Wednesday

“Ella,” I heard my editor call in a plaintive, pleading tone as he made his way across the office to my desk.

“Whatever it is Mel, the answer is no,” I replied, not looking up. It was late in the afternoon, and I had just returned from my last assignment the night before. I was tired and grumpy. I only stopped by the office of The Globe -the travel blog I worked for- to turn in my mileage and file some paperwork.

“Please, this is something that’s very close to my heart,” Mel said in the same pleading tone. I looked up at the paunchy middle aged man with mustard stains on his tie. “It has to be you.”

“What is it?” I asked, setting aside the paperwork I’d been reading. He had piqued my curiosity.

He handed me a manilla folder full of clippings and printouts.

“Haven’t you ever heard of digital archiving?” I asked him incredulously as I opened it. “LaCera? Mel, this is old news. Even Time Magazine did a piece on LaCera in the nineties.” 

LaCera was a small town, more of a village really, with a population of about five hundred people. It was one of a dozen little settlements tucked up into the foothills of the Amber Ridge Mountains. It wouldn’t have been noteworthy beyond a point on a map except for a meadow on the edge of town that was home to a splendid display of wildflowers every spring. People came from all over to see it. I have seen many pictures and articles about it over the years… But despite the fact that it was only about 3 hours from where I lived, I had never been there myself. 

“I want to come at it from a new angle.” Mel gently flipped the pages of notes and clippings in front of me to an article with a picture of a very privileged looking man wearing a hardhat and smiling into the camera.

“‘Ranfer Company to bid on Peabody’s Meadow’?” I read off.

“The wildflower meadow is up for sale,” Mel tapped the picture of the smiling man. “And this developer wants to buy it and flatten it to put in another parking area for a ski lodge they want to build in Amber Ridge.”

“And you want me to write a puff piece to sway public opinion for the town? That sounds like something that Steven could easily do for you.” Steven was the other travel blogger for The Globe. “Or even Kayleigh.” I added, thinking of our vlogger and social media contributor.

“Neither of them have your heart,” Mel said.

“My heart?” I laughed. “Mel, you’re barking up the wrong tree.”

“No, you have a big heart Ella. I know, because you’re already thinking about doing this.” I looked back at the absurd folder of clippings. He wasn’t wrong, and I hated that he wasn’t wrong. 

“I just got back,” I complained. “I was looking forward to a nice night at home with a bottle of wine and my own bed.”

“This is close to my heart. I proposed to Rita in LaCera. One of my kids might have been conceived there.”

“Ugh, Mel, stop! I don’t need to know that.”

“This is delicate. Kayleigh would show up and do a big glitzy production, but miss the real point of the story. Steven would write about the flowers and just the flowers. Neither of them would see the human factor. The people. You are perfect for this, it has to be you, and it has to be this weekend.”

“Why this weekend?”

“The town has a big social event to kick off the Wildflower Festival every year. They run through the summer, but the biggest crowd is always the first weekend. You’ll get the best pictures.” Mel explained. “I used to take Rita up there every year for our anniversary.” He gave me a big, sad eyed stare.

“Are you really playing the dead wife card right now?” Mel was not above any forms of manipulation when it came to getting a good story, so I didn’t feel guilty saying that. I might later, but I could tell when I was being maneuvered.

“Ella, please,” Mel begged. “I think we can do some real good here. The man that owns the meadow says he’ll give the town preference for selling if they can come up with the money by September 1st, but they have to pay fair market value for the land. If you write the story I know you can write, maybe we can get enough people out there to get them over the hump.”

I sighed.

“It’s a good thing I never got a cat,” I muttered.

“So you’ll leave tomorrow and stay through the weekend?”

“It sounds like I will,” I said, rolling my eyes. “Is there a hotel in this podunk little blip?”

“There’s an inn, but you’ll want to call right away, they usually fill up fast, and if they don’t have a room, you’ll have to stay in Bell City, and that’s an hour away.”

“How horrid,” I muttered, googling the phone number for the inn. Mel shuffled back to his office, leaving me to make my arrangements. I called the number for the inn.

“Thanks for calling The Ivy, this is Gladys,” a very perky voice answered.

“Um, hi. I was hoping to book a room, Thursday through Monday?”

“Mm, normally we fill up months in advance for the first weekend of Wildflower season, but you’re in luck, we’ve just had a cancellation.” 

Of course they did, I thought wryly.

“You don’t have a waiting list?” I asked hopefully.

“Oh no, we tried that a few years back, it got to be miles long.” She chuckled. “I didn’t want to hassle with it. We get along just fine without it. Let me just get your details. What’s your name, honey?”

