Chapter 7
Seven
I should have known it would be a bad day.
The signs were all there from the moment I cracked my eyes open in the small living room of the cabin, standing just inside the front door.
At least the barricade I put up each night had worked.
It had been the first time since the bus crash that I sleepwalked, my mind once again racing.
I repeated my mantra like a lifeline: My name is Leigh.
I am safe. I chanted it repeatedly until the room’s contours and shadows evolved into something real.
Over breakfast—oatmeal and a piece of dry toast—I created a list of supplies I would need for my indefinite stay in the woods.
I had scraped together almost eight hundred dollars working for Walt and had spent less than a hundred.
I had gotten by on oatmeal, noodles, and tuna sandwiches, and purchased two shirts, a sweater, and a pair of jeans.
But I had to continue to be frugal with my supplies for the woods once again: a tent, a sleeping bag, an axe, a multipurpose tool, a machete, a knife, duct tape, candles, a fishing pole and line, and a solar-powered radio.
For food, I planned to stick to what I had and hoped to forage, fish, and maybe snag a deer.
I didn’t know how long I would be there, and I wanted to be prepared for whatever the wilderness might throw my way.
Even as I made the list, I felt unsure about the plan. Was this why I walked away? To live in the woods?
I’d barely returned from town with my supplies, barely had time to put them away, when the knock came.
It startled me, and my chest pumped. Walt never knocked.
He never had to; the hum of his cart heralded his approach.
I paused at the door, listening, my heart thrumming.
Then another knock, followed by the cadence of heavy steps.
“Leigh…are you in there?”
Without thinking, I swung open the door to find Jackson standing there. “What are you doing here?” My voice escaped, sharp with edginess and relief, before I could temper it.
He straightened, a wry smile playing on his full lips. “Now, I thought I would at least get a hello.”
I relaxed further, my shoulders slumping, grateful that it was him at my door and not the police. “That doesn’t answer my question.”
He hesitated for a moment, then spoke with a sincerity that caught me off guard. “I came to see you.”
“Why? Is this about the work that I did? I told you I don’t want any money.”
“It’s not about the money. I’d like to talk to you about something.”
I crossed my arms, suddenly feeling the need to create a barrier between us. “Go ahead,” I said, my voice cool but curious.
“You’re not going to invite me in?” His question was gentle, almost teasing. “You want to talk like this? Through the door?”
I studied him for a moment. The cut above his eye had slowly started to heal, scabbing over into a hardened dark-brown crust.
“You don’t have to be on guard,” he said.
“Should I be on my guard?”
He smiled, a serene expression that softened the lines of his face. “I’m just a man who plants flowers.”
His choice of words drew me like a gentle breeze, and with a subtle yielding, I stepped aside, inviting him in.
Fear did not claw at my insides. He wasn’t a bad man.
I’d seen bad men before—had faced them, stood up to them.
Jackson did not possess those shadows. There was no darkness in him, only a tender grace that spoke to the depths of my soul. He wouldn’t hurt me.
His heavy boots stomped across the wooden planks of the cabin, his presence solid, commanding.
I noticed almost absently that he was still handsome, as if handsomeness were an item a person could take on and off.
He wore his uniform of a white shirt and khaki carpenter pants with suspenders.
I realized with a mild shock that he couldn’t be much more than thirty, yet he dressed and moved with the air of someone far beyond that age.
Jackson paused in the middle of the living room, his eyes sweeping across, mapping the place before they settled on the vase on the table. The flowers were still beautiful, still held their grace, their presence enhancing the room. Some still stood at attention, but others had begun to bow.
“May I?” His voice was deep, carrying the weight of the question that was both polite and assertive.
I nodded, and he crossed the room in several strides, his long legs eating up the space.
He took the vase in his hands, swirling it, inspecting the flowers inside of it.
His movements were confident yet gentle, as if handling something precious.
In the kitchen, he emptied the old water from the vase, and the sound splashed against the porcelain sink.
It might have been the way he laid out every flower, every piece of greenery, lining them up one by one on the counter.
It might have been the meticulous care with which he cleaned and rinsed the vase.
I’m not sure what it was, but I couldn’t take my eyes off him.
