Chapter Sixteen
Sixteen
The new year brought not only colder weather but also a new routine.
Our work changed from the hectic pace of the fall into something more relaxed.
As the ground rested for the winter, so did we, though, as I quickly learned, farmers never fully rested.
We put up the hoop houses. The new building’s foundation was poured.
Soon, Tibb would have more room to work on his bouquets, no longer cramped in the small makeshift space.
The new building would also serve as a home for the seed business.
During this time, Tibb carefully curated an inventory of seeds and bare-root plants for the new field and ordered everything from seed-starting mix to buckets to trays.
Luke and I still primarily worked outside, overseeing the inspection of the dahlia tubers in storage, ensuring they remained plump and viable, and stayed protected from mold and dehydration.
Jackson had different responsibilities. After dinner, I would often find him at the kitchen table, his notebook open in front of him, filled with numbers and diagrams. He would see me and smile.
But there was strain in his eyes. Without even snooping in his book, I could guess the reason.
With the expansion and the additional flower fields, I knew he couldn’t afford to hire help for the spring and summer.
He worked hard to make up for it, often the last one to settle in at night and the first to begin his day.
I knew he had borrowed against the farm, and I could tell the thought ate away at him.
He had everything riding on this idea. It had to succeed.
Watching him push himself ignited a fire within me.
Tibb and Luke too, I noticed. Jackson’s dream had become more than just his own; we wanted this with a drive that went beyond supporting him.
The farm’s expansion mirrored changes within me.
Yoga sessions with Tibb became one of my favorite activities.
With every deep breath and slow stretch, I felt a change—not just in my muscles, which tightened and strengthened, but in the way my chest opened, as though I were letting something deep inside me finally take root.
And then there was Jackson. Our nightly walks were a constant now.
Every night, he was there, just as he’d said he would be.
The air would grow cool as we headed down our path.
Sometimes words poured out of me, fragments of my past, memories of Mama and Daddy, moments from a life lived far from the world.
Other nights, I stayed quiet, letting the sound of our steps do the talking.
Jackson knew when to push and when not to.
He listened and absorbed every detail of my life.
I opened the story to him, as slowly as a blooming flower and just as sure.
At a certain point, I wasn’t going to stop.
You may be wondering, I made it all this way only to betray myself?
No. I gave him one flower, not the whole field.
My imprisonment and the truth about my family remained hidden.
I suspected he guessed there was more, as Carly did, but unlike her, Jackson always respected my boundaries and never pushed beyond them. I didn’t fear he’d try to dig in.
Not a day went by that I didn’t think about how I was still a fugitive.
I was aware that every moment I spent here was a quiet gamble, a risk to Jackson and his business.
But my new life on the farm had me in its soft grip now.
Some days it barely brushed against my thoughts, and I even began to wonder if a normal life could be possible.
I had promised Jackson I would remain until the summer.
I wanted to see the expansion through and honor my commitment to him.
I owed him that, and I would do everything I could to pay that debt down.
What was muddier for me was my connection with Jackson.
We spent long days working side by side, and every night, we walked together.
We were growing close despite myself. Each moment with him, I found myself drawn to him, a gravity I couldn’t resist. But I didn’t trust it.
For so many reasons, including one important one: It didn’t feel real.
I guess because I didn’t know what real felt like for me.
I didn’t trust that my feelings were based on anything concrete.
Jackson had taken me in, offered me a home, a job, a safe place to rest. More importantly, he had given me a purpose.
Who wouldn’t fall for a man who had done that?
So, I tried to focus on one thing I knew was true: To experience feelings like these, even if they weren’t something to follow, seemed like a victory in itself.
It was a sign that I was healing. The peace of the farm, the walks with Jackson, the yoga with Tibb—everything was working. I told myself that had to be enough.
One particularly chilly evening, Jackson and I didn’t part at our usual spot midway between our homes, but instead he walked me back to the cabin. He stirred the fire and brought in a few extra logs.
I watched him for a moment. “Can I ask you something? Are you worried that it won’t all work out?”
Jackson picked up a stick, breaking it into small pieces with a sharp crack and throwing them one by one into the fire. “No.” The word slid off his lips without hesitation, as if he had already asked himself the very question, worked it out in his mind, and come to that conclusion.
“That easy, huh? You can just admit that?”
“Sure, what’s there to be afraid of? I’ve leveraged everything for this, taken out a mortgage on the house and the farm.” He laughed. “If this doesn’t work out, I’ll be broke, jobless, and homeless along with Tibb and Luke.”
“Jobless? Homeless?” I repeated the two words that stuck out the most. I knew Jackson had a lot riding on this expansion, but not that much, that the failure not only meant so much more than his reputation.
“I’m human. I can’t completely hold off anxiety. I stopped being afraid a long time ago, but I took that step, shaky legs and all. This project is worth it.”
“Yes, it is,” I said.
“Are you staying warm in here?” he asked.
“Yeah,” I said. “It only gets cold at night when the fire dies down.”
Jackson considered this for a moment before excusing himself with a finger held aloft, indicating he’d return.
A few minutes later, he did, holding a beautiful quilt with concentric squares of red and white strips, with four large blocks made of four smaller blocks.
“Here,” he said, handing it to me. “Use this.”
I held the quilt in my hands, marveling at the craftsmanship before unfolding it. Each block had slightly different arrangements, and the strips around the border were made of different fabrics. “Is this one of the Gee’s Bend quilts?” I asked, knowing it was.
He nodded. “My grandmother made it.”
“I can’t take this,” I said, handing it back to him. “It’s too special.”
“Please,” he said. “I want you to.”
“It’s really beautiful,” I said, running my hands across it. “The stitching and the patterns. Ms. Byrd sewed quilts, but nothing like this.”
“Ms. Byrd…the woman who taught you how to cook?” he asked.
“Yeah…she was a great woman.”
“Where is she now?”
“I don’t know. We lost touch.” It was a version of the truth.
Jackson turned to leave but stopped. “You know what? Come with me.”
Half an hour later, I found myself in a dusty closet with Jackson. The air was heavy with the scent of aged wood. Jackson wrestled with an old refrigerator box, its battered surface a patchwork of fading labels and creases. Inside lay stacks of quilts.
“I can’t believe you stored them in here,” I said, peeking inside.
“It’s where my grandmother and aunt kept them,” he said as he maneuvered the box. “I just never moved them.”
One by one, Jackson pulled out quilt after quilt.
The fabrics were a mosaic of colors and patterns and stitches.
He paused for a moment with each one, his gaze distant, remembering something about it.
“When I still lived with my mom, we’d visit here sometimes…
I don’t remember much about those trips, but I remember standing in this very box, helping my grandmother mash them down.
She would pick me up and put me inside.” A soft smile tugged at the corners of his mouth as he spoke.
“What a memory,” I said, grateful for the private glimpse into his past. “You should at least display them.”
“I do,” he said. “Every year, the Airing of the Quilts Festival. I always have to tell people they’re not for sale; she never wanted that. My aunt wanted them to stay in the family—but always said they could be an insurance policy.”
“No…” I looked over the intricate patterns and colors of each quilt. “Please don’t ever sell them.”
“I don’t think I could ever bring myself to,” he said. “It would have to be an emergency, and I can’t imagine what that could be.”
“But it does feel wrong, keeping them in here like this most of the year. They should be used, celebrated.”
“You’re using one,” Jackson said.
I nodded and pushed myself to hold his gaze. “Yes…why?” My tone was gentle. Before, I would have asked relentlessly, worried about a Trojan horse. Now I asked to understand the gift and the giver. “Why allow me to use one when you don’t even show them, usually?”