“Ella James,” I said. I wondered what I was getting myself into. It sounded like she was writing my information down instead of keying it into a computer. I wondered what the cell service was like up there. I gave her the rest of my details, and she cheerily told me she couldn’t wait to see me the following day. I gave a weak thanks and hung up. I spent the next few hours finishing up my paperwork, and then getting ready to head back out of town.

“Remember,” Mel said as he walked by my desk on his way out that evening. “Delicate.”

“Yeah yeah, you’re giving me a raise when I get back,” I called after him.

“Sorry, can’t hear you,” he said as the elevator doors shut. I rolled my eyes and resumed reviewing his notes for a while before I headed home myself. 

I moved to a studio apartment a few blocks from The Globe a little over a year ago, when my (now ex) boyfriend Kyle and I split up. I had done little in the way of decorating. The 400 square foot apartment resembled an Ikea show room more than a place someone actually lived… except for the dust bunnies. There was never any food in my fridge and the only reason some of my plants were still green was because they were fake. 

While I was debating the logistics -what to pack, when to leave, etc- my phone buzzed. I looked at the caller ID.

Mary James. My sister. I heaved a deep sigh and hit the ignore button. 

I decided that my first order of business would be repacking my suitcase. I started to head to the far end of the apartment, where a bookcase and a decorative folding screen separated my bed and “closet” from the rest of the apartment. The bookcase held some books, and the only signs of personalization in the apartment: a few framed photographs. 

On my way by, I paused to look at the pictures for a moment. A thin layer of dust coated everything on the shelf. I picked up the picture of my sister and me, wiping the powdery film from the frame. I lingered on Mary’s perfect face, feeling a familiar sting of jealousy. 

My whole life, I heard “That’s your sister?” whenever I introduced Mary to someone, as if it seemed impossible such a perfect creature shared DNA with me.

 Mary had modeled for a time – small stuff, local businesses and billboards, but still. She was tall, waifish, with long strawberry blond curls, peaches and cream skin, and big blue eyes that I was certain some poor besotted oaf had written a poem or two about. She reminded me of a Botticelli painting. The Birth of Venus, perhaps. 

I feel confident in my looks most of the time, but not when I stand next to Mary. I studied the differences between us; My body is less waifish and more to the tune of a medieval peasant, soft and curved. The contrast doesn’t end there; my hair is garden variety brown. I have freckles across my nose and cheeks, and my teeth are a bit crooked. My best feature would be my eyes; somewhere between green and hazel, framed by dark lashes. While no one had ever said “My god, you’re hideous!” to me, compared to my perfect sister I often felt like I should be bullying some billy-goats under a bridge.

I honestly couldn’t blame Kyle for falling for her.

The two of them insisted nothing happened until well after Kyle and I split, but I hadn’t been able to forgive either of them for it. I hadn’t seen either of them in over a year, either. I operated under the “out of sight, out of mind” philosophy when it came to dealing with the complicated emotions that linger after you get dumped.

I lay the picture of us face down, as if that would stop the feelings of jealousy and sorrow. I averted my gaze to the other objects on the bookcase. On the same shelf, there was also a picture of me with my best friend, Zaira Ramirez. We stood on the edge of the Blue Falls Lake, with the waterfall in the background. Zaira was short, with long dark hair and big dark eyes. It was summer, and we wore our bathing suits. We posed like we were nineties TV wrestlers, hunched forward and flexing. I always thought it made a nice contrast to the more sedate, prim and proper photo of Mary and I at some wine tasting. I wiped the dust off of this picture as well, but I set it back on the shelf as it was, leaving the picture of my sister and I face down.

I went around the corner to my bed and the free standing wardrobe I used as a closet. I had only partially unpacked my suitcase the night before, and with a grunt, I heaved it back onto the bed. I yanked my underwear drawer out of the dresser and dumped the contents into the suitcase. I hadn’t even had the time to do laundry between assignments. Dumping whatever was left in the whole drawer might have been overkill but I was too frustrated to care at that point. I tossed a couple clean pairs of jeans, t-shirts, a few flannel shirts and one hooded sweatshirt into the suitcase. No need to pack anything any nicer. 

My travel toiletries were always ready to go, so I added those to my suitcase, along with hiking boots, a pair of sneakers and a few other odds and ends. My camera equipment was still packed, as well. I stacked everything up next to my front door, then I flopped back on my couch. I spent the evening trying not to feel sorry for myself, but it was hard not to. I was eating take out, in an empty apartment, with no one but dust bunnies to miss me while I was gone.

