Chapter Thirteen
Marigold
B eads of sweat gathered on my forehead, trickling down as a shiver ran through me despite the warmth. I couldn’t stop rubbing my thighs beneath the hem of my cutoff shorts.
Up and down. More heat. More anxiety. Up and down.
It had been two weeks since I’d asked Jackson to scan my name through his database. And this was the day that I’d learn the results.
Around noon, Ezra gripped the steering wheel as he drove us to the police station. Noticing my nervous fidgets, he said, “You okay?”
“What if . . .”
There were too many what-ifs . What if my family believed I was dead? What if I never remembered the people who loved me? What if I had an abusive boyfriend who thought he’d killed me and dumped my body in the woods?
“Do you want me to change the music? What do you find calming?”
I hadn’t noticed the hum from the speakers. What kind of music did I find calming?
“I like country music when I’m happy,” I said. “Acoustic covers with zero vocals when I read.”
“Find a playlist you like.” He handed his phone to me, and I scrolled until I found a mix of piano and guitar covers.
Minutes later, I returned to my fidgeting gestures.
“Check in the glove box for some gum,” he said. “We’re almost there.”
“I don’t want to have a wad of gum in my mouth when I talk to Jackson.”
“There’s some candy in there too.”
In need of something to occupy my restless hands, I opened the glove box and found a package of red licorice nestled among two packs of gum. Beneath them lay a jumble of owner manuals, maps, and napkins.
The red licorice straw flipped around as I held it between my thumb and forefinger. I caught it in my mouth and bit. The sweet essence of strawberries flooded my taste buds, distracting me as Ezra parked outside the police station.
He kept his hand on the wheel. “Don’t fret. I’ll stay with you if you’d like.”
I was strong enough to hear what Jackson had to say by myself. But I didn’t want to. “Please come.”
A small grin tipped a side of Ezra’s lips. “Of course.” He held the door for me. The same perky blonde who wore bold makeup and an overly wide smile greeted us. “Do you have an appointment?”
“Yes.”
Before she could respond, Jackson called out from his office. “Come in.”
He stood as we entered, extending his hand for the customary shake before motioning for us to take a seat on matching wooden chairs.
As the cool wood met the backs of my thighs, a sense of restlessness tingled beneath my skin, urging me to flee. No . I would not escape from this. I had to know.
An overwhelming silence filled the office.
“You told us to come in two weeks,” I finally said.
Jackson studied me. “I know.”
Ezra and I shared a look when Jackson said nothing further.
“What did you find?” Ezra inquired when the silence became unbearable.
Jackson continued staring at me. “That’s the thing,” he said, setting his hands on the table. Then he stood and declared, “I didn’t find anything.”
My insides quivered. When I lifted my hand from my leg, it trembled uncontrollably. “What do you mean?”
He extracted a sheet of paper from a filing cabinet and set it on the desk before us. “There are several women with the legal name Marigold Rivers , but none of them are in your age demographic. Without a social security number, there’s not much else I can do. I recommend seeing a doctor in Chattanooga who specializes in brain trauma.”
I swallowed around a lump in my throat. Sure, I’d considered talking to a doctor. I’d also researched brain injuries. But the thing was, there wasn’t a pill or a therapy that could invite the return of my memories. Seeing a doctor when I didn’t have an identity or health insurance sounded expensive and unhelpful. Maybe if my memory didn’t return by . . .
No. I had to grasp onto hope. I had to believe that I’d remember who I was and where I came from.
But deep inside, I knew this:
If my memories were going to return, they would have already made an appearance by now.
Nothing inside my brain was clearing or growing sharper.
The only hope I had was the soothing balm of new memories—such as Levi burning eggs for breakfast and setting off the fire alarm. Or surprising Donner with a bottle of fancy rum I found on special at the grocery store. And Finn learning to roll over on command. Sharing conversations over sweet tea with Beth on a lazy afternoon.
A light touch on my arm jolted me back to the present.
Jackson returned the file to the cabinet, and Ezra stood beside me.
“Are you ready to go?” he asked me, his hand still cradling my arm.
I let him lead me away from the station and back to the Bronco as I struggled to accept the truth that I didn’t technically exist.
I would never remember.
Hot tears slid down my cheeks. I wiped them away, trying to calm myself, unwilling to let Ezra see me this way.
To his credit, he didn’t mention it. He drove us back to the farm with a piano ballad playing on the stereo. Fields passed us on either side as the AC dried the tears on my cheeks, leaving behind salty streaks.
When we arrived, Ezra got out of the truck and came around to my side, opened the door, and helped me out.
I couldn’t hold back my cries. The embarrassment of sobbing in front of Ezra didn’t register as much as I knew it would’ve if I wasn’t filled with despair.
He looked at the sobbing mess in front of him and pointed behind the house. “Can I show you something?”
Now? I shrugged. I could stay here or go home and cry. The thought was enticing. At home, only Finn would witness my emotional volcano complete with lava tears. I was already here. I might as well.
He led me around the house. The garden was resplendent with red and green lettuces, spicy herbs, peppers, cucumbers, and tomatoes. Ezra guided us around the raised beds and into the orchards beyond.
A few taller trees danced along the outskirts of the peach and pear trees, towering against the cobalt-blue sky.
