Chapter Five
Levi
M uted sunlight filtered through the windows, warming the backs of my closed eyelids. Groaning, I rolled over and pulled the quilt over my head, but the thin patches of blanket did nothing to block the sun’s rays. Giving up on seeking refuge in darkness, I sat upright and rubbed my face.
Confusion clouded my thoughts as I glanced around. Why was I sleeping on a twin bed, and where was my phone? I fumbled in the creases of the quilt until I found the device.
It was nine fifty-five in the morning on Sunday. The day after Lillian married Jackson.
She had said “I do,” and I retreated to the cabin like a dog licking his wounds.
I fell back against the old mattress, intent on languishing through the afternoon.
Wait.
My body rocketed up, the image of a red-headed woman flashing through the haze in my mind.
I had to sleep on the twin bed because this mysterious woman woke me in the middle of the night. Was she still here?
I threw off the covers and plodded toward the bedroom wearing only my pants. I’d been too tired to remove them last night. Buckles and buttons didn’t mesh well with my fingers when I was drunk. I must have pulled my T-shirt off because my chest was naked, but I had it on when I answered the door during the night. Right? Did I even go to the door, or was this woman merely a dream?
Approaching the bed where strands of hair the color of autumn maple leaves peeked out from under the blankets, my doubts dissipated.
She was no dream.
What was her name? A flower?
Marigold.
That was it. Marigold.
Yes, it fit her. Her hair was the color of marigolds.
Why did marigolds remind me of something? What was I forgetting? Something more important than a woman? Not likely.
I sat in the desk chair, its worn leather cooling my back. The legs squeaked, but the woman remained undisturbed in her slumber. A brown journal sat open on the desk. Was it one of my dad’s?
No, that didn’t seem right. My brain begged me to remember. But what had I forgotten?
Curious, I leaned closer to decipher the words inscribed on the page.
From a cold night she awoke
Breathless and searching
She was born in mountain cloak
With river eyes
And marigold hair
She wore the scent of pine
Of her love the mountain bespoke
It set her upon her way
She fell upon the doorstep
Of a gentleman astray
The handwriting was mine, but the journal must have been Dad’s.
A hazy recollection emerged from a night fueled by whisky; an attempt to compose a song about Lillian had transformed into this poetic creation.
My intention was to come to the cabin to uncover proof that Dad didn’t die by his hand, yet instead, I found myself immersed in a tale spun under the influence of alcohol. A ballad about a woman. Then I passed out, woke up when Marigold arrived on my doorstep, helped her, and then passed out again.
“Morning,” the woman’s voice said from behind me.
I swiveled in the chair to face her. She sat on the bed, my rumpled T-shirt hanging loose over her shoulders. Did I give that to her?
Yes, I did. In the bathroom.
Fragments of the night began piecing together like scenes from a blurry film reel.
“Morning,” I echoed, pretending she hadn’t startled me. “How are you feeling?”
She eased a freckled hand to her head and winced. The soft morning light filtering through the window exposed all of the freckles and cuts on her skin. “My head hurts.” She relaxed against the pillow. “My whole body hurts.”
Was she wearing a bra? I forced myself to focus on the journal instead of her chest. I didn’t ogle women, even when I was sloppy drunk. Momma taught me better.
She had amnesia, right?
“Do you remember anything?” I asked.
“My name.”
I narrowed my gaze at her. “Only your first name?”
“No, the whole thing. I’m Marigold Anne Rivers.”
Her blue-green eyes struck me at the same time as her surname. I turned to the journal.
With river eyes
And marigold hair
What the . . . ? I snapped the book shut and pinched the bridge of my nose. I must be going mad. “Are you hungry?”
She nodded, grimaced, and placed a gentle hand at the base of her skull.
The gesture reminded me of the bruises on my own face. With any luck, Ezra looked similar. “We’ll go to my momma’s house. She’s a great cook, and she might have something for you to wear.”
The woman covered her chest.
“Sorry, I didn’t mean it like that,” I stuttered. “I meant she’ll have more . . .” Why was I struggling to talk? “Feminine things.”
She uncrossed her hands. “Oh. All right, then.” She stepped out of bed, stretched, and rubbed her eyes. As she passed by, I caught a whiff of pine emanating from her tousled hair.
