Chapter Nineteen
Ezra
I n a month, the Great Smoky Mountain landscape would transform into a fiery canvas reminiscent of the deep crimson hues swirling in my glass of Pinot Noir. The leaves would turn from green to orange.
It was surreal to have Marigold by my side, her belongings now resting inside the welcoming embrace of my home. To take her mind off things, I drove her to one of my favorite places. The Bruno Vineyard Winery.
As we sat overlooking the vineyard, I couldn’t resist seeking her opinion. “How do you like the wine?” I asked.
We were two and a half hours from Sutton on the eastern side of Chattanooga.
She lifted the glass to her lips and took a sip. “It’s sweet. You used to work here?”
“Yes. I was the manager until four years ago. I miss walking among the grapes and tasting their vintage flavors. Someday I wish to run a winery of my own in these mountains.”
There it was. My hopes and dreams summarized in three sentences.
She set her elbows on the table. “You’d move away from the farm?”
“I’d leave that dusty, manure-stinking place in a heartbeat if it was in good hands and my momma was cared for. This . . . ” I gestured toward the vineyard stretching below us against the backdrop of the Smokey Mountain. “Suits me more than a farm.”
She took a sip and squinted at me. “I can see that.” Her eyes were still puffy.
“How are you feeling?”
She shrugged. “It’s pretty out here.”
Not the profound answer I was looking for, but I understood the desire to change topics. “It is. I love the mist.”
“It’s like that on Ghost Mountain sometimes too.”
“I know, but I prefer the Smokies.”
“Even though you were raised in Sutton?”
“Yes, Ma’am.”
“Why?”
I grinned. This was my opportunity.
I told her about Italy—minus the romantic parts—and how I’d fallen in love with wine. Sutton felt too small after that. I’d consider living in Napa Valley if it wasn’t so far away and too hard to break into the wine business. I wanted something I could start from scratch.
The Smokey Mountains emerged as an ideal alternative—close enough to home for comfort, yet distant enough for solitude and escape from prying eyes. “What are Rome and Florence like? Did you see famous art?”
I signaled the wine attendant. “Can we please try the Rosé and get an appetizer plate?” When she left, I turned back to Marigold and said, “Yes. I saw it all.”
She took a long drink of Pinot Noir. “Tell me everything.”
While I told her of the sun-kissed vineyards nestled in Sicily, the server set the plate of appetizers on the table alongside two glasses filled with Rosé. My stories painted vivid pictures of encounters with the spirited locals, daring escapades into the unknown, and the uncertainty of my nightly accommodations—whether it be a cozy hostel or an open field.
Her cheeks were flushed by the time she finished the Rosé, her once swollen eyes now bright and lively.
“Where is your dream travel location?” I asked when my tales were over and we’d moved to a second Pinot Noir. She liked it better than the Rosé.
She admired the evergreens surrounding us, the dip and peak of the rolling mountains. “Home,” she said. When I gave her a quizzical look, she added, “Where I come from. I want to go home.” Her eyes glassed over.
I must cheer her. Speaking more of this would bring tears to her eyes. “Would you like to go for a walk? Take a drive to Chattanooga for dinner? Head back to my place?” I made sure not to refer to it as “home.”
“Dinner in Chattanooga sounds nice.”
I offered her my arm and stood, feeling the wine go to my head. I knew I could drive but I also knew an extra thirty minutes would clear my head. “We’ll walk first. There’s an abandoned cabin on this property not many people know about. It’s interesting because it looks like someone just left. Nobody around here knows the history of the place.”
She clutched my arm, more unsteady than I was. “Lead the way.”
Levi
At ten o’clock on the day Marigold left me, I smashed my fist into the pillow and sat up, perching myself on the edge of the mattress. Telling her sooner wouldn’t have changed anything. She would’ve had the same reaction a month ago as she did today. She would’ve left me.