I wanted to blame work. Even before I started volunteering for every out of town assignment, my job had certainly made relationships challenging. Kyle had cited it as one of the reasons he wanted to end things. Derek, the guy I had dated before Kyle, had actually admitted to cheating on me because I was gone so much. 

As I reflected on Derek and Kyle, I reminded myself that Zaira had also been cheated on and she worked from home. 

Choice of profession isn’t the common denominator, I thought with a wry smile. Men are just trash. Zaira often liked to repeat that phrase while we were together, having drinks and discussing the men she went out with. After she caught her ex cheating, she had started treating men like she would a handbag, swapping them out for something new when she was bored.

At first, I had thought that was the smart way to do it. I even hung out in hotel bars on my travels for a while, and bought a box of condoms that I kept in the front pocket of my purse. Despite there being no shortage of men looking for a good time, I could never really make myself do it. It just wasn’t me. I envied Zaira and her ability to disconnect, but I knew myself. I wasn’t a casual hook up kind of person, no matter how badly I wanted to be. I would get attached, and wind up making a fool out of myself.

So, I took the opposite approach. I wasn’t in any hurry to get my heart broken again. Since Kyle and I had broken up almost 15 months ago, I had been single, celibate and sane. And pretty damn lonely, if I was being honest with myself, but I tried to believe it was better this way.

I finished my takeout, put an old movie on the TV and fell asleep on the couch, despite my protestations to Mel that I missed my own bed

Thursday

The next morning, I set out in my ‘83 VW bug, heading north towards Amber Ridge. As I passed the exit for Rose Hollow, I felt a pang. My strained relationship with my sister meant that my relationship with my parents was also strained. Mary was the youngest, and my parents always coddled and spoiled her. It wasn’t her fault she and Kyle fell in love. You know Mary is just naive, she wasn’t being malicious.

Kyle and I went to high school together, where I crushed on him from freshman year until graduation. We went our separate ways after high school, but we bumped back into each other a few years after college in New Oxford, where we were both working. At the time, I thought it was fate and that we were meant to find one another, but an older and wiser me figured it was probably because it was just the closest big city to where we grew up. We were friends for years before finally dating for almost five years. He ended things very apologetically, telling me that I traveled so much for my job, it gave him time to “really reflect” on our relationship. He went on to say while he did love me, it wasn’t a romantic love, it was a friendly love, and he hoped that there were no hard feelings.

And there wouldn’t have been, except he tripped on his way out the door and fell dick first into my sister. They could deny it all they wanted, but I was suspicious Kyle was cheating on me while I was out on assignment for a while. Little things, like being evasive about what he was up to while I was gone, being protective of his phone, and not looking me in the eye very much… But I didn’t want to accept it, so I went on acting like everything was fine until he sat me down and dumped me.

My sister and I finally exchanged terse words over the phone at Christmas, but that was for our mother’s sake more than anything else.

I shook my head, as if to clear the thoughts from my mind. It was approximately three hours from New Oxford to LaCera. I drove through winding tree line roads, gradually inclining as they wove their way up into the foothills. As I came around a big bend in the road just before Bell City – the last real town on the map – I got a good view of the Amber Ridge Mountains in the distance. These weren’t jagged snow capped peaks like the Rocky Mountains, but gently sloping tree covered ridges of Western Appalachia. The trees were blooming with their spring blossoms, yellow, white and pink weaving into the evergreens along the mountains.

My Bug had just been serviced and given a clean bill of health on the return leg of my last trip, so imagine my surprise when the engine cut out just 35 miles outside of LaCera. The engine wouldn’t turn over when I tried. 

“Perfect, just perfect.” I could cry. “Of course.”

I called the motor club and waited on the line for a long time before being told that Baker’s Towing was on the way from LaCera and would be there in about 45 minutes. It was closer to ninety minutes when I saw a battered looking pickup truck with a tow hook on the back pull alongside my Bug. A tall man wearing a baseball cap and grease spotted overalls climbed out and walked up to my car.

“Ma’am,” he said, bending down to speak to me through the window. He raised the brim of his hat. “You called for a tow?”

“Yeah, I was headed into LaCera, the engine died on me. Won’t turn over.”

“Pop your trunk for me, I’ll take a look.” I did, and he disappeared to the back of the car. A few minutes later, he was back at the window, wiping his hands on a greasy rag. “Good news and bad news. It’ll take all of 5 minutes to fix, but I don’t have any old Wolkswagen parts on hand, so I’ll have to order something. Might take a few days, a week at most.”