She wore the scent of pine
A question nagged me, but I ignored it. I was hungover and nothing more.
As I parked in front of the farmhouse, Marigold didn’t move. The morning sun highlighted the cuts on her face, arms, and legs.
I glanced at my momma’s house, trying to see it through her eyes, noticing the weathered shutters and porch in need of a fresh coat of paint. The neglected roof was littered with leaves that should have been cleared months ago.
“Did your mom plant those?” Marigold asked, fixated on the focal point of the front yard.
Momma’s garden.
Red and pink geraniums spilled out of flower pots that lined the wrap-around porch. Beds of marigolds, sunflowers, and Gerber daisies hugged the house.
“Yes.”
She hopped out and slammed the truck door. “I like her already.”
The spicy aroma of bacon greeted us as I pushed open the creaky screen door. Marigold stepped cautiously inside, her eyes darting around as she absorbed every detail.
I brought her here for clothes, yes, but also to ask Momma about her. Momma knew most folks who lived within a fifty-mile radius, and Marigold couldn’t have simply appeared out of nowhere. She must have family somewhere nearby.
“Right on time,” Momma called from the kitchen. “It appalled me when you didn’t show up for church, Levi Shaw, but I figured you’d crawl back down the mountain for a good breakfast.”
Marigold stopped in front of Momma’s hutch adorned with an array of vibrant rooster plates, delicate rooster teacups, whimsical rooster salt and pepper shakers, and various other glass bird trinkets.
“Levi, where are you?” Momma appeared in the dining room through the swinging kitchen door wearing the familiar rooster-themed apron layered over her church dress. Her eyes widened as they fell upon a stranger, a woman engulfed in my oversized clothes without a bra, her gaze fixated on the collection.
“Momma, this is Marigold Rivers.” I introduced her.
Marigold turned toward Momma, tucking strands of her unruly red hair behind her ears before offering a tentative smile.
“Rivers? I don’t know any Rivers. Where are you from?”
I swallowed. This couldn’t be right. She had to know Marigold’s kin.
Momma watched me collapse onto the couch. “You’re more hungover than I suspected,” she said. She turned back to Marigold, waiting for an answer.
“I, um . . .” She twirled a strand of her hair. “I don’t know where I’m from.”
Momma squinted. “Are you on drugs?”
I stood. “No, Momma. She’s hurt and might have amnesia. She knocked on the door after midnight and had a giant gash on her head.”
Momma stared at the ceiling and crossed herself as if she were in church. “The Lord works in mysterious ways. I thought you were crazy when you said you were going to the cabin, but you were following the Lord’s direction.” She smiled at Marigold. “I hope he treated you properly.”
She nodded. “He let me sleep in the master bedroom, although it’s a little out of sorts.”
Momma laughed. “My Duncan always loved that place. God rest his soul. Nobody’s been there since he passed.”
Marigold cast me a look. Her eyelashes framed large oval eyes. Even in the darkened interior I could make out the blue-green color.
“Come into the kitchen,” Momma said.
Marigold pointed at the glass doors of the hutch. “I like your collection.”
Momma’s face brightened at the compliment. She was the only person I knew who cared a lick about roosters. Most people, including me, found them to be annoying. But not Momma. “You do?”
“She’s kidding,” I said. She had to be.
“No,” Marigold insisted. “I admire roosters. They speak up when no one asked them to.”
Momma shot me a pointed I-told-you-so look.
Marigold perched on a stool at the kitchen island as Momma flipped sizzling bacon and fluffy pancakes. I concocted my signature hangover remedy, a steaming mug filled with half coffee, half milk, crowned with a dollop of whipped cream and a sprinkle of cocoa powder.
“Want one?” I asked Marigold, raising my mug.
“What’s in it?”
Her freckled nose wrinkled in distaste as I told her. “No thanks.”
“What do you like to drink?
She thought for a moment. “Pink lemonade mixed with sweat tea and crushed mint leaves.”
“That sounds heavenly,” Momma chimed in. “Levi, will you pour her a cup of orange juice?” She beat the skillet of eggs on the stovetop coils.
I sipped my hangover brew before grabbing the orange juice pitcher. “That stove coil is on the fritz. Momma won’t let me hire someone to fix it.”