Moonlight filtered into the dark bedroom, casting a sliver of light across the bed’s end and Finn’s wagging tail resting atop the blankets. I had no proof that Ezra killed my dad, and now I didn’t have Marigold. I was worse off than the night I wrote her song.
Warm light flooded the room as I switched on the lamp and stood. The novels on the nightstand caught my attention. Maybe reading would help me fall asleep—or forget. Yes, forgetting was paramount to sleep.
I picked up a book and started to read, but I struggled to focus. The memory of Marigold’s truck disappearing from view kept replaying in my mind. I slammed the novel shut and stood, in desperate need to leave the place that was haunted by her memory.
Finn watched from his curled-up position as I tugged on my jeans and then slipped into a T-shirt. He stayed put as I walked to the front door, not bothering to wear shoes. Grabbing my keys, I left the cabin.
The familiar feel of the steering wheel and the sound of country music settled my frustration as I drove. I had no destination in mind as I let the tune soothe me. The curves of the mountain and the twin beams of the headlights piercing the darkness calmed me with their familiarity.
Before I knew it, I was on the road that led to the school. I shouldn’t have been astonished since it was the place I drove most often. Headlights by the football field surprised me. Who parked here this late?
The lights came from a Jeep Cherokee. Two figures sat on its hood. They raised their arms to block the light as I angled my truck in their direction. I recognized them.
Trevor and William.
My headlights illuminated empty brown bottles balanced around them. Smoke emanated from between Trevor’s fingers. Was it a joint of a cigarette? At their age, did it matter?
I parked ten feet away with my lights blinding them. The boys slid off the hood to stand in front of the grill.
Thankful for the distraction from Marigold, I kept the truck running as I confronted them.
“What do you two think you’re doing?” I asked. They squinted as I strode closer. “You could be kicked off the team for this.”
They shared a glance as they recognized my voice. Trevor threw the cigarette—smelling like tobacco, not weed—on the asphalt and ground it out with his shoe. “We didn’t mean nothin’. It’s the first time. Swear.”
My shadow stretched over half of Trevor’s face and half of William’s. They turned their faces away from my headlights and looked down at the empty beer cans littered around the Jeep.
The scent of alcohol taunted me. Why hadn’t I taken a drink when sleep evaded me? Whiskey could numb my mind faster than a novel. My drinking habits had dwindled since Marigold arrived.
Bringing my thoughts back to the boys, I counted the bottles.
Eight beers on their first night of drinking? Not likely. Why did they get wasted on school grounds? Sutton was riddled with secluded spots—dead-end streets, hidden corners against the mountain, and desolate parking lots behind abandoned buildings—where they could have indulged without fear of consequences. Why choose here? It felt as absurd as a toddler denying raiding the cookie jar while sporting chocolate-stained cheeks. Nonsensical and unbelievable.
“First time, huh?” I remarked dryly. “How’d you plan on getting home? Were you planning on driving? ’Cause last I checked, that was illegal for adults who drank, let alone kids. You know Sheriff Jackson Miller is hard on drunk drivers.”
“We were gonna call his brother.” Trevor nudged William.
William paused for a moment, then a spark of realization lit up his eyes. “Yeah, my broder was gonna pick us up,” he slurred.
I crossed my arms. “That doesn’t change the fact that you’ll both be removed from the football team.” I couldn’t let go of their indiscretion. Not only were they drinking. They were doing so on school property . Their teammates would be devastated to lose them.
My gut churned at my hypocrisy. Who was I to judge when I’d committed the same sins? But this was different. I was their role model. If I let this go and something happened in the future—a car accident or another alcohol-related mishap—then I’d be the one to blame.
Indecision twisted my reasoning. This was about more than just football. If I reported what I found, Drew would have to suspend them. Small-town gossip would ruin their reputations.
I’d once made stupid mistakes as a high schooler too. If I’d been caught, I wouldn’t have played college ball, and maybe I wouldn’t have become a musician either.
