Chapter Twenty-Seven
May your eyes never shed such stormy, scalding, heart-wrung tears as poured from mine.
My plan is this: drive into Sugar Pine, get a cup of coffee, and go from there. As plans go, it’s not worth a plod nickel. But it’s all I’ve got.
It takes a while, packing up my stuff and then cleaning up the trailer. But I refuse to leave a mess for someone else to deal with—even now, even after everything. Then comes the worst part—saying goodbye to the horses.
I won’t dwell on all the sad details.
Once I drive off, the road to Sugar Pine rolls out ahead of me. And the mountains do something unfair with the sunrise. Burnished orange mixed with bright lavender. It’s a sky that has no business existing on the worst morning of my life. I almost can’t appreciate it. Almost.
Yet there’s something about Colorado that already feels more like home than Kentucky ever did. Given the circumstances, coming to this realization is a tad inconvenient. Because what exactly am I supposed to do with the information?
Howl Coffee has just flipped its sign to Open when I pull up. Inside, a barista with purple hair takes my order, and I’m so hollowed out that I don’t even try to be charming.
“Will that be all?” she asks.
“Yes, please.”
She slides my mug across the counter, then adds a scone on a plate beside it.
“I didn’t order that.”
“On the house.” The look she gives me is gentle and knowing, the look of a woman who has seen some mornings.
Her kindness shoots straight to my heart.
“Thank you.” I leave it at that, because if I say anything else, I’ll start crying here in this coffee shop at six in the morning. But I have some dignity left. Not much, but some.
I find a table—not hard, since it’s just the two of us in here—and pull out my phone. I sip. I nibble. I type “Colorado horse ranches hiring” into the search bar and stare at the results like they might rearrange themselves into a plan.
“Jane?”
When I look up, there’s Marigold, standing in front of me. Strange. I didn’t hear her come in.
She looks even more vivid than usual—plum-colored athletic leggings, a blue shirt (the type that wicks away moisture), and fancy running shoes. Her hair is up in a ponytail, and her cheeks are pink, even though it’s not cold out.
“Hey,” I say. “Sit with me.”
Marigold slides into the other chair at my table. She glances at my tear-streaked face and then at my shaking hands. “You okay?” she asks, her voice soft as fleece.
“No,” I reply. “But I can’t tell you what’s wrong. It’s too complicated. Besides, it’s not my story to tell.”
“Now, how can that be?” Her expression quizzical, she tilts her head. “Whatever upset you—it’s part of your story. But if you don’t want to talk about it, I understand.”
“Thank you.”
We sit in a hush, Marigold fiddling with her shirt sleeve, me crumbling the scone into tiny bits I can’t bring myself to eat. The purple-haired barista floats over, tops off our mugs, and disappears, leaving us in a bubble of silence.
My eyes drift over to my purse. Sticking out of it is my copy of Escape from the Springs. I reach for the book and show it to Marigold. “Funny coincidence, huh?”
She raises her eyebrows but otherwise seems unsurprised.
“Was this . . .” I wave the paperback ever so slightly “. . . your story to tell?” Instantly, my cheeks turn hot. “Sorry. That was rude. I didn’t mean to imply—”
“No, no,” Marigold cuts me off. “I appreciate the question. Usually, people either round-aboutly imply that I didn’t write the book, or they fling gotcha questions at me, trying to trap me in a lie.
Not to mention all the gossip, things said behind my back.
It’s been well over thirty years, and somehow, people can’t let go.
” She smirks. “But that’s partly my fault.
I figure that there’s no such thing as bad publicity.
So sometimes I say cryptic things just to feed the rumor mill. ”
Despite myself, I laugh. “Here’s what I don’t get. By now, everyone knows that your first husband, James, disappeared while hiking. But he’d been declared dead for two years before you published Escape from the Springs. Which means he would’ve had to write it from the grave.”
“Unless . . .” Marigold leans forward and gives me a conspiratorial wink “. . . James is still alive, and he sent me the manuscript.”
“Seems far-fetched.”
“Mmm.” She sips her coffee. “Yes. But according to many, not too far-fetched. It’s easier to believe that could happen than a young widow would process her grief by writing a happily-ever-after for her dead husband, from his point-of-view”
I bite my bottom lip. For some reason, my tears are threatening to resurface. “Yeah,” I manage to say. “Well, no matter what, you wrote an excellent book. It’s one of my favorites.”
“Thank you, Jane.” Marigold volunteers a relaxed smile.
We sit in comfortable silence for a bit.
“You remember when I told you that I was engaged before?” I ask suddenly.
“Of course, hon,” Marigold answers.
I let out a soft chuckle. “At our engagement party, I asked my soon-to-be ex if he believed in fate. He laughed it off, but that’s something I used to think about a lot. Like, are we in control of our destinies, or are all our choices predetermined?”
Marigold’s eyes grow wide. “Have you come to any conclusions?”
“Only sort of,” I say. “Funny thing—once I actually chose something for myself by moving out here, I stopped thinking about fate. But now, while I still believe that I can make my own choices, it’s become crystal clear that other people make their own choices too.