Momma held the skillet aloft until the coil turned orange. “It’s not broken, just testy.”
Marigold rounded the island, popped the dial off, inspected it along with the misbehaving coil, and said, “If you have a toolbox, I think I can fix it once it’s cooled.”
“You fix stoves?” I said, incredulous.
She shrugged and returned to her chair. “I enjoy fixing things.”
I set the juice down on the counter in front of her. “You don’t know where you came from, but you know you like roosters and fancy lemonade, and you know how to fix busted appliances?”
“I wish I could remember more. I sense who I am, but I can’t see the entire picture. It’s like looking through your periphery.”
“You poor dear,” Momma said, expertly flipping a bubbling pancake.
“Are you sure you don’t know a family with the surname Rivers?”
Momma slapped a pancake onto a plate. “I’ve never heard that name around here. I’ve also never seen a man or a woman with your shade of hair. I expect it’s genetic.” She returned her attention to Marigold. “You can’t remember anything else, dear?”
She squirmed. “No.”
“I’m sorry. I don’t mean to pry. You probably need sleep,” Momma said. “You can stay with me if you’d like.”
“Or me,” I offered.
Momma’s eyes widened. “I’m not sure that’s proper.”
“We’re not dating, Momma. I think I could help her remember.”
“You do?”
Good question. But I masked my doubts as I said, “Maybe.”
“When will you have time to nurse her back to health when you’re working? That is, if you still have a job after running away.”
I grimaced. I didn’t tell my boss or the school district that I was leaving. Not my smartest move.
“I only work in the afternoons.” I turned to Marigold and said, “I’m the high school football coach.” Something inside urged me to keep her close. She was unlike any woman I’d ever met, and I wasn’t sure why.
Momma spun toward Marigold. “We’re talking about you as if you have no say. What do you think? Where would you like to stay?”
She bit her bottom lip. “I don’t want to inconvenience anyone.”
“You wouldn’t bother either of us, dear,” Momma said. “But I can say without remorse that I’m the better cook.”
“I-I think I’ll stay at the cabin for now,” she said. “If that’s okay.”
Momma pointed her spatula at me. “You take good care of her. Hear?”
“I will. Promise.” I snapped my fingers. “Speaking of which. Do you have any clothes she could borrow?”
“Lillian left a bag of hand-me-downs at Courtney’s house. She and Marigold appear similar in size. I’ll fetch them after breakfast.”
Momma piled the plates with food, then we migrated to the dining room. After we were settled and said grace, Momma pointed her fork at me in an unladylike manner. “I need to talk to you, Levi.”
I braced myself, anticipating a lecture on how to treat a woman, how to cook, or how to clean. But instead, she said, “Father Hosea asked if the body at the bottom of the cliff could have been Shelly Hooper.”
Marigold’s fork halted halfway to her mouth.
Momma noticed. “I’m sorry, dear. This isn’t a pleasant table talk.”
My mind hummed like a tractor engine. I already had this conversation. “He asked me last night, but Ezra would have no reason to kill Shelly.”
“You get that fool-brained idea out of your head,” Momma said.
The hangover drink wasn’t strong enough. Did Momma have whiskey in the house? No. She dumped it down the drain when I started coming home drunk. My mind was a mess. I needed to get sober or get drunk.
Marigold forked a bite of eggs into her mouth. She needed me sober.
“So, you don’t know if it was Shelly?”
I shook my head. “No. I told Father Hosea that the girl was too far down to see.”
Satisfied with my answer, Momma turned to Marigold. “Do you remember hitting your head, dear?”
Marigold cut her pancake. “No. I woke up in the forest and stumbled into the cabin.”
“You don’t remember how you got to the mountain?” Momma asked.
She stared at her hands. “It felt like I was waking up from a dream.”
Another line of my poem surfaced in my mind:
She was born in mountain cloak
No. No. No.
I couldn’t let my thoughts wander. The implication had no foothold in reality. Marigold could not be the girl I wrote about. It was impossible.
Momma’s gaze flickered between Marigold and me, her lips drawn into a tight line. Then, as if reaching a decision, her expression transformed into a radiant smile, and she gave an enthusiastic clap. “After we get you those clothes, I will send you home with groceries. You should rest, dear. I’m sure Levi can convert the boy’s bedroom into a nice place for you.”