“C’mon, Coach Shaw,” William pleaded. “We promise we didn’t mean no harm. We won’t do it again.”
Trevor pointed at my feet. “Coach, where are your shoes at?”
I ignored his question. Encountering delinquent teenagers hadn’t been on my agenda when I left the cabin without pulling on footwear. I’d just wanted to get out. “Why are you drinking together?”
Trevor stared at the broken cigarette at his feet. Upon further inspection, I saw an old condom beneath their truck. Evidently, this parking lot was used for all kinds of after-school “activities.”
“Jess didn’t want either of us.”
I tried not to laugh. The girl they both pinned after had rejected them. I considered Marigold. I’d prefer she spurned both me and Ezra instead of being with him.
Maybe this was the first time the boys had gotten drunk. They were commiserating over heartbreak. I could relate.
“Drinking won’t fix what you’re feeling.”
If I said one more hypocritical thing, God might smite me. I was ill-equipped to deal with these things. Chastising wasted teenagers in parking lots was not my area of expertise. I’d rather join them than berate them.
The question remained:
Would I report them?
They had great prospects. William was an excellent student, while Trevor was a gifted ballplayer. Should a typical teenage mistake—one that hadn’t harmed anyone—dictate their futures?
I didn’t want to be their judge. I should have simply stayed in bed.
“You swear you’ve never done this before tonight?”
They nodded.
“And it’ll never happen again if I drive you home right now?”
Trevor affirmed, “No, sir,” in unison with William’s “No, Coach.”
Gesturing behind me, I instructed, “Pick up those bottles and dump them in my truck.”
They scurried away to gather the bottles.
Trevor sat in the passenger seat with William squished between us.
My toes curled around the gritty gas pedal as I pulled away from the Jeep. It would have taken me five second to slip shoes on. Apparently misery made us all do stupid things. We were quiet as we drove to William’s house. Despite my coaching instincts nudging me to lecture them, words eluded me. Finally, I mustered, “If I ever hear of this happening again, I’ll have no choice but to turn you in, understand? Jesus gave second chances, but He also taught us about consequences. Being the grandson of a preacher, you should get that, Trevor.” I felt good about bringing Jesus into the conversation. It seemed more grown-up that way.
Trevor didn’t respond, but William said, “Yes, Coach. Thank you, Coach,” and then he hopped out. His voice came out slurred and shaky.
Good. He was remorseful for what he’d done. It could have ruined his future.
We passed the entrance to Ghost Mountain Farm on the way to Trevor’s house. He didn’t thank me for bringing him home. Actually, he didn’t say a single word. Perhaps he’d heard the rumors and recognized what a hypocrite I was. He got out of the truck and shut the door with a nod in my direction.
I didn’t wait for him to sneak inside. Whether he made it in without waking his parents wasn’t my concern. As I shifted into drive and peeled away from a curb—a little louder than necessary—he spun around. If I wasn’t mistaken, he flipped me the middle finger as I sped off.
I wasn’t their babysitter. I was their coach. Turning up the radio, I headed back.
My pulse was too high to return home and try to sleep. I needed to do something, but what?
Donner.
Not a single car passed as I steered toward his house. At first, I assumed he was asleep, but then I noticed a flicker of light on the porch. The hot tip of a cigar on an inhale, and then a dim glow. A gun cocked before I opened my door all the way.
“Easy, Donner. It’s Levi.”
“What’r, you doin’ out at a time like this? I coulda shot ya.”
Leaves crunched beneath my bare feet as I stepped toward him. “How often do you get visitors this late, and who do you expect them to be?”
“Exactly why I could’a shot ya. Ain’t no good news after a respectable nine o’clock.”
The butt of the gun thunked to the wooden planks as I sat beside him and wrinkled my nose. What was that odor? He took another inhale, and I realized he was smoking a joint, not a cigar.
“Wannna drag?” Donner asked with the joint pinched between his outstretched fingers.
