Chapter 8
Eight
I was invisible once again.
As I sank into the seat of Jackson’s truck, my heart finally resumed to its normal rhythm, the frantic beats of anxiety giving way to a steadier cadence.
Fifteen minutes ago, I was preparing to disappear into the woods of Gee’s Bend, but time, normally steady and consistent, had skipped ahead.
That plan was gone, and so was the night.
The evening had slipped away, swallowed by an autumn sky that stretched out like a swath of black velvet, lit only by the soft glow of a low-hanging moon.
I had known the bus would be found eventually. And still I wasn’t prepared. Looking back, I realized I shouldn’t have reacted so impulsively; I should have stayed to watch the full news story. The need to escape, to distance myself from the chaos in my mind, had been overwhelming.
I did know one thing: In the eyes of the world, I was no longer a missing person or an escaped convicted felon.
My entire existence had been swallowed up entirely.
It was a cruel joke, but ironic just the same.
To everyone, I was a ghost, a shadow of a person who had ceased to exist. No one would be looking for me, no one searching for my name.
“Leigh?” Jackson’s voice broke through my thoughts, his eyes darting between me and the road. “Are you there? Where did you go?”
“Huh? W-what?” I stuttered, struggling to return to the present moment.
“Are you okay?”
Was I okay? The question seemed to dissolve into the ether. I was dizzy, the kind of lightheadedness that comes from standing too quickly, but after a moment, it passed. The world felt as if it had been tipped and then resettled again.
“Yeah…I’m just trying to catch my breath,” I said, my voice shaky as I exhaled slowly. I glanced at my hands, expecting them to be shaking too.
“You scared the hell out of me. I didn’t know what was going on.”
“I’m sorry. I was just trying to catch you before you left.”
“You couldn’t have waited until the morning?”
“I just…had to get out of there,” I said, the words pouring out. “I knew that Walt would be at the town hall…and…I’m not good with goodbyes.”
Jackson fell silent, his gaze fixed on the dark road ahead as though searching for answers in the distance. After a moment, he broke the stillness. “But what made you change your mind about working with me?”
“I need a fresh start.” This I said with conviction because it was the truth. Or a version of it. Lying is easy as long as you choose the right words and add a touch of sincerity. I had been granted a second chance and needed a new start. The thought was thrilling. Terrifying, but thrilling.
Though Jackson nodded as if he understood, there was a subtle rigidity in his posture, the way his shoulders tensed that showed his doubt.
He didn’t know me and had every reason not to believe me.
But despite it all, he did. Or at least, he believed that the danger was real to me even if the story wasn’t.
And so, as he often did with the half-truths I fed him, he let it go.
I wondered how much longer he would allow them to pile up.
Jackson shifted his weight. “If you’re going to work with me,” he began, his voice steady with an undercurrent of seriousness, “there are a few things you need to know. I don’t like it when people lie to me.”
There was a space between his next words, each second as heavy as the last. I held my breath, waiting with expectation.
“We’re a family, and trust is at the heart of everything we do. We rely on each other. It’s not just practice, but an act of survival. There’s a lot of work that needs to be done, and I need to know about everything that happens. With this new expansion, I can’t afford to make any mistakes.”
With a jolt, I suddenly realized the gravity of my situation, of what I had done, with alarming clarity.
A heaviness filled my chest. I wasn’t really dead.
Clean slate or not, in the eyes of the law, I was still a fugitive.
And now, with one quick decision, I’d placed Jackson in a unique position: harboring a criminal.
An hour ago, Jackson had stood in front of the entire town and unveiled his ambitious project.
Now my presence put him, his project, and his farm at risk.
“I think I made a mistake,” I mumbled.
Jackson must have seen the panic in my eyes. “Wow, I scared you off already? That didn’t take long.” He chuckled, attempting to inject some humor. But when his joke didn’t land, he lowered his tone. “Leigh, you’re safe now.”
It wasn’t just a reassurance, but a promise, and I felt the safety in that.
A look passed between us, a moment of silent understanding, one that neither of us broke immediately.
This was the moment I grasped the true depth of his perception, not only that he knew there was more to me and my past than met the eye, but also a level of patience that came along with it.
In that moment, in that look, Jackson communicated a promise that transcended mere words: No matter what, here—with him—I was safe.
