Chapter 6
Six
“It’s good to see you again,” Nancy, the Piggy Wiggly cashier, said as she scanned my items. “How are you liking our little town?”
“Excuse me?” Her question surprised me, cutting through like a blade, catching me off guard. I had thought I was being careful and safe, navigating my visits with caution. This was only my second time seeing her, and yet she had remembered me, her memory sharp.
“You work at the campground with Walt, right?”
“Yeah,” I said, handing her the cash for my groceries.
“Aren’t you happy it’s finally cooled off some?”
“Yeah,” I repeated.
As I walked back to the campground, Nancy’s words echoed in my mind.
In a small town like Camden, anonymity was a luxury I could no longer afford.
I realized every interaction I’d had, however brief, left a fingerprint—literally.
And then there was the encounter with Jackson.
With that, a certainty settled within me: I had been here too long.
In the main office the next day, a lavish flower arrangement sat sprawled across the circular table where Walt kept visitors’ brochures, a riot of colors and fragrances that mingled in the air, some blooms familiar to me and many more not.
Petals cascaded like a vibrant waterfall, creating a spectacle that drew my eye and quickened my heart.
It was the most beautiful thing I’d ever seen.
“Those are for you,” Walt said, easing into a chair behind the front desk and leaning back, his hands resting on his full belly.
I stepped closer. “For me? Who left them?”
Even before Walt spoke, the answer stirred. I knew.
“Jackson Shepherd,” Walt said, voicing my thoughts. “He’s got a way with flowers, that one.”
“It must be some kind of mistake,” I said, my heart fluttering in my chest.
“He dropped them off himself. Said you would know why.”
“How did he know I worked here?” I said.
“It’s a small town, Leigh,” Walt said at the same time I recalled how the cashier at the grocery store had recognized me. “Doesn’t take anybody long to find out anything around here.”
My pulse quickened at this, and I didn’t know if it was from fear or excitement. I reached for the card nestled among the blooms, my fingers trembling slightly as I pulled it free. The words written inside pierced through me: From there is too far.
“Looks like you have an admirer.” Walt said, his tone playful.
“No, it’s not like that,” I said, stuffing the card back into the envelope. “This was a misunderstanding. He didn’t have to do this. I don’t even know him.”
“He owns the Flower Farm in Gee’s Bend.”
“A flower farm?” I asked, surprise bubbling to the surface. “A farm that grows flowers?”
Walt laughed. “Where do you think flowers come from?”
A flush of embarrassment moved up my neck. Of course I knew flowers came from somewhere, but I had never considered that they were grown on an actual farm.
“And he owns it?”
“Yup. Took over after his uncle passed a few years back.”
“And where exactly is Gee’s Bend? Is it far from here?”
“Just a ferry ride away,” Walt said, leaning forward.
“A ferry ride?” All I’d seen since I’d gotten here was land.
Walt laughed again. “You really haven’t explored much, have you?
” He opened a drawer and pulled out a map, unfolded it across the desk.
“This is Camden, and here’s Gee’s Bend.” He pointed, then slid his finger up and across a body of water.
“Gee’s Bend is separated by water on three sides.
This is the Alabama River, and it separates Camden and Gee’s Bend. ”
“Is the ferry the only way to get to Gee’s Bend? There’s no road?”
He moved his finger up farther and traced a thin line. “There’s a road, but it takes about forty-five minutes one way.” He looked at me. “The ferry is faster and easier, assuming you can go on its schedule. Why?” He smiled wide.
I looked at him. “I told you, it’s not like that.”
Walt threw his hands up in mock surrender. “No, ma’am, I’m simply saying there’s a lot of history out there. That quilt in your room was made there, I think I told you.”
“How many people live there?”
Walt considered that for a moment before answering.
“I don’t reckon I know, but probably just a couple hundred.
It’s pretty rural. There’s not much there but Jackson’s farm, the quilter’s co-op, and another campground.
The internet is not very good either. They’ve got electric and water lines, but cell service is real spotty. ”
Walt opened the drawer again and retrieved a pamphlet. “Here’s the ferry schedule. Just in case. It goes between Camden and Gee’s Bend every few hours until about five.” A smirk rose on his face. “Or you could wait and talk to him here at the town meeting in a few days.”