“A week?” 

“Probably not that long.”

“Great,” I muttered. I was suddenly very glad I dumped the entire contents of my underwear drawer into my suitcase; it looked like I was going to be staying for a while.

“I can tow you to LaCera, or I can take you back to Bell City?” 

“To LaCera, please. I have a reservation at the inn.” He nodded, and pulled his truck in front of me. He unlocked the passenger side door for me, and once I was inside, he hooked up the Bug. He climbed back in the truck, and we set off down the road toward LaCera.

I studied him. He was probably handsome under all the scruff. His facial hair was less of an intentional beard, but patchy, like someone who just hasn’t bothered to shave for a while. I put him at about 45 or so, with salt and pepper growing into his thick brown hair. His eyes were dark brown, and his large, sharp nose gave his face character, but not in an unattractive way. His clothes and hat were grease spotted and filthy. I half expected him to have a toothpick in his mouth. The stained patch on his overalls read “Virgil”. Because of course it did.

“Have you always lived in LaCera?” I heard myself asking after a few miles of deafening silence.

It would seem Virgil was not a man of few words, but rather a man of word. Singular.

“No,” he said, and he switched on the radio. 

Well then, I thought, suppressing a smile as we drove on.

“This here’s The Ivy,” he said in a low voice, pulling along a brick colonial style house that was in fact covered in ivy, because of course it was. There was a large, fenced yard with little iron bistro tables scattered here and there.

He shifted his truck into park and climbed out. I stopped to get my bags out of the Bug and he surprised me by grabbing the heavy suitcase and taking it in for me. He held the door for me, then set my bags down. 

“Ma’am,” he said as he exited. I didn’t have time to think about how I was going to pay him for the tow, or get my car back. It was a small town, and I certainly wasn’t going anywhere, I supposed. 

I looked around. The house was old, maybe going all the way back to the 1700s. It had a beautifully maintained hardwood floor and was brightly lit by many large windows. The furniture was an eclectic mix of styles that all seemed to fit together. It all gave a cozy, homey vibe.

“Hello there!” A cheerful voice exclaimed. “Ope, sorry. Didn’t mean to scare ya. Welcome to the Ivy, do you have a reservation?” I turned to see a mousey, thin woman with big teeth grinning at me from behind a desk tucked back into a corner. This must be Perky Gladys, I realized.

“Yes, Ella James.” 

“Ah, you’re the lucky girl,” she said, pulling a handwritten piece of paper out of a folder.

“Yeah. I’m sorry, would it be possible to change my reservation?” I asked. “My car broke down on the way here, and the tow truck guy said it might take him a week to fix.”

“A week?” she sounded surprised. 

“Well, he has to order a part.”

“Oh, I see. That makes more sense. Virgil can fix just about anything in two shakes of a lamb’s tail.”

“Ah, yeah… anyway, I was wondering if it was going to be a problem to extend my reservation until next Thursday.” I wondered what I would do if they couldn’t accommodate me. Expense a car service to The Globe? Mel would boil me alive. Zaira would come to get me, but she would never let me hear the end of it. Fortunately, Gladys had good news. Well, she had news, anyway.

“Probably not, let me just double check, but you should be fine. During the week things slow way back down, it’s the weekends that fill up,” she chattered on, looking at a ledger in front of her. “Ah! Yes, we’ll have space for you til Thursday,” she confirmed.

“Great,” I said with false sincerity. If Gladys picked up on it, she didn’t show it, but I certainly didn’t want to stay the whole week.

“Oh, are you a photographer?” She asked, noticing my bag as she stapled some papers together and tucked them into another folder. I couldn’t believe there was not a computer in this place. I half expected her to pull one of those old slide credit card imprinters out to put my card on file, but she had a card reader that plugged into her phone. 

“Er, yes, sort of. I work for The Globe.”

“The travel site? Very nice. You doin’ a story on LaCera, then?”

“Yeah, I am.”

“Well that’s wonderful.” She beamed at me. “I hope you have a lovely time while you’re here. I’ll take you to the room.” She took one of my bags and led me up a wide staircase to the second floor. 

“All the rooms have private adjoining bathrooms,” she explained as we went. “We serve breakfast until ten in the morning, after that if you’re hungry, you’ll be welcome at the diner across the street, they are open till nine at night during Wildflower season. Here’s the WiFi info.” She pointed to a binder on the desk. “Yes, we do have WiFi, folks are always surprised to hear that.” She grinned. “I’m Gladys, by the way. I’ll be downstairs if you need anything.” She held out the keys to me.

