Chapter 20
Twenty
Two weeks before the farm’s grand reopening, Jackson and I headed to West Blocton.
He still hadn’t told me what we would be doing, and I surprised myself by realizing I didn’t care.
With Jackson, the comfort of routine and the moments we created together became my world, my everything.
I guess that’s what happens when you’re happy, when you’re as happy as you’ve ever been in your entire life.
Because when you’re happy, the only direction you can look is forward.
But Carly’s visit snapped me out of the romantic bubble I had encased myself in, and now, with the grand opening fast approaching, I wanted to cherish every remaining minute that I had with him.
I sat close beside him in the truck’s cab, close enough to rest my head on his shoulder, for his arm to curve around me, pulling me tight against him.
We rode with the windows rolled down, the wind blowing through my hair.
I’d given up on taming it, letting the curls coil down my back.
I told myself to remember this, the hum of the engine, the gentle rise and fall of Jackson’s breath, and the occasional sweet surprise of his kisses as he drove.
I tried to lock it all away, to remember this perfect piece of time.
Hours later, the truck rumbled into a small, unassuming town, and Jackson cut the engine with a definitive turn of the key.
I glanced around, taking in the sleepy street with small shops.
My gaze fell upon a vibrant banner arching across the main street.
The words CAHABA LILY FESTIVAL fluttered in the breeze, bright against the clear sky.
“A flower festival?” I asked, teasing. “What’s a Cahe…”
“Kuh-hah-buh,” Jackson pronounced, extending his hand to help me out of the truck. “Not just any flower festival. It’s the only festival that honors the Cahaba lily.”
“What’s a Cahaba lily?”
Jackson smiled, the kind that made his eyes light up. “My favorite flower.”
“I never knew you had a favorite flower.”
“Now you do,” he said, winking.
“It must be some flower if there’s an entire festival dedicated to it and its your favorite.”
“You’ll see.”
We stepped onto the buzzing sidewalk. People moved around, and the air filled with conversation and laughter as kids darted around the bouncing house. A small crowd gathered around a local news reporter, his microphone extended.
From the crowd, a slender man with a balding head broke away, his face breaking into a wide grin as he hurried toward us with an outstretched hand.
“Glad you could make it this year.”
“I wouldn’t miss it for the world,” Jackson said, gripping his hand. “And I wouldn’t miss Miss Mae’s banana pudding.”
At the mention of pudding, a few of the people nearby laughed, nodding in agreement. It was clear that Jackson was a familiar face here. I stood back for a moment and watched the exchange. This place, and these people, were important to him.
“Dr. Davenport, this is Leigh. Leigh, this is Dr. Larry Davenport. He is recognized as the foremost authority on the Cahaba lily.”
Dr. Davenport extended a hand to me, and I shook it. “This young man is one of a kind. He’s been coming here for the last eight years. We always think it might be the last, but he keeps coming back.”
Jackson waved off the praise with a casual flick of his hand and leaned in to whisper to me, “I told you its Miss Mae’s banana pudding.”
We stepped into the Cahaba Lily Center just as the first speaker approached the podium. The room buzzed with chatter, and volunteers handed us programs as we made our way through the crowd. Jackson, clearly a favorite visitor, greeted several familiar faces with smiles and handshakes.
“They really love you here.”
“It’s not about me,” Jackson said, his gaze sweeping over the crowd with admiration. “It’s about them—the people who’ve spent years, even decades, working to preserve the memory and history of this rare flower.”
I scanned my surroundings. “So…where is it?”
Jackson kissed my forehead. “Just wait. It’ll be worth it.”
The first speaker took the stage and discussed the significance of the Cahaba lily.
One by one, representatives from various environmental organizations followed, each one passionate in their presentation of new findings and conversational efforts.
They spoke of the flower’s resilience in the face of dwindling habitats, the painstaking efforts to protect its fragile ecosystem, and the unique history of the Cahaba River.
I listened intently, drawn deeper into the narrative of the flower and its place in the local culture, feeling an appreciation for not just the lily but the people working to safeguard it.