Which results in . . .” I sigh “. . . chaos.”
“True.” Marigold regards me. “Does that mean you’re heading back to Kentucky, or . . . ?”
“Not sure.” I hesitate. “I’m figuring out next steps. Problem is, I’ve run out of options.”
Marigold reaches across the table and squeezes my hand. “I’ve been there, and I know how hard it is, feeling that way. But you haven’t run out of options. And you never will.” She leans in closer. “Sorry, is this weird? I’ve never been good at pep talks.”
I shake my head. “It’s not weird. You’re doing great. I just feel so . . . adrift.”
Marigold holds my gaze, her eyes full of empathy.
“You know,” she starts, “I had never even been west of Ohio when I first drove out here. I was twenty-four. James and I were newlyweds, and my only job experience was as an assistant manager at B. Dalton.” She checks my face for understanding.
“They were this bookstore chain that was in, like, every mall, back in the ’80s.
” Her hand strays to the back of her head, fingers fiddling with her ponytail.
“James was a journalist in DC, but he heard about this bookstore that was for sale in this great Colorado small town, and wouldn’t it be wonderful, him and me running the business together while he wrote the next great American novel? ”
I lean in. Marigold is obviously a great storyteller. Already, I need to know what happened next.
“But then, after he disappeared, I just . . . stayed,” she says, offering a helpless half shrug.
“Everyone assumed I’d leave. But I couldn’t let go.
Isn’t that funny?” She grins, all teeth.
“Even when the man you thought you’d anchor yourself to is gone, somehow you still find ways to tether yourself to something solid. ”
I stare into my mug, the last quarter-inch of coffee swirling slowly at the bottom. “Yeah,” I say, “it’s funny.” My voice sounds dull, so I clear my throat. “So why did you stay? If it was so painful?”
She shrugs, but it’s a loaded gesture. “I figured I could be sad anywhere. Why not be sad in one of the most beautiful small mountain towns in the US?” She tips her head toward the window, which reveals what looks to be another gorgeous day in Sugar Pine.
“And then, Rose—I mean Axel Rose, who’d been my best friend since middle school—she came for a visit.
It was serendipity, because that’s when she met Rob, the man who became her husband.
And suddenly, I had another reason to stay.
Not to mention, the town became the inspiration for my writing career.
” She tilts her head to the side, meeting my gaze.
“A lot of things fell into place. But that’s often how life works. ”
“Is it?” I ask. “Because I haven’t yet experienced that—things falling into place.”
“Well . . .” Marigold looks up toward the ceiling, chest rising and falling.
“I suppose I’ve only ever experienced it when I stop trying to make all of life’s pieces fit together.
” Her gaze returns to me. “Like, when I wrote Escape from the Springs. I never got the closure of a funeral, or even a chance to say goodbye. That book was my way of saying goodbye to the man I loved, and maybe also to the life I thought I was going to have.” She’s not crying, but there’s something a little naked about the way she says it.
“That’s how I know you’ll be okay, Jane.
You’ve got enough strength to get yourself through.
And sooner or later, your next chapter will start.
Just open yourself up to the possibilities. ”
I try to envision my “next chapter.” There’s a sharp pain behind my ribs, somewhere between hope and dread. “What if I can’t? Maybe I’m one of those people who’s doomed to make the same mistake over and over.”
“Oh, sweetheart.” Marigold pushes her empty cup aside and folds her hands. “That’s everyone. But then again, we’re all the masters of our own chaotic fate. At least that’s what I believe.”
She stands, stretches, and pulls out her phone. The gesture is so normal, so un-writerly, I almost laugh.
“I should get going,” she says. “Need to get some writing done before the morning slips away.” Marigold reaches into her purse and grabs a Sharpie.
“I always carry one of these. They’re perfect for signing books.
” Then she grabs my copy of Escape from the Springs.
“Hope you don’t mind,” she says, her Sharpie poised over the book’s first page.
“I’d be honored,” I reply.
Marigold smiles, scribbles what I assume is her name, hands the book back to me, and is on her way.
Once she’s gone, I open the book and read what she wrote:
Jane, if you ever need help discovering your next chaos-filled chapter, please let me know. —Marigold
Underneath, she wrote her phone number.
My eyes tear up again. Such kindness.
Then I start leafing through the book. My eyes land on the quote: Hiking is a bit like life—summits and peaks, valleys and dips in the trail—all of which require putting one foot in front of the other.
Through perseverance, we embrace chaos. By embracing chaos, we might discover our true selves.
And self-discovery might lead to happiness, might lead to joy, might lead to peace.
My eyes stray from the page to the window, at the store directly across the street. Alpine Adventures. They sell clothes, shoes, backpacks, and equipment for hiking and mountaineering. Then I look at the clock on the wall.
The store won’t be open for several more hours. To kill time, I flip to the first page of Escape from the Springs. After all, what better way to prepare for my next, chaos-filled chapter than by reading this book?