Chapter Nine
Levi
M id-morning the day after the football game, I parked my Chevy behind Donner’s red Dodge. Marigold’s slender waist peeked between the hem of her shirt and her jean shorts as she twisted to release her seatbelt, tempting me to—at the very least—hold her hand. Swallowing back my impulses, I hopped out and hefted my guitar case from the bed.
Marigold fell into step beside me. “Who did you say lives here?”
“An old friend.” I suspected Donner would be thrilled to meet her. The girl I wrote into existence.
As we ascended the porch steps, I tried to ignore the growing awareness of attraction that lingered within me. Ever since acknowledging my jealousy the previous night, my perception of her had shifted. Her smile, her unwavering trust in me, even the curve of her jaw now held a different significance. She was no longer just a stranger; she was someone who stirred an undeniable attraction within me. I fought against it for two crucial reasons.
One. She didn’t know I’d created her.
And two. Dating your roommate was never a good idea.
To prevent myself from dwelling on that thought any further, I knocked on Donner’s door.
“Who’s there?”
Marigold whirled toward me. “He isn’t expecting us?”
I raised my voice. “Levi and a friend.”
The door swung open to reveal Donner dressed in his Sunday best attire. A turquoise turtle pendant encased in silver gleamed from the twisted leather stands of his bolo. He leaned a shotgun against the inner wall before centering his attention on Marigold.
“Why, don’t you look purdier than a picture?”
She extended her hand gracefully. “I’m Marigold.”
He shook it. “Your name is as purdy as you are.” Then he turned to me. “To what do I owe the pleasure?”
I lifted my guitar, remembering those evenings bathed in hues of the sunset when my dad and Donner strummed their strings on the porch, while Colton and I took aim with BB guns at squirrels. “Do you remember how to play?” I asked Donner. “Or have you become as rusty as your truck?”
He grinned, revealing yellow tobacco stained teeth. “That ole truck ain’t worked for a few months, but I still know a thing’er two about strings.”
Marigold perked up. “Your truck is broken?”
The girl couldn’t help but fix broken things. With her attention diverted, I could speak to Donner alone.
“Sure is. I don’t care enough to get’r fixed. Not with all this delivery stuff nowadays.”
“Do you have tools?”
He scratched his head. “Sure. But why—”
“I’ll fix it,” she declared before he could finish his sentence.
Donner leaned toward me and whispered, “She serious?”
“As serious as a car accident.”
He gestured toward the back of the house. “Sugar, you can try to fix that dump. Tools are in the shed out back.” With that, he tossed her the truck key and she disappeared around the corner of the house.
Donner watched her go with an amused glint in his eyes. “I reckon it’s more likely to snow in July than for that purdy girl o’ yours to fix my heap. You best fetch us some sodas while I grab my banjo. My oh my, are you a sight for sore eyes. Thanks for not forgetting this ol’ man.”
Quarters clinked into the soda machine, drowning out the morning birdsong as Marigold rummaged through a toolbox. The truck groaned in protest as she turned the key to test it.
A can of Sprite tumbled into the dispenser tray, followed by a beer and then a Coke. I took a sip of the cold Coke before popping open the beer with a hiss.
Donner emerged from the house, sporting a towering ten-gallon hat and cradling a shiny vintage banjo. “You know how to play one o’ these?” He plopped into the chair beside mine and accepted the beer I offered.
I cracked open a Sprite. “Marigold, you thirsty?”
She was engrossed in tinkering beneath the hood with her sleeves rolled up. She didn’t hear me as she worked elbow-deep in the engine.
I set the soda on a third chair. “Yeah, I can play the banjo.”
“Your dad was wonderful.”
“I can only remember him playing guitar.”
“Oh, he definitely had skills beyond that.”
Marigold dragged a bright orange bucket from the bed of Donner’s truck and placed it between the headlights. With focused determination, she leaned underneath the hood, then hopped down and shimmied beneath the grill with a wrench.
“That girl is somthin’ else,” Donner remarked.
My guitar nestled comfortably against my thigh, its smooth curves familiar under my fingertips. I played a scale. “I like her,” I admitted.
“Nobody can blame ya for that, son.”
I should seize this opportunity to ask my questions while she was preoccupied.