Then came Dr. Davenport’s turn, delivering his presentation, “Romancing the Lilies.” Jackson leaned close and whispered, “He does this same presentation every year, and it never gets old.”
As Dr. Davenport began speaking, I could see why.
His presentation was a blend of humor and history, delivered with an infectious enthusiasm that had the whole room engaged.
He clicked through the slides, brimming with breathtaking images of the Cahaba lily and its delicate white petals framed against the flowing water of the river.
As he spoke, I learned that they only bloom overnight between Mother’s Day and Father’s Day and last just one day.
They thrive best in swift-moving waters and are found only in Alabama and parts of Georgia and South Carolina.
As his presentation wrapped up, I turned to Jackson and said, “Now, do we get to see them?”
“We eat first,” he said, nodding toward the corner where women were lining tables with large bowls and pans. “It’s a potluck lunch.”
I couldn’t help but smile at the thought of a gathering so rooted in community.
A long line formed, and we joined in. At the end, two women holding bowls and collecting donations greeted us.
Jackson slipped them a twenty-dollar bill, and we moved through a spread of homemade dishes: mashed potatoes, chicken fingers, corn, chicken salad, and an entire table of desserts, including Miss Mae’s famous banana pudding.
Jackson and I ate outside at a picnic table, surrounded by locals and visitors from across the state.
The meal was a warm reflection of the town’s spirit, hearty, unpretentious, and made with love.
As we ate, the hum of conversation created a comforting atmosphere, and I realized that, much like the Cahaba lily, this gathering was a perfect blend of beauty, nature, and the care people invested in preserving both.
“This is what you want, isn’t it? Why the expansion is so important? I mean…I don’t think I really understood it until now.”
Jackson put his fork down slowly and looked around.
“Yeah…West Blocton has about eleven hundred people. You shouldn’t know about this place.
None of the tourists here should. But the people of West Blocton are determined not to be forgotten.
This festival gets bigger every year. They’re not just surviving but leaning into what’s right in front of them.
They are staying alive and relevant by being true to themselves. ”
After we finished eating and disposed of our trash, I noticed a small group of people climbing into white vans around the corner.
“What are those?”
“Shuttles to the river.”
“Now we get to see them?”
Jackson’s eyes twinkled with mischief. “Yes, but we’re not taking a shuttle. I’ll drive us there.”
We followed one of the shuttles for a short distance before turning off the main road and veering down a narrower, less-traveled path deeper into the woods.
“I know of a special spot,” Jackson said with a wink.
Jackson drove for a few more minutes and turned down an unmarked dirt road that wound toward the river. He parked and reached into the truck bed for a woven basket with wine and glasses inside, then tucked his grandmother’s quilt under his arm.
“Ready?” he asked, extending his hand.
I took it, and he guided us down a narrow trail that opened to a secluded spot beneath an oak tree with branches sprawled out wide.
From here, the river stretched out before us, its waters gleaming in the late afternoon light.
In the distance, the white blossoms of the Cahaba lily dotted the water, the distant petals like floating stars.
“Is that them?” I asked.
“Yeah…” Jackson said, staring.
In that moment, it all made sense, why there’s a festival dedicated to them and why everyone loves them so much.
They aren’t just rare and beautiful. They are resilient, their stems anchoring them to the riverbed, while their blossoms stretch outward, their petals unfolding toward the sky as if reaching for something greater.
Jackson spread a blanket first, then the quilt on top, underneath the oak tree, and we sat down, side by side. The world around us stilled, the only sound from the rustling of the wind and the splash of water as the lilies swayed.
“I could stare at them all day. They’re beautiful,” I said.
“We’ll have some lilies on the farm soon. Not these but as close as we can get. I’ll make sure we keep some in the cabin so you can always see them.”
“Good.”
“I knew you would love it here. This…” Jackson said, wrapping his arms around me. “This is what life is all about. The people, the land, everything. It’s all connected.”
I closed my eyes and tilted my face toward the warmth of the sun. The light poured over me, and I breathed, letting the moment fill me, the green of the leaves, the flutter of a butterfly passing by, the way everything in nature flowed together, unhurried and natural.