“What are you doing with this?” I asked as I accepted the marijuana.
“Helps me sleep. Don’t worry. I’m not a pothead. I get this from an herb doctor, not my drug-runnin’ son Fred.”
Weed wasn’t legal medicinally or recreationally, but I was a farm boy from a small town in the south. I knew my way around a joint. I hadn’t gotten high since I was a teenager, preferring alcohol as my vice of choice when I came of age. Taking a hit was as familiar to me as riding a bike.
“What brings you here this time of night?”
I passed the rolled weed back to Donner and exhaled. “I told Marigold the truth.”
“I’m assuming it didn’t go well if you came t’ me.”
“She left me for Ezra.”
Donner took a drag and leaned back.
My fingers started fidgeting on the arm of the chair. “I don’t know what to do. Should I try to explain myself?”
The night burned brighter in the joint’s glow. “Sounds t’ me like you wanna force that girl to see yer point of view.”
“She thinks I’m crazy.”
“So you wanna bash her head in with your stories?”
I held out my hand for the joint, and Donner obliged. “They aren’t stories. I want her to have the truth.” I exhaled the smoke.
“She went to Ezra,” I repeated.
“So? What’s that to you?”
I gave the joint back. “I’m better for her.”
“Who are you to decide somethin’ like that?”
I slammed my hands into the arms of the chair and shot to my feet. “I’m the one who made her.”
The darkness magnified Donner’s exhale. “Sit down, Son.” He tried to pass me the joint but I declined.
“Listen, I’m not goin’ to pretend to understand what yer goin’ through, but you listen good. Hear? You are not to try and get that girl to love you. Real love don’t do things like that. Real love lets the thing it loves most walk away because real love don’t force itself on nobody.”
The high hit my bloodstream. “I don’t want to force her to love me. I just want her to see—”
“You want her t’ see things the way you see ’em. You wanna tell her she’s wrong and yer right.” Donner interrupted.
“But I am right.”
“Don’t matter now.”
“Then what am I supposed to do?”
“Nothin’. Don’t speak to that girl unless it’s to let her go. That’s the best way to love her.”
“But—”
He gave me a pointed look. “Do you love her?”
“Yes, but—”
“What do you love about her? You hardly know the girl.”
I forced my eyes closed. The weed was loosening my tongue more than I liked. Donner had a right to speak his mind, considering I came to him in the thin hours of the night.
Focusing on his question, I said, “I love how free she is. I love how she not only desires to make things right, but she actually does. She’s only ever been truthful to me. She loves and cares for my momma, and she sees the good in all people. I know because she stuck with me as long as she did.”
“Those’r mighty fine reasons to love a girl.”
My back relaxed against the chair as the weed settled in my lungs. “So, I just let her go?”
Donner dropped the smoked joint on the porch and smothered it with his bare and calloused foot. “That’s right, Son. You do nothin’.”
My limbs felt both heavy and light. Donner stood. “Come with me. I think it’s time we went to bed.”
Defeat and sadness wrapped me in a blanket as I collapsed on his couch and succumbed to exhaustion.
Marigold
The guest bedroom—as well as the rest of Ezra’s house—was modern and orderly. A sharp contrast to the rustic charm of the mountain cabin.
My mind felt hazy, not just from the glass of wine we savored in the kitchen but also due to the two additional glasses at the winery and the one Ezra insisted we have with dinner before lugging my bags upstairs.
He dropped one of the garbage bags by the closet door. “You can use the dresser.” He pointed to one with a large oval mirror on top. “And there are hangers in the closet.” He opened the door to show me. “The mattress is nice, and the bathroom is just down the hall. I hope you don’t mind if we share it.”
The room was so . . . impersonal. From the dark wood dresser to the queen-sized bed with a plain gray comforter and white pillowcases. Not a single hint of personal touch adorned the space; no cups filled with wildflowers, no books strewn about, no Mason jars redolent with mint and lemonade-infused sweet tea.
