Chapter 7 #2
“I saw you at the farmers market before I said anything. I watched you, how you took in every detail of every flower. You were mesmerized by them, like you had never seen flowers before. It was weird, I thought—because of course you’ve seen flowers before.
And I wondered how you could do that, look at something with such innocent appreciation.
And then you show up on the farm out of nowhere and help Luke for no reason.
I knew then it was about more than you just loving flowers.
That there was more to you. A calling for… nature.”
His words rattled something loose in my chest. I, a person born off the grid, invisible to the world, had made an impression.
A mark. Here was a man I had met only a few days ago.
And yet, he had read me, knew me in a way that no one—not Mama, Daddy, or even Lila—had.
Jackson understood a huge part of me without me ever having to say the words.
My hands twitched. I didn’t know what to say.
It would have been easier to tell him that I was leaving.
But honesty demanded a vulnerability I wasn’t prepared to offer—not now.
Telling him the truth would open the door to questions.
Questions I wasn’t ready to answer yet. So I exhaled low and steady, then straightened.
“I wish you luck at the town meeting tonight,” I said, my voice tinged with regret. “but I can’t work for you—with you. I just don’t think it’s a good idea.”
Jackson stepped closer to me, because he knew he could and I knew—he knew—I would let him.
But I took a step back anyway. His knowledge of me and the power he held that he didn’t know he had, unsettled me.
He breathed, the air ragged but calm. His scent reached me, lavender and wood, and the contrast surprised me.
Light and rough. How could something so calm feel so wild?
I tilted my head up to meet his eyes. A beat passed before he spoke, and when he did, the words arrived quiet.
“Do you really believe that?” he whispered. His voice was light enough, but there was something in it, a silent plea I couldn’t ignore. “Tell me you really believe that, and I won’t ask again.”
I swallowed. My pulse hammered in my throat, but I held my ground, forcing my feet to stay planted. “I do.”
He lifted his brows, and a hint of appreciation flickered in his eyes, fleeting yet genuine.
He nodded slowly, his body composed despite the subtle collapse of his shoulders in disappointment.
Crossing the room, he reached for the door and opened it.
Just before stepping through, he paused, the muscles in his back shifting as he turned his head.
“You know where to find me if you change your mind.”
Beth returned the next day. As I worked, I could sense the change in Walt even before he lumbered up the steps of the cabin I had just finished cleaning.
I saw the weariness etched in the slump of his shoulders and the sadness in his eyes.
His familiar shuffle grew louder as he made his way to where I stood, mop bucket in hand.
I set the mop bucket aside and moved to help him up the stairs, extending my arm.
He took it as he always did, grumbling as he always did.
He’d never know how much I appreciated him and his kindness.
As Walt settled into one of the chairs on the porch, I sensed the weight of the unspoken words he carried.
“Beth’s back,” he said finally.
“You don’t have to say it, Walt,” I said softly, my tone a gentle caress against the tension in the air. “I know, and it’s fine.”
He looked at me then, his eyes weary but sincere. “You know I’d keep both of you on if I could,” he said, the cane’s rhythmic tapping emphasizing the finality. “I just can’t.”
“Walt…I’m fine. I’ll be fine.”
His stare lingered, as if searching for a truth he could hold on to.
“You can stay in the cabin until you figure out what you want to do,” he said.
There was an undercurrent of concern in his tone.
I knew he wanted to ask me about my next move, and I silently prayed that he wouldn’t.
I didn’t want to tell him that this was going to be our last interaction, that my few belongings were packed and ready, and I planned to leave that night while he was away at the town hall.
“I appreciate that,” I said. “And I thank you for giving me this job and a place to live. And for bringing me lunch every day.”
Walt’s gaze softened further. In that moment, words fell away, leaving only the quiet space of our mutual respect and gratitude.
As the afternoon faded, I prepared to leave.
Nighttime seemed the safest time to go, when most of the town would be at the town hall, including Walt.
I would slip away unnoticed, catch the last ferry to Gee’s Bend, and disappear into the woods—out of reach, out of sight.
As the hours ticked by, I grew more nervous by the second.
I tidied the cabin, made the bed, washed the dishes, and swept the dirt from the front porch.
My bags were ready by the door as I took one last, reflective stroll around the campground.
