Chapter 11
Eleven
Expansion work on the farm officially began.
We kicked things off by prepping the Sutterfield lot. Jackson planned on growing a staggering amount of flowers on it, so we had a lot of groundwork to cover and a lot of soil to build. “You get out what you put in,” he said, his eyes focused on the bigger picture.
And we were definitely putting in a lot.
We started by putting down a thick dark layer of compost over each bed, spreading it out as evenly as possible.
It was all hands on deck. Jackson purchased the compost by the dump-truckload, and it sat like a small mountain at the edge of the field.
We all took turns shoveling it into wheelbarrows and moving it into place; the sounds of shovels scraping and wheels turning filled the mornings.
The compost was heavy and earthy, smelling of decay and life all at once, and it took us days to spread it.
Sweat soaked through our shirts, but we kept at it.
Once the compost was down, we walked through the beds, dusting them with a generous amount of fertilizer.
The small granules glittered in the sun as we scattered them over the compost. Then we tilled it all into the soil.
Since Luke had been sidelined from chainsaw duty, Jackson put him in charge of the tiller.
Luke, always a good teacher, let me ride along with him and showed me the ropes.
The earth gave way beneath the blades, softening and loosening, ready to hold the new plants.
Over the next few days, we focused on laying down the drip-irrigation lines, unrolling and weaving them through the beds, then burying them just beneath the surface. Finally, we covered the beds with pre-burnt landscape fabric, securing them with metal pins as the sun began to dip behind the trees.
Later that evening, we all piled in the main house and brought our smells from the day with us—a pungent mix of sweat, musk, dirt, and sunshine.
For the first time, I decided to indulge in the luxury of a shower inside while they were home.
Showering indoors with them around felt too intimate, a boundary I had hesitated to cross.
But now I felt determined to show Jackson that I was willing to make the effort.
After dinner, I offered to clean up again, scrubbing the remnants of dinner from the table.
Luke had prepared his version of spaghetti and meatballs.
The pasta was al dente to the point of rawness, the sound like chewing an apple, and the meatballs were overcooked lumps.
But this meal was more edible than his breakfast, and we all ate it without complaint.
It was Friday, and everyone seemed preoccupied.
Jackson left the table first to shower, followed by Tibb.
“Hot date,” he said, leaving me and Luke alone at the table strewn with crumbs and empty dishes.
I knew Luke wanted to go see his sister, so I volunteered once again to clean for him.
He hugged me tight before heading out the door.
I spotted Carly before she saw me. I was crossing the kitchen to bring a couple more plates from the table to the sink when I saw her in the doorway.
She looked up from digging in her purse, her fingers skimming over the contents, and stopped when she noticed me.
For a split second, we just stared at each other, her posture tense.
“What are you doing?”
I didn’t hear the harshness of her tone—not really.
I was too busy looking at her. Denying her beauty would have been as absurd as denying the sun’s warmth.
She wore a black dress that clung to her, paired with black heels that made her seem almost statuesque.
The faint shimmer of her makeup made her skin glow, soft and luminous, as if she’d stepped from the air itself, a creature of light rather than flesh.
The lines of her face, sharp yet softened, seemed almost too perfect.
“Washing dishes,” I said, my hands now submerged in soapy water.
“Where’s Jack?”
“He’s in the shower.”
Her lips curled into a satisfied smile. “We’re going out tonight.”
“Have fun,” I said, my voice even. I didn’t know what kind of game she was playing, but I wanted no part of it. I dried my hands on the dish towel.
“Oh…we will.”
Just then, Jackson walked into the kitchen.
I smelled him before I turned around, his earthy scent—of cedar and musk, a breathy trail of lavender threading through it—beating him into the kitchen.
It was like looking at him for the first time.
He wore a pair of khaki slacks instead of his usual carpenter pants, and a white collared shirt behind a navy sweater.
He looked good, different but the same, and my heart tugged at the sight of him.
His eyes darted from me to Carly. “I didn’t know you were already here.” His tone was as gentle as a whispering breeze.
