” Mom tutted.

In the grand scheme of things, it was a very minor incident, and more than likely an accident on the part of the perpetrator, or even more likely Cindy misplaced the pen and would feel embarrassed for wasting my time when it turned up again at a later date. In Cindy’s defence, it was her late mother’s pen and so old it was practically a family heirloom. The sentimental value of an item can only be understood by the owner. I made a mental note to pay Cindy White a visit in the coming days.