Chapter 15 #2
I tend to dress for the weather in summertime, so I packed only one pair of long pants—a fairly cute pair of sporty hiking pants with lots of pockets and loopy things I bought two years ago for a fall hiking and biking trip to the Smoky Mountains with Sydney.
But instead of hiking, we mostly drank wine on the deck of our chalet, and instead of biking, we mostly sat in the hot tub and talked about fashion and hair.
So part of me is happy to finally give these pants a whirl, but another is thinking: Argh, so much for not spending time with him.
Oh well, a few blackberries—no biggie. And when I slap my sun hat on and glance in a mirror, I realize that what’s happening up top pretty much cancels out any cuteness of the pants, and that he was surely just being kind when he called me beautiful and it was the wine talking when he got all flirty.
All of which is best, actually. My noticing things about the police chief is not the same as wanting anything to happen with him, and possibly having developed a slight attraction to him is not synonymous with wishing for it to be mutual.
This is the weirdest summer of my life, and the weirdest I’ve ever felt about myself, so my firm commitment to keeping things super platonic with Chief Cordray stands.
When I join him in the backyard, he’s gotten us a couple of small pails, and I suddenly have the sense of setting off on an adventure—a good one or a bad one, I don’t yet know.
As he leads me deep into Mabel’s backyard, toward the edge of the lake, he says, “Just hit me while I was mowin’ that I know where some berries used to grow wild—lots of ’em.
My mom brought me and my sister down here every June to pick ’em when I was a kid.
Bettin’ they’ll still be there and probably good and ripe—if the wildlife ain’t already got to ’em. ”
When the yard Matt just mowed ends and turns to wilder, more untamed land, he leads me onto the remains of a thin dirt path that cuts through tall-growing grass, and I understand why I needed the pants.
We’re suddenly surrounded by more of the white Queen Anne’s lace that’s drawn my eye lately, along with tall, spiked, lavender-blue flowers.
The summer sounds of insects and frogs echo from down by the water’s edge, where velvety cattails jut up at the shoreline.
I feel immersed in it all and am struck with the thought: This is here all the time, all these flowers, all this nature, and no one even knows it.
“What are these blue flowers?” I ask from where I follow Matt on the trail.
When he glances over, I realize he didn’t even notice them, that they’re so much a part of his world he doesn’t see them anymore.
“Those? Those are weeds, darlin’.” He laughs, then catches himself.
“Jessica.” After which he looks back at the flowers dotting the meadow.
“Or a coffee substitute, dependin’ on how you look at it. ”
“Really?” I ask, surprised.
“We called ’em blue daisies growin’ up, but they’re actually chicory.
Mountain people used to grind up the roots to make a bitter kinda coffee, and I think a few of the older ones still do.
My grandma used to claim it was good for her gout and worked as a laxative, but can’t say as I’ve tried it for either.
” He tosses a quick wink over his shoulder.
“Well, I think the flowers are pretty,” I tell him.
“Then you’re in luck,” he says. “They bloom all summer.”
I look around, taking it all in. A heavily treed area sits just above the incline where we’re walking, the lake below. Though the lake is getting narrower, like maybe we’re near its end, the end I’ve never seen.
“Was all this Mabel’s?” I ask. “Or is it yours?” Maybe his property somehow curves around Mabel’s yard.
“Nope and nope,” he says. “Mabel’s property ends where I quit mowin’. My own goes in the other direction a little ways.”
“Then I’m confused. Who does this belong to?”
He does another vague finger point. “Neighbor on the other side of the mountain.”
I pull up short. “So we’re, like, trespassing right now? And we’re going to pick someone else’s blackberries? Like, steal them?”
He glances back at me and laughs. “Those are harsh words you’re usin’ there, Jessica.”
“Well, aren’t you an officer of the law? And isn’t trespassing and stealing illegal?”
He shrugs. “Only if anybody cared. You wanted blackberries. Jeb doesn’t pick ’em—they just go to waste.”
He resumes walking, so I follow, but this still feels dicey to me. “You don’t even ask if it’s okay?”
Now he stops, turns, and flashes me the same look you’d give a child who just doesn’t possess the intellect to understand what you’re saying.
“Things work a little different here than in the city. And if it’ll make you feel better, we can take some to Jeb’s place after we pick ’em.