She crossed the kitchen and adjusted his collar. Her hands lingered on his chest, smoothing out the minor creases with a possessive grace, marking her territory. “Are you ready to go?” she purred.
Jackson coldly moved away from Carly and took a step closer to me, a look of mild concern crossing his face. “I didn’t realize you were still here. Everything okay?”
“Yeah, I’m just finishing up,” I said, wiping down the counter and folding the towel across the sink.
“You keep cleaning up after Luke, and he’s going to get spoiled.”
“He wanted to go see Heather. It’s the least I can do. Since you won’t allow him near a chainsaw.”
Jackson laughed. “This”—he pointed to the scab over his eye—“is because of him. I don’t want to lose an eye next time.”
“Luke did that?” I asked. “Well, at least you get to add to your scar total.”
Carly sighed, loud and insistent, an unwelcome intrusion. We had forgotten she was there. “Jack,” she whined, her voice rising a pitch, “we’re going to be late.” She grabbed his hand and laced her fingers through his, a gesture both intimate and commanding.
“Good night, Jackson,” I said.
“Good night, Leigh,” he said, his gaze lingering for a brief moment before he followed Carly out the door.
As I walked toward my cabin, an unease held me in its grasp, a snarling mosquito that danced just beyond the edges of my awareness.
But I wasn’t ready to go in yet, so I kept walking.
An undercurrent of something that I could not yet voice gripped me.
It was an empty, anxious feeling, the nagging worry that you’d left the stove on or had forgotten to lock the front door.
Panic rose, only to settle as I reminded myself that everything was fine.
As I walked, the question echoed in my mind: What was I going to do with this strange new life?
I couldn’t answer that for sure. I didn’t know.
A pang of sadness gripped me as I confronted the smallness that had become my life.
The memory of the bus crash had slowly faded into the background.
I didn’t have any hobbies, not even in prison.
I’d learned to read, but it was a necessity, not a hobby done for fun.
And there was something else: Jackson’s relationship with Carly nagged at me.
It was none of my business, their connection, and I had no right to intrude upon them.
Yet the dynamics of their relationship clung to my thoughts like static.
I had met Carly only twice, but in those brief encounters, I’d glimpsed an ugliness that lurked beneath the surface of her beautiful face.
Women like Carly populated the world, women who had everything—the looks, the body, the confidence that seemed to radiate effortlessly.
They possessed every material and physical advantage yet lacked self-awareness.
Their beauty seemed to mask a deeper flaw, an insecurity that twisted their hearts into something unkind.
I should know. Mama had become one of those women.
It’s a harsh truth to face, your mother being jealous of her own daughter. Lila.
Mama’s relationship with Deacon Ridley had replaced her relationship with Daddy.
Daddy didn’t know, wasn’t there to notice that the sun didn’t rise and shine around him anymore.
Deacon Ridley became Mama’s escape, her ticket to a new life away from the trailer.
She’d slip out on Fridays, the front door creaking behind her, and we wouldn’t hear from her until Sunday night.
By then, the soft buzz of the television was the only thing keeping me and Lila from feeling forgotten.
Thank God for Ms. Byrd, who would stop by with a casserole and check on us. We weren’t invisible to her.
But after every long weekend, Deacon Ridley always returned Mama to us, sometimes with her hair tousled, sometimes with a new dress she hadn’t worn before, and always with that far-off look in her eyes.
This cycle went on for five years. Mama tried to smile like everything was still normal, even though she knew what we learned later: Deacon Ridley was married and had no intention of replacing his wife with Mama.
But that didn’t stop Mama from trying, her hopes tucked into the corners of every goodbye, every quiet kiss at the door.
It never stopped, not even when the light in her eyes dimmed a little more each time.
When Lila was sixteen and I was seventeen—old enough to see what was happening but too scared to name it—Deacon Ridley’s attention started to shift to Lila.
It wasn’t sudden, but it was unmistakable.
From the first time he visited our trailer, he had always watched her, his eyes lingering just a little longer than they should.
I never knew if it was her face or the way her body began to fill out, but something in the way he looked at her felt different as he watched her grow from a little girl to a developing young woman.