Seeming to read my mind, he opened the top drawer of the dresser and pulled out a candle. “Maybe this will make it more homey.”
I checked the scent while he headed to the bathroom for matches. Lavender. Well, that was something.
When it was lit and casting flickers across the room, he stood just outside the doorway. “Do you need anything else?”
I moved to stand in front of him, an invisible wall between us. He was on the outside of the room and I was on the inside.
“Thank you,” I said. “For today. It was nice of you to show me around. And—” I touched the doorframe—“thank you for letting me stay.”
“I meant it when I said you were welcome here.”
He wanted me to say something. Maybe confess what had torn me away from Levi.
The wine helped me temporarily forget my morning. Levi’s insistence that I was forged from words on paper and that I would never regain my memories.
It would be nice if that were true—but it would also be terrifying. Nice because it would explain so much. And terrifying because it’d mean that I was only one month old.
I blinked to erase the stupid thoughts. Levi’s “truth” was absurd.
When I focused on Ezra again, he was staring at me. Had he stepped closer?
“Mari, I . . . ” he paused, then said, “I’m glad you’re here.”
My legs felt wobbly. I leaned against the doorframe to stay upright.
“Are you okay?”
“I’m just tired,” I said, closing my eyes.
He reached out and grasped my arm with a strong touch.
I opened my tired eyes to find his concerned look. Forcing strength back into my legs, I brushed off his grip and smiled. “It’s nothing. I’ll go to bed.”
He was still staring. Had he moved even closer, or were my eyes too tired to focus properly?
“Mari, may I . . . ” He sighed and then shook his dark hair. “Never mind.” Spinning on his heel, he turned to go.
I was curious. “Wait.”
He pivoted.
“What were you going to ask?”
His bare feet glided soundlessly as he retraced his steps, drawing closer with each stride. He was closer than he’d been before. His jeans grazed the exposed skin of my thigh. He leaned casually against the doorframe above me, and I waited for him to say the words he’d retracted.
In a hushed tone, he confessed, “I told myself I wasn’t good enough for you. I still believe that. But . . . ” His fingers brushed a strand of hair behind my ear. We were so close that I could smell the wine on his breath. “Mari, may I—and I might regret this in the morning—but . . . may I kiss you?”
I could refuse. I should refuse.
But with his face so close to mine, and the wine buzzing through me, I didn’t want to. I wouldn’t pretend I loved him. Yet there was something about the way he wanted me, cared for me, and called me Mari that made me move my lips closer.
Levi had pushed me away. Ezra wouldn’t.
With a gentle grip on my ribcage and a soft exhale, his lips paused just shy of mine. The sweet scent of wine on his breath mingled with the soothing scent of the nearby lavender candle.
And then our lips met. Surrendering to the tender pressure of his kiss, I shut my eyes, savoring the gentle dance of our lips connecting and the reassuring touch of his hand against my diaphragm.
As our kiss deepened and he tentatively parted his lips against mine, seeking more intimacy, I reciprocated willingly.
Could he sense the expansion of my lungs with each breath drawn in sync with him?
When he leaned back, his breath mingled with mine as he murmured, “Mari.”
My lips were still parted when he kissed the corner of my mouth. He released his hold of the doorframe and my middle. Touching my chin with his thumb, he softly uttered, “Goodnight.” And then he disappeared into his room.
My chest heaved.
I shouldn’t have agreed to that.
Did he love me? Did I love him? Kissing a man without the answers to those questions wasn’t fair.
I closed my bedroom door and dug through my clothes until I found my pajamas. All I could think of was Levi—and Ezra.
Ezra embodied comfort—neatly tucked sheets, a lineup of coffee mugs, and the remnants of wine on his lips. In contrast, Levi represented spontaneity—a chaotic cabin, a slightly battered guitar, and a silence that spoke volumes.
And I’d kissed them both. Without intending to, I’d position myself as the girl between them.