“You need to change out the water every few days,” he explained.
“The older the water is, the more bacteria, which makes them wilt faster.” He pulled out a knife, flipped it open, and began cutting the stems, the blade butting against his thumb with every slice.
“New cuts in the stems help them absorb water better.”
Once satisfied, he refilled the vase with fresh water, a smile lingering as he observed me. “Now…” he said, rubbing his hands together. “Do you have some bleach?”
“For what?”
“Flower food.”
I nodded, walking to the utility closet where I kept Walt’s cleaning supplies, and set it on the counter before him just as he pulled a can of Sprite out of his pocket.
“You just happened to have a Sprite in your pocket?”
“Yeah. I figured your flowers would need to be refreshed. I brought one just in case.” He mixed the liquids together. “A little water, a little Sprite, and a few drops of bleach to kill bacteria,” he said.
“I didn’t know flowers needed so much care,” I admitted.
“Flowers,” he began, his Adam’s apple bobbing as he swallowed, “aren’t that different than people. They need a little love, a little attention.”
With a final adjustment, he placed the freshly arranged bouquet back on the table. The bright light of midday streamed in through the kitchen window, illuminating the blooms. Jackson stood there, rooted to the spot, and stared at the beauty.
“Was this what you wanted to talk with me about? Did you come here to teach me how to take care of flowers?” I asked.
The me of a few days ago, even a few minutes ago, would have bitten the words out.
I was pleased that this time they sounded warm.
Light. Even a little teasing. I needed to keep working at not reacting but responding.
He leaned against the kitchen counter and hooked his thumbs in his suspenders. “Actually, I came to offer you a job.”
“A…job?”
“I’d like for you to come work with me on the Flower Farm,” he said, holding my gaze. “I know you are heading to Mississippi, but I wonder if there’s any flexibility in your plans. I think it would be good work for you. I think you would like it.”
“But I already have a job.”
“I know you’ve been filling in for Beth, but word has it, she’s returning soon.”
I rolled my eyes. “There really are no secrets around here, huh?”
“What will you do when she comes back?” Jackson asked, gentle but probing.
“I don’t know,” I said, trying to mask the uncertainty creeping in.
“Walt told you about my plans to expand the farm, right? I could really use the extra help.”
“I don’t know if I’m cut out for it.”
“Luke really likes you. And he doesn’t like very many people. He said you were a natural. And you said yourself that you didn’t mind getting your hands dirty.”
“And I’ll be working for you?”
He shook his head, firm and sure. “No one works for me; they work with me. There’s a difference.”
“But you’re the owner.”
“Does that matter?” His eyes locked on mine in challenge.
The idea sounded tempting. It wasn’t just a job offer; it was an invitation to step into something new, to nurture growth in more ways than one.
In the brief time I’d known Jackson, despite my reservations, I had come to respect him.
He was a good man. But I couldn’t do it.
Couldn’t ignore the risks, to him and to his business.
“I’m sorry, Jackson—”
“Jack,” he said with one quick swipe of his hand. “Please call me Jack.”
I cleared my throat, grappling with the words I needed to say. “I appreciate your offer, but I can’t. I don’t know anything about flowers.”
“You don’t have to. I’ll teach you.”
“I don’t have any place to live,” I said, grasping for reasons.
“You can live on the farm.” He said this matter-of-factly, as if counting to ten.
“On the farm? With you?”
He smiled, the kind of smile that takes over an entire face. “Us. Me, Luke, and Tibb.”
“And where would I be sleeping?” I asked, crossing my arms.
“There’s a cabin behind the main house. You can have it.” He looked around. “It’s not as big as this one, but it’s still cozy, and you’d be able to have your privacy. You’d have the only key.”
I knew what he was implying, and that softened me a bit. “Why me? Why do you want me to work for you?”
“With me,” he said, correcting me with unwavering sincerity.
“Why do you want me to work with you?”
For a moment, I thought he wouldn’t answer.
He looked up to the ceiling and sighed. There was something strange, searching, in that breath, that told me he was battling the many possible answers, holding an inner conversation I couldn’t hear.
When he looked at me again with an unexpected intensity, I knew he had settled on something closer to the truth.