Jackson cleared his throat, the rasp cutting through the stillness like a taut string.
He squared his shoulders and began to lay out the framework of my new job.
“Let’s talk about the rules. It’s late, so I’ll hit the highlights now, and we can go over the rest tomorrow.
Flower farming is tough physical labor. Tougher than anything you’ve probably ever done.
With the expansion, we are going to be clearing a lot of land, prepping it for sowing, while keeping the main farm on schedule.
We work twelve-hour days, six days a week.
Saturdays are reserved for farm visits and rentals.
Sometimes we rent out the space for weddings and such.
We eat breakfast and dinner together, alternating who cooks every day.
If it’s your turn to cook, you are responsible for both meals.
Lunch and snacks are on your own. Pay is weekly. ”
“Cash?” I asked.
He eyed me. “If that’s what you need.”
“Yes, that would be great.”
“All right, that’s settled, then. How does all of that sound?”
“Everything sounds good to me,” I said, not yet believing my words.
“One last thing,” he said as we pulled into the farm. Jackson turned the truck off and pivoted his whole body to face me. “What’s your plan here, Leigh?” His eyes locked onto mine. “How long do you plan on staying? Because this project is very important to me. I need you.”
I hesitated, torn between telling him the truth and a lie, even if the truth was that I didn’t know the answer because I had not considered any of this before this moment.
I was not supposed to be here. He was not supposed to offer me this job.
None of this should have happened. But I did know that he had taken a chance on me, and I could do the same for him. There would be no turning back now.
“I’ll stay until the project is up and running,” I assured him, striving to sound confident.
“Is there anything else I need to know? Is there anything you need to tell me?” Jackson’s questions hung in the air.
My breath caught in my throat, an audible snag that he must have heard.
“We don’t have to hide our scars here,” he said, gazing at my trembling hands.
Without him saying so, I knew what he meant. Later, I would come to understand what exactly those scars, physically and emotionally, were.
“‘We’?”
“We all have them.”
“What if most of my scars are invisible?” I whispered.
“No scars are invisible,” he said, his voice gentle. He waited a moment for me to speak, and when I didn’t, he said, “Whenever you’re ready, Leigh, I’ll listen.”
“Not yet” was all that I said.
We got out of the truck, the dust swirling and settling, and Jackson grabbed my bags.
On our way to the farm, we had stopped at the campground to pick them up.
Before I could fully process my new home, we were greeted by Luke and Tibb.
Luke swept me up in a bear hug, twirling me around twice.
His laughter echoed in the open air, a sound as hearty as the land around us.
“I am so happy you agreed to come work with us,” Luke said, his green eyes alight with sincere joy.
“Put her down,” Tibb teased. His words held an accent I couldn’t identify. “Let her at least get a day’s work in before you make her change her mind.” Tibb turned to Jackson and whispered something, as short as two words, in a different language. Jackson nodded in agreement.
Tibb’s appearance was strikingly refined, as if sketched by an artist’s hand.
Such a contrast to the dirt and mud underneath his feet and to Jackson’s lumberjack ruggedness and Luke’s boyish farmer charm.
What a trio they made. Tibb looked like he had wandered in from a world far more sophisticated than this one.
He had a complexion as golden as buttermilk and blackish curls gathered into a neat ponytail.
His frame was tall and slender, and his movements retained a fluid grace that made his presence seem both authoritative and gentle.
His eyes, a light shade of brown, held a focus that spoke of hidden depths.
“You must be the Leigh everyone’s been talking about,” Tibb said, his voice flowing with a smooth cadence. “I’m Franklin Thibodeaux, but they all call me Tibb.”
“Five…four…three…two…one,” Luke counted off, leaning against Jackson with a playful smirk, his arm draped across Jackson’s shoulders. “I’m from Louisiana. I’m Creole,” Luke said in an exaggerated version of Tibb’s accent.
“I am from Louisiana,” Tibb said crisply, shooting a bird to Luke. “And you, Leigh, hail from…”
“South Carolina” I said.
“Oh, a country girl. What part?” Tibb asked.
Before I could respond, Jackson interjected, “All right, guys, let’s save the questions for Leigh until breakfast tomorrow. I need to get her settled in the cabin.”