Chapter 27 #2
“We both know I don’t have that kind of restraint.
” We chuckle as we get in the truck. My mind begins thinking up at least a dozen possibilities of what we may find.
Could just be a trail that leads to the same place as the one close by, maybe to another pasture that’s since grown over?
Heck, might be nothing at all. But honestly, I don’t mind wasting the day away doing this.
It’s a welcome distraction, and at least I’ll be in good company.
We sputter to the end of the path and I flip off the truck’s ignition.
“Damn, bit bigger than I remember,” Sawyer mutters as we hop out of the cab.
“That’s what she said.” We both chuckle.
Grabbing the chainsaw from the back of the truck, I make my way toward the trees and pull the ripcord. The motor comes to life right away—something I probably should have checked before we came out here.
Holding it up, I rev the little beast like it’s a machine gun and I’m Arnold Schwarzenegger.
We both laugh as I place the chain on the biggest trunk first, tearing through the wood an inch at a time.
Over the next couple hours, Sawyer and I take turns switching back and forth between using the chainsaw and carrying the pieces out of the way.
The more we do, the more I realize I overestimated the effort it would take.
Or how fucking hot it’d get. But as Sawyer heaves the last chunk off the road, I finally feel a sense of accomplishment.
“See, easy,” I joke, watching as he takes a seat on one of the bigger pieces, sucking in huge lungfuls of air as if he just completed a marathon.
Sweat drips down my body, as I, too, feel hit with exhaustion. Walking over to the truck, I grab each of us a water, thankful that Sawyer thought to bring them. “Good thinkin’ on these,” I say, holding up the bottle. I strip it of its cap, and, in seconds, I down the entire thing.
“So, how was the call with Blake?” My words come out in short spurts as I try to regain my breath.
His face doesn’t give much away as he clears his throat.
“Good…I guess?” He seems unsure of his words, but not pessimistic.
“He mainly expressed his interest in me, and how rare it is to see someone sing on the Westmore’s stage without much of a track-record performing elsewhere.
” A look of doom follows his statement. “I almost slipped up and called Daisy by her name instead of Miss Holloway. I really need to have a conversation with her and how our relationship affects her job. I just keep chickening out.” He huffs.
“I don’t want things to end because of semantics. We can find a way to make things work.”
“Sounds like love to me,” I quip. “Really though, ya seem like you’re both on the same page. I don’t think that conversation will do anything besides strengthen that.”
“Yeah. Speaking of women, don’t think you get off that easy. You find yourself among company last night?”
I consider making a joke at my own expense about Kaylee being so hot that I do, in fact, get off that easy, but I refrain. But I don’t see the harm in mentioning her.
“Yeah, went out for a few drinks at the fair. Came across Kaylee too, believe it or not.”
His lips quirk up as he takes a long swig of his water. “She give you your usual dose of thinly veiled insults and backhanded compliments?”
“Always. The woman can’t help but put me in my place. Came home a little late, stumbled into your house for a snack and a nap instead of my own.” I chuckle, trying to take the attention away from Kaylee and I.
My gaze settles back on the open path we just uncovered. Tall grass and wildflowers still mar the path, along with a generous layer of sawdust shavings. “What ya say we find out where this trail leads?”
There’s a look in Sawyer’s eyes that says he knows there’s more to the story I gave him, but he doesn’t press. He downs the rest of his bottle before replying, “Sounds good.”
We rise in tandem, keeping a steady pace as we walk the nearly forgotten trail. Looking back toward all the work we just did, I feel as if uncovering the dirt road was like finding buried treasure. If I wasn’t so damn tired, I’d run down it just to find the gold.
A large willow comes into view. Each of its branches thriving with greenery. Tucked underneath it looks to be an old building.
“Well, I’ll be damned.”
I lift a branch, ducking below its leaves to get a closer look at our new discovery.
Moss cascades over a majority of the roof of what looks to be an old greenhouse.
Small, unkempt planter boxes adorn the outside and weeds take over an old cobblestone path leading up to the door.
Off to the side sits a small lonely bench.
Fancy iron flowers intertwine under the armrest down to the legs and the remainder of the bench appears to be made from wood.
Handmade and covered with years of vacancy.
We circle the little building, noting a small rain chain that leads into a barrel with a nozzle. It must have been left open, as the bucket seems to have run dry. The wind blows and I close my eyes, appreciating its coolness on my skin in the smoldering heat.
The door is hard to open after years of no use.
I force my weight into it, willing it to budge.
Inside the building is just as lifeless as the outside, and yet it’s almost as if you can sense the life that used to be here.
Tall benches are lined along the walls. Each with pots of all colors spread across their surfaces, small signs labeling what once was—tulips and roses, daisies and begonias.
Each sign written with care, but, unfortunately, only a note to what was, but no longer is.
I walk down the rows, looking inside each and every pot, hoping to see what I know is not there. Life.
“Well this place was clearly Nan’s." Sawyer’s voice breaks the heavy silence hanging in the greenhouse. “I’m kind of surprised Pops never brought it up.”
There’s an odd look on his face. Not quite disappointment, but not necessarily confusion either. Something listless remains in his gaze.
He’s mentioned his Pops a lot, from all the years they lived together before his passing, but never much more than a mention of Nan. I’m sure her early death and her absence from his childhood limited his knowledge of her. I bet this place feels like uncovering a piece of her.
I don’t know much, if any, of their story, but I find myself saying, “Maybe it was too hard.”
I make it to the end of the row and I almost can’t believe what lies before me.
Had I not been looking so intensely, I might not have ever noticed, but in a pot that sits upon a stained-glass plant stand, right below a small hole in the roof, is a single flower.
One that somehow survived the fall of this beautiful place.
And just like all the others, a hand written sign is sunken within its dirt.
I wipe a bit of debris away and peer at the name.
My mouth gapes open as I silently read the words to myself.
Fallen Angel.