“How does writing actually work?”
He scoffed. “You’re tellin’ me you’ve lived here your whole life and you still don’t know?”
I set the guitar aside. “Should I?”
He threw his hands up in exasperation. “Kids these days don’ know nothin’. They have no respect for the land. The legends. I suspect it's for the best, though. But you . . . ”
“Are you talking about how Ghost Mountain was named after the Civil War soldiers?“
“Blimey,” Donner said. “Do you think that’s how the mountain got its name? I thought only city folk believed that bologna, not a boy born in the shadow of the mountain. No, this mountain got the name Ghost Mountain long before the Civil War set men’s hearts against one another.”
What was he talking about? “But the stories—”
“Are true enough. Yes. But they’re only part of the picture.”
“How do you know?”
The lines on Donner’s weathered face seemed to deepen. “I’m old, Levi.”
Could he be older than I’d originally guessed? Anything was possible after what I’d already experienced. “Are you saying you’ve been here all these years writing?”
Donner spewed his mouthful of beer across the porch. “Is that what you think I am? Some kind of immortal being?” His body shook as he coughed, his hacking giving way to belly-splitting laughter. Amusement rattled his chest right before he sucked in a lungful of air and started the entire process again.
Of course, Donner wasn’t immortal. There was no such thing. Yet his words wove a mystical ambiance around the mountain as if the ancient trees whispered of times past, eras they had witnessed but would never reveal to me.
Deflated, I slumped back in my chair, waiting for him to finish laughing at me.
When he’d composed himself, his eyes were wet with tears. “Son, you keep me young. My sides haven’t ached like that in years.”
Afraid to open my mouth and risk embarrassing myself further, I sat silent.
Finally, Donner caught his breath and grew more serious. “Now listen here, Levi Shaw,” he said. “I’m a man. Same as you. I’ve just lived a few more decades, but I’m surprised your daddy didn’t tell you these things.”
I leaned forward. “What?”
“You wrote about Marigold in Duncan’s journal?”
“Yes.”
“Did you ever see him write?”
“Sure. He was always tinkering with a fresh story idea.”
Donner sighed and relaxed against the chair. “So he told you nothin’ about writing?”
A clank and a grunt sounded from beneath the truck.
“You okay?” I hollered out toward Marigold.
“I’m fine,” came a muffled yell in response.
I turned back to Donner. “My dad read books to us like they were as essential as food. He loved words. He scribbled in notebooks and typed on a keyboard, but he didn’t ever share what he wrote. I don’t think he ever finished another novel. He couldn’t keep his passion for one story lit for too long.”
“That sounds like Duncan. He lived with his head in the clouds. I just can’t believe . . . ”
I waited for him to complete the sentence.
“I can’t believe he didn’t tell you that he was a writer too.”
Everyone knew Dad was a writer. He’d even written a bestseller. But Donner wasn’t talking about that. He was implying …
“My dad wrote someone? Like—like how I wrote Marigold?”
Donner slapped the arm of his chair. “Whydya think we were such good friends? He came to me, same as you, asking questions and seeking guidance.”
“Who did he write? Is my momma . . . ” I couldn’t bear to voice that thought.
“No, no, keep your britches on, now. Elizabeth is a local girl. I knew her daddy.”
“Then who?”
He shrugged and sipped his beer. “Dunno. He never told me. We talked ’bout it an awful lot, but he never enlightened me.”
How could Dad keep a secret like this? Who had he written into existence? Maybe his best friend, Samuel King?
Donner followed my train of thought. “I’ve always wondered if it was Samuel too. I can’t be so sure, but there’s a good chance. Are you sure you knew nothin’ about writers before you came here askin’ me questions?”
“No.”
“Hmm.” he hummed. “That’s surprising. I woulda thought Duncan would have at least told you the legends. The history of the mountain.”
I braced my elbows on my knees and eased my head into my hands. Dad may have written Samuel King. How could this be?
Donner continued, “Legend says there are a few writers every generation. There ain’t no rhyme or reason as to who they are. It seems to run in families. Heck, we might not be the only ones alive with the ability. It’s called Ghost Mountain because ghosts live here. Not real ghosts, mind you. But people born from ink and pen. Your Marigold is a ghost because accordin’ to the rest of the world, she don’t exist."