Marigold seemed to force a smile as she said, “I’ll take my plate to the sink and then look at the stove, if that’s all right.”
Marigold wore a pair of Lillian’s Daisy Dukes and a scoop-necked white T-shirt, her forehead rested against the truck’s window as she dozed. She might be wearing Lillian’s clothes, but there was an undeniable air of difference about her.
As I navigated our way up the winding mountain road, I couldn’t help but worry. The question that had been lingering at the back of my mind all day finally broke through my thoughts.
What if Marigold was the girl in my ballad? What if, somehow, my words had come to life?
Marigold
Levi left me alone in the bedroom to rest—but every time my eyes dared to shut, the haunting image of two figures standing on a cliff edge invaded my mind. A surge of terror raced through my veins as I recognized the falling man.
Levi.
Sheets stiff with disuse pooled around my waist as I sprang up, panting. My head pulsed, begging for sleep, but I couldn’t bear the thought of dreaming about death.
Two sharp knocks reverberated through the room, causing a spike of pain to shoot through my aching head.
“What?” I said.
Levi's voice sounded muffled from behind the door. “Can I come in?”
“I guess.”
The sound of squeaky door hinges sent a knife of agony through my brain as he entered.
My body dipped toward him as he sat on the edge of the bed. “Can’t sleep?”
I returned my ear to the pillow and curled on a side, closing my eyes. “My head hurts.”
The bed sprang back as he went into the bathroom. “Want some Tylenol?”
Although I trusted Levi—especially after observing his interaction with his sweet momma—I was still wary of his bruises. After seeing the red Tylenol mark stamped into the pills, I took both of them with the offered water and then lay back down.
He set the glass on the nightstand. “I’ll let you rest.”
A sense of déjà vu pressed against my consciousness as my eyelids fluttered open.
Where am I?
Confusion clouded my thoughts—but then the events following my awakening flooded back when I saw Levi sitting in the chair at the desk.
The muscles in his biceps twitched as he slammed a book closed, a guilty look on his face. “How are you feeling?”
I moved without the usual ache, prompting me to rub my eyes. “Better.”
“Care for some fresh air outside? I can fetch you something to drink.”
Specks of dust danced in the sunbeams, casting an amber hue over the room’s walls. My stomach rumbled, confirming that I’d slept late into the afternoon. “Sure.”
“You’ll love the view.” Levi tried to lead me out of the bedroom, but I paused at the sight of a tattered guitar case. “Is this yours?”
“Yes.” He returned and set it on the bed. The hinges creaked and snapped as he unclasped them. A beautiful instrument gleamed from the velvet. I pressed my palm against the strings and felt something warm that wasn’t tangible, like love, radiate through them.
Touching the dented body, I said, “You’re either really good or really bad at playing this.”
He gave a deep chuckle. “Some folks think I’m talented, while others say that I have a thing or two to learn.”
“Will you play for me?”
Closing the case with a click, he replied, “Later. Come outside first.”
I followed him down the hallway, noticing the sun-kissed hue of his arms, hinting at hours spent beneath open skies. He led me through an outdated living room and then onto a deck overlooking the valley. The view showcased farmland and a stream wandering between rolling hills, patches of fields on each side. The town of Sutton looked like a cluster of boxes at the foot of the mountain.
The deck sprawled widely against the second-story facade, supported by long lumber poles that anchored into the dirt below on a level patch of overgrown yard. Faded wicker furniture furnished the deck, once pristine white but now weathered and peeling from exposure. Overhead, a canvas canopy fluttered in the breeze, secured by sturdy poles.
Settling onto a wicker bench, I stretched my legs from beneath the shade of the canopy until my toes basked in the warm sunshine.
“My momma has been texting me nonstop, reminding me to keep you rested, hydrated, and fed.”
Clouds drifted across the sky like puffy balloons, while birds twittered in the trees. “I’ll be fine if I sit here for a spell.”
“Be right back.” Moments later, he returned holding a mason jar. “Try this.”
Ice clinked the glass as I tilted it to my lips. The flavors of sugary pink lemonade, tangy sweet tea, and fresh crushed mint danced on my taste buds like an unexpected yet delightful kiss.