However, as I rounded the corner back to my cabin, I saw Walt on my porch.
“Ah,” he said, hobbling down the stairs one at a time. “I see you changed your mind about the town hall. I figured you might.”
I faltered. “I haven’t changed my mind,” I said with a nervous laugh. “I was just taking a walk.”
“It’s only polite to thank him for the flowers,” he said, waving his hand toward his truck. “Get in. I’ll drive.”
“I better not. I’m kinda tired, so I think I’m just going to go to bed.”
“Are you feeling sick?”
“Yeah…” I said, then cleared my throat. “I think I might be coming down with something.”
“Nothing a little castor oil can’t clear up. We’ll get some on the way.”
“I don’t want you to get sick.”
Walt laughed. “A few little germs ain’t gonna kill me. If it ain’t killed me now, it ain’t goin’ to. I’m gonna live forever. C’mon, let’s go.”
When we arrived at the hall, the room swelled with eager murmurs, a hive of anticipation buzzing beneath the vaulted wooden ceiling.
It was as though the space itself breathed with the warmth of shared purpose and the electric crackle of communal energy.
Voices rippled as the crowd surged and swirled, filling every nook and cranny with restless energy.
Walt managed to find a spot near the front, close to the stage.
But in the labyrinth of bodies, I easily lost him, and maneuvered my way toward a spot near the back door, the perfect position to slip out.
I had missed the last ferry, but I would still leave tonight. After going back to the cabin for my supplies, I would walk to the pier and camp for the night there, ready for the first morning ferry.
Just before the meeting started, Jackson, Luke, another man—Tibb, I assumed—and the man I overheard was Mayor Edmund entered from a doorway behind the stage.
After the small group spoke privately for a few minutes, the mayor approached the podium while the rest of the men sat in chairs just off the side.
Those not immediately hushed by his approach quieted when Tibb stood and cleared his throat, scanning the crowd.
“Thank y’all for being here tonight,” Mayor Edmund said.
“I’d like to call this special town meeting to order.
Tonight we have Jackson Shepherd, owner of the Flower Farm on Gee’s Bend, here to present to you an interesting project.
He will speak to you for a few minutes, and then we’ll turn it over for questions.
” The mayor angled toward Jackson and motioned for him to join him.
Jackson approached the podium, its wooden form barely reaching his waist, resembling more of a stool than something Jackson would lean on. Mayor Edmund, a squatty man with a balding head, extended the microphone to Jackson, but Jackson waved him away.
“I’ve never liked or needed one. Can everyone in back here me?” His booming voice reverberated off the walls. I felt the bass in the back of the hall, and others nodded and murmured in agreement.
“Thank you, Mayor Edmund, and thank y’all for allowing me to speak today.
I promise not to take up much of your time,” Jackson began, his voice steady amid the hushed audience.
“There’s no need for formalities. We’re having a conversation, so if you have questions at any time, just shout them out and I’ll answer them. ”
He paused and scanned the crowd before continuing. I stepped behind a tall man so that I was out of view.
“Like Mayor Edmund said, my name is Jackson Shepherd, and I’m the owner of the Flower Farm in Gee’s Bend. Some of you may know me. I sell flowers in the parking lot of Piggly Wiggly on Saturday mornings.”
He paused, letting the familiarity settle like flour before continuing. “When I took over the farm from my uncle five years ago, the population of Camden was two thousand twenty. Now it’s under eighteen hundred. Camden is fading, and I want to change that.”
“By stealing our land?” a man’s voice cut through the murmurs of the crowd. From the start, it was clear that word of Jackson’s plan had spread through the town, and with it, questions and concerns.
“I want to start a flower farm cooperative,” Jackson said, emphasizing the last word. “But I need your help.”
“You expect us to come work on your farm?” another man asked. “Hell, I can barely get people to apply and work at my restaurant. Nobody wants to work anymore.”
“I think we know that’s not true,” Jackson said calmly. “They don’t want to do that type of work anymore.”
A collective gasp swept through the crowd, followed by a drawn-out exhalation and then a wave of whispers and rumblings that filled the room like a rising tide.
A woman rose from her seat, her voice clear and strong over the crowd. “And you think they want to work twelve hours a day, outside in the Alabama heat, planting flowers?”