He scratched the scruff on his neck. "I suppose it makes sense the stories faded to legend. It wouldn't do for all folk to know others had powers. But still, you're Duncan's boy. You oughta know."
My mind still tried to wrap my thoughts around Dad and Samuel King. “So, how does this work? If my dad wrote Samuel here, then how did he become a legal citizen? How did you get papers for your son, Fred?”
He waved off my question. “Ah, that’s not a big deal. We got papers for Fred easy enough. I’m sure even your daddy coulda helped Samuel get forged papers. I don’t reckon he ever applied for a passport. The legal system had little reason to look into him.”
“But wouldn’t they have discovered his papers were false when he went to prison?”
Donner considered this. “Good point, boy. I dunno. I don’t have any proof that it was Samuel he wrote. It coulda been anyone.”
“I wish he were still here.” The words rushed out like a fresh wave of grief instead of a simple statement.
Donner’s hand settled on my back. “I know, son. I know.”
I’d never asked him about my daddy’s death, but suddenly, knowing his opinion was important. “Do you think my daddy killed himself?”
Donner withdrew his hand and sat back. “I dunno, son. I dunno.”
“But if you were to guess. Do you think he would’ve stepped off that cliff?”
Donner pursed his lips then shook his head. “No. I don’t believe he was that type of man.”
“But he was creative, passionate, and emotional.” For the first time, I tried to convince myself to believe what so many others did.
My mouth spouted off the excuses and explanations I’d been told. “Maybe he struggled with depression. Or anxiety. Maybe his passions overflowed into emotions he couldn’t handle.”
“He was passionate about life,” Donner said. “His creative outlets spilled into everything he did, but I don’t think they poisoned him.”
He fitted the banjo into the crook of his arm and played the strings. A lifting melody cascaded over the porch like an evening breeze.
Bubbles burned the back of my throat as I gulped back the soda.
Marigold was still underneath the truck.
“Should I tell her how she came to be?”
Donner sighed, deep and heavy. “Son, that’s a tricky one. Do what ya think is best.”
My foot tapped in irritation. “That doesn’t help when a flesh and blood person is searching for her lost memories that don’t exist. How am I supposed to break the news to her?”
Sadness filled his eyes. “I don’t have the answers. This life ain’t easy.”
“Did you tell Fred?”
He ran his calloused fingers over the strands of his bolo, a thoughtful expression on his face. “I tried once, but Fred was grown by the time I got around to it. Grown people don’t believe in the impossible like a kid. Maybe if I told him sooner.” He shrugged. “So, to answer your question—no, Levi Shaw. I won’t tell you what to do. All I’m gonna advise is that you treat her good.”
“What does that mean? She’s not a little boy who needs a father. Should I date her? Marry her? Bring her to the nearest town and let her find her way? How do I keep her safe?”
“Levi.” Donner’s voice was gentle. “This is your story. I can’t write it for you.”
He must have sensed my unease because he played a merry tune on the banjo. “You listen here, boy. I don’t want nothin’ to do with messin’ up your life. You do what you feel is right, and I’ll pray it turns out well.”
We both watched as Marigold dug her heels into the dirt, tinkering underneath the truck. She wiggled out, climbed into the seat, then cranked the key. The engine roared to life with a determined rumble.
Donner sputtered on his beer while Marigold waved us over. I held back a laugh.
Donner and I left our instruments to inspect her handiwork. She backed away as Donner approached.
“Dang, girl,” he said in awe. “You is somethin’ else, aint ya?”
She wore a proud smile and offered him the key.
He raised both hands defensively. “Naw. You fixed it, you keep it.”
Her smile faltered. “What?”
“You heard me. I don’t need this heap. I got another in the barn.” He gestured toward the closed wooden structure.
“You mean it?”
“Sure. As long as you can drive a manual.”
A grin tugged at her lips. “I think I can.”
“You think ?” Donner said.
“I’m seventy percent sure I can drive a stick shift.”
Donner’s laugh was more like a howl. “Girl, you gotta do better than think. You gotta know, or else you’ll burn the engine before you leave the driveway.” He pointed at the grassy path leading into the woods. “Why don’t you two take a drive?”