” He resumes walking. “But it’s a good half hour’s drive from here to there, and I promise you he’d be happier to know they’re goin’ to use rather than just feedin’ the deer and the bears. ”
“ Bears? ” I come to a quick halt. He couldn’t have just said “bears.” Could he?
At this, he just looks over his shoulder and shrugs. “We occasionally get us a black bear or two roamin’ around. Tend to see ’em more over by Pine Mountain than here, but happens every now and then.”
“Um, this sounds dangerous. Why has no one mentioned to me, given all the walking I do, that there are bears ? And by no one, I mainly mean you.”
He’s giving me the same look as when we discuss snakes, like I’m such a girl but he’s going to humor me. “Look, I probably haven’t seen one in five years, so likely you’re safe.”
Yet I’m not reassured. “Probably?”
“And if you were ever to see one, just make some noise to let it know you’re there—just talk loud—and back calmly away from it.”
I must still look terrified since he adds, “Know when the last bear attack here was?”
My eyes go wide. “No. When?”
“Never,” he says. “Doesn’t happen. You respect their space and they’ll respect yours. If you were ever to see one.” He walks on, shaking his head and murmuring, “City girl,” like I’m exhausting him.
Of course, now I’m darting my gaze in every direction on the lookout for bears, my heart beating a little faster, and even though I don’t see any, I have to ask myself: What happened to just coming here and keeping to myself?
Resting, reading, taking it easy? How did I end up following a man I barely know down a secluded path in bear country to contraband blackberries?
That’s when Matt says, “Here we are. And just look at that. Blackberry heaven.”
I don’t see them at first—but then I do. I would have walked right by them, but once you catch sight, they are indeed plentiful, and as promised, look plump and ripe, beautiful little bits of nature hidden where it would be easy for no one to ever find them.
“They run up along this old fallen-down fence row,” Matt tells me, pointing again, “and they’re growin’ up around these trees.
” When he hands me a bucket and leans a little closer than usual, I feel his nearness in my kicked-up heartbeat.
“Now, Miss Jessica, don’t freak out when I tell you to just mind where you step and keep an eye out for snakes, okay? ”
I’m pretty sure my eyes go as wide as the two pails we’re holding.
In response, he says, “If you want, just stay here and watch, and I’ll do the pickin’.”
But this particular indulgence drives home for me what a baby I’m being and reminds me who I really am.
Jessica Fox, WRTB 11. That woman isn’t afraid to pick blackberries.
That woman has the sense and patience to watch where she steps.
Coming into this rural setting where so many things are different has turned me soft in ways I couldn’t have anticipated, but it’s time for that to stop.
“No,” I reply. “I want to pick some. I’ll be careful. ”
“Good.” He adds a short nod. “Now you only want to pick the ripe ones, the ones that are dark, like this.” He cups a berry in his palm, and as I step up to look, I realize how close we’ve gotten again.
“Got it,” I say, then move back.
And then a funny thing happens. I feel surrounded by .
.. wildness. The beauty of the wild berries.
The wild growth of the tall trees up above, the sun casting dramatic rays down through thick green boughs.
And suddenly something seems a little wild to me about Matt Cordray, too.
His messy hair, the way his T-shirt hugs his shoulders and forearms, the bits of dirt clinging to his skin from his earlier yard work, and that he doesn’t even care.
He’s a different sort of man than the ones I’ve known.
There’s something slightly gritty and very real about him.
Okay, it’s a good time to pick berries in an entirely different area than where he is. And that’s all the analysis I’ll do about that—no more.
“Damn, lotta berries here,” he comments as we work. “More than when I was a kid for sure.”
“Should we pick them all?” I ask. I have no idea how many berries either of us can actually make use of. “I think my cobbler recipe only calls for two or three cups.”
“You’re gonna want more than that ,” he says, like this should be very obvious.
“I am? Why?”
“Well, they make a nice breakfast with a little sugar and milk poured over ’em in a dish.”
“They do?”
“And you can mix ’em into some pancake or waffle batter.”
“Oh, well . . .”
“And there’s nothin’ better on a biscuit than some blackberry jam.”
I hold up my free hand. “Now, whoa there. You’re just getting farther and farther out of my wheelhouse. Even the cobbler is flirting on the edge for me.”