Page 50 of In The Weeds
I glance at my watch. It can’t be much later than six in the morning on the west coast. But Josie has always been an early riser. “Godspeed.”
I tuck my phone back in my pocket and continue following the map, snickering at Beckett’s doodles. I laugh at a collection of wavy lines scribbled on the paper, supposed to be a cluster of bushes right before a dip in the landscape hides everything from view. I crest another small hill and then I see it. Exactly what Beckett intended for me to find.
A field of wildflowers, rolling out from the base of the hill in a patchwork quilt of color. Blue and purple and a smattering of rich gold, the sight of it so quietly beautiful that I don’t hesitate to walk right in the middle of it all and lay flat on my back. They must have bloomed to life during the last string of warm days, still standing tall despite the cold. Resilient. Stunning.
Flower petals tickle my cheek and I close my eyes with a sigh. A quiet, perfect miracle, hidden behind the hills.
SOME HAPPY, Beckett had written.
I curl my fingers around the edge of the paper and hold it tightly to my chest.
I layin the field until my stomach starts to grumble, a reminder that I’ve been here for most of the morning. I’m grateful for the extra sweater I slipped over my head before I left the house, the earth cold at my back and the wind brisk enough this morning for my breath to be visible in tiny puffs of white above me. Beckett tells me the weather will break soon and that winter is being a little stubborn this year.
Not the only stubborn thing, he had mumbled, a significant look cast in my direction.
I sigh and watch the stems around me dance in the breeze. Flat on the ground like this, it’s just me and the blooms, the sky a perfect, cloudless blue above me, endless in every direction. I sit up with a groan and dip my nose into a cluster of aster at my hip. They smell like moss, the grass after rain. I pass my palms over the petals as I leave and decide I’ll bring Beckett with me the next time I come. I want him to sit in the patch of foxgloves and see if they bring out the blue in his eyes.
I take a different, meandering path back to the cabin, arching back in the opposite direction from the way I came. Beckett had scribbled a half-moon shape in the top corner of his rudimentary map, and I find the pond he must have been referencing easily enough. It’s not very large, but it does have a dock extending over the water with a row boat tied at the end. The little dinghy bobs up and down gently as the water laps at the legs of the aged wood and I smile, imagining Beckett trying to cram his body in the tiny thing. The rope is frayed at the edges, the boat painted a dark, midnight blue.
Trees arch up over the water, a canopy of tangled branches and bright green leaves. Sunlight dances through where it can, painting the still water beneath in stripes of gold. I see a tire swing on the other end of the pond, barely skimming the water, a thick rope wrapped three times around the sturdy branch of an old oak. When I was a kid, I used to climb the biggest tree in my parent’s backyard, all the way to the top. I’d sit perched there with a book until the sun began to set, a chill making me shudder with the leaves. My dad had offered to build me a treehouse a million times, but I liked climbing too much. I liked the challenge, the scrapes it left on my palms. It always felt like I was keeping a piece of nature with me. Proof that I could do anything I wanted.
Feeling nostalgic, I wander over to the trunk of a thick maple, wide branches stretching out over the water, a natural ladder of misshapen knobs and divots in the bark. I reach for the branch closest and curl my hands around it, leveraging my body up and pressing my foot to the base. Muscle memory kicks in as I place my hands and feet in all the right places, the ache in my muscles disappearing as my body warms. I press and pull until I can swing my leg over a branch, holding my body steady about halfway up. From here the pond looks bigger, the still water reflecting the branches above like a mirror. I gaze down at my wiggly reflection and rest my chin against my knee.
I don’t know if it’s the sliver of my childhood, or the field of flowers, or Beckett’s hand drawn map, or my time away from everything I thought was important, but I feel the wayward pieces of myself sliding back into place. It’s not quite there yet, not the perfect fit, but isn't that what Beckett said that night on the back porch? Some of it comes, some of it goes. It’s about the trying. Settling into the happy when you find it, being okay when you don’t. Feeling all the misshapen bits and pieces and where they fit together. The delightful, ordinary blank space in between.
I finally feel like I’m trying.
I lower my body carefully along the branch until my arms and legs are hanging free, my cheek pressed against the rough bark. I’ll have imprints on my face, I’m sure, but like this, when I close my eyes, I’m weightless. Nothing bothers me. Not the cold wind twisting through the trees and tickling at the small of my back. Not the dig of a stick against my thigh. Not the endless buzzing of thoughts in the back of my mind. It’s just me and the gentle rustle of the branches, the water lapping at the edge of the boat below, and the call of birds as they hop from tree to tree. It’s a perfect moment.
Until I tilt to the side, and I fall.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
BECKETT
“You thinkthis cold snap will end soon?”
I’m starting to get worried. We don’t usually see these types of temperatures this late into March. The afternoons have been warm enough, but the mornings and nights are downright frigid. I checked the temperature before I left the house this morning. It was barely breaking thirty degrees.
“Has to,” Barney replies, frowning down at his boots, hands on his hips. “Cause I refuse to do any replanting of the produce we’ve already put in the ground this year.”
It wouldn’t be the worst thing in the world to have a low-yield crop this spring. We don’t rely on it as our main source of income. But I’d hate to see all those crops go to waste after we poured so much effort into those fields and any business is good business for our fledgling farm.
I was actually starting to look forward to bell peppers.
“Where’s the kid?”
I scratch at my eyebrow. “With Layla this morning. She was showing him how to stock inventory.”
Meaning she’s making him lug the giant sacks of flour and sugar that she picks up at the wholesaler into the bakehouse. Stella gets on me for forcing manual labor, but I’m pretty sure Jeremy will come crawling back to the fields after an afternoon with Layla. She runs her kitchens like a pit crew, but with frosting and pastel sprinkles.
Barney gives me a sly look. “And the girl?”
“The girl’s name is Evelyn,” I mutter. And she’s not a girl. She’s a woman wrapped in temptation, topped with an eager, honest sincerity that makes my chest feel hollow. Spending time with her, getting to know her—I only like her more. Which is a problem, when she plans to leave without a backward glance in a couple of weeks.
Hopefully, right now, she’s sitting in a big field of flowers. I picture her there, her hands cupped loosely around a blossoming Queen Anne’s Lace, the white blooms bright against her dark skin. I picture myself there with her, my nose in her neck, her skin sweeter than the flowers around us. Her laugh free and warm.
I sigh and dig the palm of my hand into my shoulder and try to ease out some of the tension. I swear I’ve turned into the tin man since she started sleeping in my house. A bunch of rattling cans, looking around for where the hell my heart got off to. “She’s somewhere around here, I’m sure.”