“You remembered my favorite drink?”
Levi’s grin could have outshone the sun itself. “It was unique. I’ve never heard of mixin’ those together.”
Wood creaked as he sat beside me. Now that my mind was clear, curiosity bubbled up within me. “What happened to your dad?” That was a bold place to start.
He chipped crackling paint off the bench using his fingernail. “It’s a long tale.”
“I’ve got time.”
He sighed. “I’m not sure it’ll make much sense.”
I took a sip from the jar. “Why don’t you try?”
His leg bounced in a frantic cadence as he regarded me. “Do you recall the row of farmhouses where my momma lives?”
I nodded. “I can’t remember anything from before last night, but my short-term memory is fine.”
“That’s fair.” He flicked a chip of paint to the deck. “My daddy and his best friend, Samuel King, built those homes. My daddy married my momma, and Samuel wed a nice lady named Courtney. They started Ghost Mountain Farms together.” His story came to a sudden halt, but I could tell there was more he wanted to unveil.
“That’s simple enough,” I said. “Keep going.”
“Samuel took care of the farm finances, while my daddy pursued other passions. Things like writing novels and making music.” He looked over the valley. “Four years ago, Samuel was sent to prison for laundering money through the farm. A year later, they found my daddy at the bottom of a cliff. I think someone pushed him, but most folks believe he stepped off the ledge.”
My heart quickened. The remnants of the drink left my mouth dry, and the glass made a clinking sound in the jar as I struggled to control the trembling in my hand.
Levi took the glass from me and set it on the wooden floorboards below. “Are you okay?”
“Your . . . your dad was pushed off a cliff?” The nightmare replayed vividly through my mind.
“I can’t prove it yet, but yes. I expect so.” He narrowed his gaze at me and asked again, “Are you all right?”
“No . . . yes. I mean, I don’t know. It’s just . . . ” I covered my mouth with quivering fingers. The sheer terror of such a fate was overwhelming, and it sent a wave of panic coursing through me.
Levi’s hands rested gently on my shoulders, a reassuring weight that grounded me in the moment. His touch spoke of safety without words. “Listen,” he said, eyes widening. “You’re safe here.”
My fingers nervously found their way to my throat, a physical manifestation of the unease that had settled within me. “I haven’t been entirely honest with you. There is something that I do remember.”
“Tell me.” His voice was a soft murmur, coaxing me to share.
I took a deep breath and then recounted the harrowing memory of the men on the cliff. As I spoke, Levi’s touch on my shoulder offered silent support, his fingers applying just enough pressure to convey understanding without overwhelming me. I finished with, “The man who was being pushed was you.”
Levi’s grip on my shoulder loosened as he processed my revelation. “Me? You must have dreamt about my daddy.”
Fear clawed its way back into my chest at his words. “How could I dream something from your life?”
He hesitated before speaking again. “Is this all you remember?”
“There is one more thing. But I’m too ashamed to share it.”
“Why?”
“Because it makes me sound weak.”
“I doubt that.”
I told him about the man whose eyes blazed with anger and fists clenched in fury. “The thought of living with someone like that, loving them . . . it’s unimaginable to me.”
Levi taped the edge of the armrest of the bench like a distracted drummer. “Did he have dark hair?”
“He did.” I leaned away to look him in the eyes. “How do you know?”
He shrugged. “Lucky guess.”
That certainly was not a guess. “Do you know something about me?” Maybe I wasn’t truly without hope. Maybe Levi could fill in some of the missing pieces for me.
He shook his head. “I’ve never met you until last night.”
Disappointment weighed down on me like a heavy blanket. “But how . . . ”
“It was just a guess. Okay? It’s nothing.”
“Do you think that man is responsible for my head injury?”
Levi pinched his lips together, then said, “Possibly.”
My mind felt as disorganized as a drawer with haphazardly tossed clothes; memories jumbled and incomplete.
Overwhelmed by emotion, I covered my face so he wouldn’t see my misty eyes. Levi enveloped me in his arms reassuringly, his muscles strong as he cradled me. “Shh. You’re safe. You haven’t lost all of your memories.”