She cleared the bucket and toolbox away from the grill and jumped into the front seat.
Donner slapped my back as I passed. “You make sure she’s safe, hear?” He winked at me.
The truck hummed as I closed the door. Dirt smudged Marigold’s shirt, and a twig dangled from her hair. With one foot on each pedal and hand poised on the gearshift, she was ready to take off.
“Before you start—”
She shifted into first gear, eased off the clutch, and accelerated. The truck jerked and then evened as she worked the clutch.
I hurried to attach my seatbelt, only to realize she hadn’t bothered to fasten hers. She was a whirlwind of impulsiveness and beauty.
Sliding across the bench seat, I attempt to secure her seatbelt as well.
“What are you doing?” she questioned, just as a pothole jotted us upwards, making me hit my head on the roof.
“Ouch!” I exclaimed with a laugh. “Please slow down before we end up in a ditch somewhere. Let me help you with your seatbelt.”
“We’re not even on the road.”
“That’s true,” I agreed. “But you might hit a tree if you keep this speed.”
“I will not.” She didn’t even tap the brake.
She ignored my advice and continued at her reckless pace. As I leaned over to fasten her seatbelt, another pothole threw me off balance, causing my hand to accidentally land on her thigh before I quickly withdrew it. She cast me a stern, disapproving stare.
“Sorry,” I said. “This would be a lot easier if you weren’t driving like a maniac.”
She smirked, focusing on navigating the rough terrain ahead.
Finally managing to secure her seatbelt and then mine amidst the truck’s swaying motion, I advised, “You should slow down for the potholes. There’s more than one way to damage a truck.”
The ride eased a bit. “How am I doing?”
I gripped the handle. “You can work a manual, but I think ‘drive’ is a generous term.”
She reached out and slapped my arm playfully. “Are you saying I’m a bad driver?”
“You said it, not me.”
Her laugh filled the cab. “This is fun.”
“I’m glad someone is enjoying it.” I pressed my palms against the truck’s ceiling to balance myself as she careened through yet another divot in the earth. The road veered up a hill. She shifted like a pro. “Turn up here,” I said, pointing at a clearing. My body lurched forward as she braked. “Easy, girl. Don’t hesitate. Just do what you know to do.”
She shot me an exasperated look before smoothly shifting gears, braking again for a sharp turn, and then seamlessly adjusting once more. Was it wrong of me to hope she stalled out and left us stranded in the woods together? Maybe she’d let me hold her hand as we strolled back to Donner’s place. I braced myself for the return trip.
When we reached the house, I made a show of throwing myself out of the truck and pretending to kiss the ground.
“How’d she do?” Donner called.
“I’m lucky to be alive,” I said.
Marigold pocketed the keys. “He’s nothing but a big baby. I did great.”
Standing up, I shrugged nonchalantly. “We’re in one piece. That’s the best I can say.”
She shoved me playfully then strode toward Donner.
Sitting down on the porch steps, Marigold hesitated, holding out the keys to Donner. “You aren’t seriously giving me your truck,” she insisted.
He cradled his banjo with a twinkle in his eye. “How ’bout this? You can keep the truck, but in return, you swing by once a week to do my grocery shopping. I’ll pay ya. My legs ain’t what they used to be for all that drivin’ every week.”
“Really?” Marigold’s eyes widened in disbelief.
“Sure,” he drawled.
She leaped from her seat and enveloped the old man in a tight hug. “Thank you! This means the world to me. I’ve been searching for something meaningful to do, and—”
“Hush, girl,” Donner spluttered. “Don’t go gettin’ all sentimental on me now. The truck is a dump anyway. She never woulda felt the road underneath her tires again if you ain’t fixed her. And I’m too old to be drivin’. You’re doing me a favor.”
We lingered on Donner’s porch as the sun dipped lower in the sky, passing the time with games of soda machine roulette and twanging strings, while being regaled by his tales of yesteryears.
It seemed like an ordinary day that could happen anytime, one that could easily blend into any other—but it was anything but ordinary. Because in that moment, a subtle shift occurred within me.
It felt as though a piece of my heart that held onto Lillian was finally loosening its grip, creating space for Marigold to settle in its place.