“I think I’ll pass, but thank you.” I already had a feeling I wouldn’t be in Camden much longer.
“He’s got the locals all riled up about this crazy idea he has,” Walt continued as though he hadn’t heard me. “Wants to talk about it at the meeting. Rumor has it, he wants to expand his farm, and he’s eyeing other people’s land for it. It’s going to be a live one.”
I raised an eyebrow “Are you going?”
“Shit, yeah. Don’t much happen around here.” His laugher rang out. “I like my gossip firsthand.”
Back at my temporary cabin at the end of the day, bathed in the soft glow of twilight filtering through the lace curtains of the cabin, I stared at Jackson’s flowers, wondering how beauty could be so simple.
I didn’t know much about flowers, their individual meanings and growing needs, but I understood their collective purpose.
I touched every flower in the bunch, traced the contours of the petals—the lilies like ivory trumpets, announcing renewal; the roses, their crimson hearts ablaze; the wildflowers, unrestrained and untamed.
I smelled every single one, savored the fragrances.
I found myself in those flowers, my own emotions mirrored in their delicate forms, and I wondered if Jackson had seen it too.
I shook away the foolish thought. It was time for me to leave Camden, a decision crystallized by the appearance of Jackson’s bouquet. I needed a new plan. I needed to go off-grid, to vanish. At least for a while. At least until after the bus was discovered.
My conversation with Walt about Jackson revealed an intriguing and unexpected possibility: Gee’s Bend.
More remote, more isolated than Camden, with a campground that promised a retreat from prying eyes.
Internet access was unreliable there—a blessing in disguise.
By the time I closed my eyes for the night, I had made up my mind: I would scout out the campgrounds at Gee’s Bend.
The following day—my day off—I rose early, slipping away before the dawn painted the sky and Walt arrived from his home in town, aiming to catch the 6:40 ferry. Knowing I would be away all day, I packed some provisions in my backpack: water, several tuna sandwiches, chips, and cookies.
I arrived at the Camden-Boykin ferry terminal just as the first light of day spread across the sky, dotting it with wisps of clouds.
The road had been narrow, quiet, offering me a sense of solace in its isolation.
I longed for the comfort of nature, to hear the symphony of insects and the melodies of passing birds, to once again reconnect with a place that felt more like home.
Despite my yearning, I still didn’t feel as if I belonged, as if I was welcomed.
My footsteps were soft, but my heart felt heavy. It had never been this hard.
Halfway to the ferry terminal, I paused on a bridge across a swampy patch and watched the dance of the river swirl below me.
Across the way, clusters of white houses were nestled comfortably, and several boats sped by.
Approaching the ferry, I found two cars lined up behind a black gate adorned with large stop signs.
A person could walk beyond the gate, though, and so I went to the beige building that housed public bathrooms, where I freshened up and put some extra paper towels in my backpack.
Across from the building, a lone picnic table perched beneath the rising sun.
I sat down and ate one of my sandwiches.
The small ferry arrived, its rumbling engine and splashing water breaking the tranquility.
The two waiting cars had by then been joined by several more.
Once the ferry stopped, the gate opened and the cars pulled onto it.
I was the only walker, and found a place to sit at the front on a black bench.
Soon, I was joined by the drivers and passengers of the cars, all seeking the best positions to admire the view.
I had spent most of my life close to water, yet I’d never grown tired of seeing it, its power, its endless beauty.
The ferry cut through the gentle water with steady resolve.
The wind whipped around us, competing against the ferry’s loud engines.
Leaving Camden behind, even temporarily, a mixture of relief and apprehension washed over me.
For the first time since the bus crash, I felt lost. It had seemed like a good idea, to keep moving, but now I wasn’t so sure.
Gee’s Bend beckoned on the horizon, promising seclusion yet more uncertainty.
Could this be the perfect place to hide?
Or was I delaying the inevitable by staying so still, so close?
A man beside me broke the silence, his voice strained by too many birthdays. “What’s bringing you to Gee’s Bend?”
“I…um…just want to see it.”
“I like takin’ the ferry,” he said, glancing toward his car. “My wife’s in there. She’s not a fan of ferries.” He turned his gaze back ahead. “You know, there was a time when this ferry was shut down. Something like forty years.”
“Why’s that?” I asked.