His words failed to stop my racing mind. My reality was too daunting to ignore. I had amnesia, and I was currently living off of the kindness of a stranger. I couldn’t remember my family, my past, or my life in general.
Was it the altitude that caused my breaths to shorten or just sheer panic constricting my chest?
Levi’s grip on my shoulders tightened as he drew back. The faintest trace of stubble prickled his jawline, and those dark bruises were hard to ignore. “Slow down, Marigold. Take a deep breath.” He drew me closer until our gazes met at eye level. Purple and green rimmed his left eye. “Breathe with me.” He demonstrated by sucking in a slow and deliberate lungful of air, then he let it out.
Initially gasping for air as if submerged underwater, tears pricked my eyes as panic overtook my body.
Gradually, Levi’s composed demeanor and measured breathing seeped into my frantic state. Though fear still raced through my bloodstream, I could finally draw in a full breath again.
Cupping my cheek tenderly, he asked, “Better?”
“Only slightly.”
Maintaining his gentle hold on my face and locking eyes with mine, he asked, “What’s your favorite flower?”
I paused a moment as I considered this. “The crocus.”
“Why’s that?”
“Because they’re eager to bloom even when frost might destroy them.” Newfound peace now eased my heartbeat.
The pad of his thumb rubbed circles against my cheek. “And your second favorite flower?”
“Marigolds. Because of my name.” My pulse slowed further.
“And your third?”
“Daisies. Because they’re playful.” My heart resumed its normal rhythm.
Levi wiped a tear from my cheek with his calloused thumb. “You see? Not everything is lost. Deep down, you still know who you are.”
I brushed aside his hand, uncomfortable with the warmth it offered. He was still a mystery to me. And it was best not to get close to a stranger. Yet, I couldn't deny the comfort it had given me, how I wished to lean into him and the safety his closeness evoked.
Leaning away, I asked, “How did you know about my love for flowers?”
He smiled. “Because you admired Momma’s.”
Shifting on the creaky bench, I asked another important question. “Who hurt you?” I asked, gesturing toward the bruises darkening his cheek and temple, marring his otherwise handsome features. I knew if I touched the colors on his face, he would wince.
“Now it’s my turn to confess.” His smile faded. “I left out parts from my story.”
This is why his closeness scared me. I didn’t know him. “Why?”
“Because it’s a lot of information.”
I leaned forward to retrieve my drink from the deck where Levi had gently placed it earlier. Curling my legs beneath me, I settled against the arm of the bench, waiting with my brows raised.
He eased his arms back across the seat. “I’m the oldest of two boys. My brother Colton lives in Nashville and works as a sound engineer for a record company.” He held up two fingers. “Samuel and his wife Courtney had two kids too. Same age as Colton and me. They named the first Ezra. He runs Ghost Mountain Farm. We used to be like brothers.” He folded down his middle finger. “Their second child is a girl named Lillian.” It seemed as though his decision to not elaborate on her was deliberate.
A flicker of recognition crossed my mind from our earlier conversation at breakfast. “You think Ezra is the one who pushed your dad off the cliff? That’s what you said to your mom, right? You also assume he’s responsible for the death of the woman you discovered yesterday?”
“Very good. Yes. I suspect Ezra murdered my dad. I think he was upset enough about Samuel going to prison and having to move back to the farm that he harmed my dad in retaliation.”
“But your mom doesn’t think so.”
“No. The police found a printed note with my dad’s name. But the thing is, he loved to write longhand. The note couldn’t have been written by him. My Momma is heartbroken and wants to move on. Believing my old man died that way is easier.”
“What does that have to do with your face?”
He avoided my gaze. “Ezra and I had a discussion at Lillian’s wedding last night.”
Lillian. Ezra’s sister. “A discussion that involved your fists?”
“Something like that.”
“And I’m wearing Lillian’s clothes?”
He swallowed as he took in the sight of my outfit. “Yes.”
The woman in me recognized his hurt. I realized what he wasn’t telling me about Lillian. “You loved her.”
He averted his gaze.
“Did she love you?”
He still wouldn’t look at me. “Once upon a time.”
“You still love her,” I said.
“I didn’t say . . . ”
“You didn’t have to.”
He stood. “Are you hungry? I am. I’ll start dinner.” He shut himself inside the cabin.