We side-stepped fallen peaches rotting in the grass, their pits splayed open. The orchard smelled like warming fruit, sweet and enchanting as if a fairy might flit from a tree at any moment, pixie dust in her wake. Bees hummed in the branches above.
Ezra stopped at a ladder set into a maple tree, and I craned my neck upward. Twenty feet into the air above us was a sturdy treehouse.
“Levi and I built this with our fathers when we were young,” he said.
“Will the ladder fall apart?”
He wiggled one of the planks of wood that was nailed into the tree, but it didn’t budge.
“No. It’s still sturdy.”
Uncertain, I said, “You first.”
Without hesitation, he climbed the wooden planks and disappeared through a hole in the treehouse’s floor. Then reappeared seconds later, his face peeking out from the opening, motioning me to follow.
Ezra
Peering above the floorboards, Marigold’s eyes widened as she scanned the space. The treehouse was modest—a simple platform with a weathered wooden railing. But it was once my castle.
A pulley system still hung from a branch off the side. Levi and I once used that to haul rotting peaches, buckets of toy cars, board games, and even buckets of dirt up to our fort. Because we were the oldest of our siblings, we had imposed a strict ban on our younger sister and brother from entering until our parents intervened.
Marigold found a spot by the trunk and leaned against the gnarled wood, eyes puffy and red.
How was I supposed to help her? Sometimes I came up here to think. It was a safe place. A quiet haven that could allow Marigold to experience and express her emotions freely.
“Are you okay, Mari?”
Her red-rimmed eyes met my gaze, but she remained silent. “Mari?” she asked.
I shrugged, a little embarrassed. The name had just slipped out. “It’s a nickname,” I said. “Do you mind?”
She used the hem of her T-shirt to dab at the moisture under her eyes. “No. I kind of like it.”
The pale white skin of her stomach distracted me. She looked soft and warm. I forced myself to look back at her face.
A woman like Marigold could never develop feelings for someone like me. Not with her ties to Levi. We could be friends and friends alone, no matter how much I wondered . . .
I moved to the railing, as far away from her as possible. Standing at the railing, I felt the soft peach fuzz brushing against my bicep as I leaned back against the wooden structure where the peach tree’s branches met the treehouse.
“Would you like a snack?” I picked a succulent-looking piece and handed it to her.
She rolled it between her palms but didn’t take a bite.
“You can stay here as long as you want,” I offered. “And . . . and I’m willing to listen if you need to talk.”
Her trembling lip hinted at unshed tears.
“And I don’t mind if you cry,” I said. “I have a little sister, so I’m used to the affair.”
Her expression wavered from a small smile to sorrowful agony. Curling into herself, she wrapped her arms around her knees, the peach resting delicately in her hand.
If she were Lilly, I would have embraced her without hesitation, urging her to confide in me. But this was Marigold. I couldn’t treat her the same way I treated my sister.
I remembered her hesitation to climb into my Bronco. The way she paused, probably wondering if I would kill her based on Levi's opinion. Now we were in a tree together, and I could only guess she wanted me to keep me at a distance.
“Do you want to talk about it?” I tried.
She lifted her head, noticed the peach still in her hand, and took a tentative bite. “This tastes like candy.”
Not what I was thinking we’d talk about, but at least it was progress. “The trick is to pick them when they’re delicately soft.”
She nodded, taking another bite. “I just . . .”
I waited for her to finish.
She wiped the juice off her chin. “I don’t know what to do.”
“What do you mean?”
Peach juice dripped down her wrist. “If Jackson couldn’t find a record of my past, then I fear I’ll never know. It’s been a month.”
Had it been a month already? “Go on,” I said.
She shrugged. “I don’t know what to do. Stay here? Try to find my family? Wait to see if my memory returns?”
I adjusted my back against the wooden plank. “What do you wish to do?”
“To remember my old life.”
“Yes. But if you couldn’t, what would you do?”
“I’m not ready to give up that dream.”
“Okay. What’s your next step?”
She took another bite of peach. “As much as I hate to admit it, I think I should wait. I could search the Internet for any mention of a missing redhead. I could gather newspapers following the week I arrived and search for reports of a missing person.
Marigold was a beautiful twenty-six-year-old. If she had gone missing, there would’ve been colossal media coverage.
“That sounds like a good place to start,” I said. “I hope you don’t find living in podunk Sutton too insufferable.”
She threw the peach pit into the orchard below. “I enjoy it.”
“That makes one of us.”
“You don’t like it here?”
“No, ma’am. I’d rather live on a vineyard with a stone chalet and walkways, arches, and fountains. Cool air and liquid sunrises. I was working at a winery before my father went to prison. Someone had to take over, so I came home.”
Her eyes were less puffy now. “You didn’t have to.”
“Didn’t I? You’ve been here for a month now. Family is everything in a small town. Out here, you do things for family or you’re heartless.” I paused a moment and decided to change the subject. “What would you like to do now, Mari?” The nickname had a delightful ring to it.
“Eat salted caramel ice cream.”
“Ah, yes. The post-cry ice cream. Lilly enjoys that too. C’mon, I’ll take you to a spot in town.”
We spent the next hour eating ice cream and talking about trivial things. At five thirty she said, “I should go. Levi will be home soon. I don’t want him asking questions about where I’ve been.”
I hugged her. “Drive safe, Mari. Until next time.” And then I watched her drive toward my enemy.