A gentle breeze stirred the leafy canopy above, causing it to sway. It arched higher than it should. After a quick perusal, I noticed a single loose knot securing the canvas to the eye hook. I may know very little about myself, but I did know that I liked things to be in order. If they weren’t, I fixed them until they were.
The information Levi shared lingered in my thoughts like a delicate petal caught in the breeze as I shifted the bench beneath the flapping canopy.
His dad died under suspicious circumstances. He didn’t trust his former friend, Ezra. He was still in love with Ezra’s sister, Lillian.
I ran through the names in my mind: Samuel and Courtney were the parents of Ezra and Lillian. Meanwhile, Levi’s mom and dad had two sons—Levi and Colton.
By the time I’d untangled Levi’s confessions, the canopy was tightened.
Levi slid open the door. “Mac n’ cheese is ready on the stove. It came out of a box. Momma wasn’t kidding when she said she was the better cook.”
Sitting down beside me, he turned his gaze upwards before meeting my eyes. “Did you change something?”
I gestured toward the spot I had tightened while he was away.
His brows rose in surprise. I simply shrugged.
Exhaling heavily, Levi attempted to find a comfortable position on the bench, but it only squeaked in protest with every move he made. Eventually giving up, he sat as stiff as a plank of wood. Nestling beside him on the bench, but not too close to touch, I took a sip of my drink and asked, “Are you okay?”
“Yeah, why?”
“You seem restless.”
It was his turn to shrug now.
“Why don’t you play your guitar?” I said. “I’ll decide if you’re any good.”
He clapped his hands on his thighs. “Yes. Perfect.”
Moments later, he cradled the instrument by its neck, settling into position with a dramatic flair. He forced a fast melody into the dusk around us, his fingers moving with confidence and familiarity along the frets.
My mouth dropped open in awe. This man wasn’t just good at playing the guitar; he was great. The worn dents on the guitar’s frame bore witness to consistent practice and dedication.
As Levi finished the song, his eyes drifted shut before he launched into a comfortable refrain. Brief pauses between notes left me hanging on each sound, making me wonder if there was more beneath the surface.
I tapped him on the shoulder. His fingers stopped as he rested his arm along the guitar and asked, “What do you think?”
“Where are the lyrics?”
He leaned the instrument against the deck. “I don’t sing.”
That didn’t seem right. As certain as I knew the order of my favorite flowers, I was sure Levi Shaw had a voice for singing.
“Yes, you do,” I said.
“No, I don’t.”
“You do,” I insisted.
A shadow crossed his features. “Not anymore.”
Before I could press further, he abruptly changed the subject. “I’ll get dinner.”
With a sense of agitation hanging over him like a cloud, Levi left the guitar resting against the cabin and then disappeared inside.
Approximately three minutes later, he returned and pressed a bowl of cheesy noodles into my hands. The sun dipped toward the horizon, casting a warm glow of orange, pink, and red that mingled with the encroaching darkness.
With my fork poised between my fingers, I mustered the courage to ask the question again. “Why don’t you sing?”
He kept his attention plastered on the sunset. “I just don’t.”
Frowning, I looked back at my food. He had opened up about his father's passing and his family troubles, so why was he so reluctant to share his voice?
As the fiery orb disappeared behind the edge of the earth, Levi and I cleared the dishes together. Levi then busied himself changing the sheets while I bathed. Upon returning, I found him engrossed in the same leather book I’d seen him reading this morning.
“What are you reading?”
He snapped it closed as he glanced up. “Nothing.” He looked over my T-shirt and night shorts. “I’ll leave you to sleep. Tomorrow, we can arrange for you to move into the other bedroom. Or you can have this one.”
“I’ll sleep in the other room. This feels like a man’s room.” My cheeks flushed as I continued hesitantly, “Would . . . would you mind sitting with me until I fall asleep? And have been asleep for a while? I don’t . . .”
“You don’t want to have the same nightmare,” he finished for me.
I exhaled, relieved that he understood. “Yes.”
He gave a brief nod. “I’ll sit here until you fall asleep. If you need me in the night, I’ll be just down the hall.”
“Thank you.”
“You don’t have to thank me,” he said, and then he turned off the light.