“Oh, thank you.” I said, taking the keys.

It was a good sized room, and the bed was a king. However, almost every surface – the walls, the curtains, the bedspread, even the carpet on the floor – was covered in a violently floral pattern that made me dizzy if I looked at it for too long. I put my suitcase on top of a low chest of drawers opposite the bed, beneath a mirror, and then set my laptop and camera on the desk beneath the window. I looked at the binder where Gladys said the WiFi info would be. A piece of pink neon copy paper was in the front of the binder. The clip art explosion informed me of the Wildflower Festival, running from May to mid-June with what the town called “Socials” – live music, food, vendors and more – every Friday night and all day Saturdays and Sundays.

“A social,” I thought back to the Little House on the Prairie Books; the only other place I’d heard “social” used in place of “party”. 

Of course they call them socials.

The window over the desk looked out at the main street in town. It was maybe a half mile stretch lined on either side with little businesses. A general store, a post office, a bank, a diner and a church on one side of the street. On the other side, the inn, an antique store, a tiny library, and presumably Virgil’s garage with one single antique looking gas pump out front. There were a few narrow little lanes branching off from the main road, and presumably that was where the 500 or so citizens of LaCera lived. The main road curved out of sight into the woods beyond the garage.

I dug through my work bag and pulled out the file Mel gave me. He did most of the research on the town and the developer already. I realized that Mel probably intended to write the story himself, and I wondered if he assigned it to me because he missed Rita too much. Now I did feel bad about the dead wife comment. I sighed.

Reading through his research more closely, I saw that the developer in question had a string of scandals surrounding lawsuits levied against them, ranging from labor disputes to EPA violations. The fact that they were fine with bulldozing a local landmark for a parking lot wasn’t surprising. 

My phone buzzed. It was Zaira.

“Hey,” I answered.

“Hey, want to get drinks? I’ve got a late dinner date at El Cantore, but we could pregame.”

“I’m on assignment,” I said sheepishly.

“I thought you got back yesterday?”

“And I got sent out again this morning.”

“Girl.”

“Yeah, yeah, I know,” I said.

“Ella, you have to slow down eventually.”

“Well, I’m pretty slow right now, I’m in LaCera. My car broke down and I’m stuck here for a week.”

“La-where-a?”

“LaCera, the wildflower town,” I replied. “Up in Amber Ridge.”

“Oh yeah,” I heard the recognition in her voice. “I think my parents took us there when we were kids. It’s pretty boring from what I remember.”

“Yeah,” I said, looking out the window at the town again.

“Well, if you’re not in town to entertain me, I’ll let you go. Check in with me and try not to die of boredom,” she said. “I’ll talk to you later.”

“Bye.”

After I hung up with Zaira, I decided to call Mel and complain.

“My car broke down,” I said when he answered.

“The universe’s way of saying you needed to slow down and smell the flowers,” he said, chuckling.

“Very clever. You know, I was prepared to slow down, you’re the one who sent me back out on assignment. I appreciate how you do not care that this has uprooted my life.”

“Yeah, yeah, it’s a good thing you never got that cat,” he said. “You love it.”

“Maybe, but you’re giving me a raise when I get back. A big one.”

“You’re breaking up, I can’t hear you. Have a fun time! Bye!”

I could picture him smiling. He was probably happy I was stuck here. I already felt like I was an extra in some feel-good saccharin movie. He was probably convinced there wasn’t enough whimsy in my life. 

Who has the time for whimsy? I grumbled to myself, tidying up the loose papers from his folder.

I was starting to get hungry, so I went downstairs and crossed the street to the diner. As I walked I got a good 360 view of the town and saw some things I hadn’t been able to get a good look at from the window. There was a big open space between the antique store and the garage, where a makeshift stage and a dozen picnic tables were set up. Preparation for the party… Social, I corrected myself.

The walk to the diner was short, but somehow uphill. I was in reasonable shape, but the walk had me resolving to start using the incline function on the treadmill at the gym. I saw some townsfolk milling around, setting up booths, unfolding chairs and tables, or just talking.

I went into the diner. A dark skinned woman with close cropped hair came over and took my order. She wore a little name tag pinned to her shirt that said “Aubrey.” She handed me a laminated menu. 

“Can I have the chicken salad sandwich and an ice tea, please?” I asked after a moment.

She nodded. She called back through a narrow window to the kitchen. I heard a man grunt loudly and then heard the sound of things banging around. Through the front window, I saw a shiny black truck pull into the gravel parking area in front of the diner. A moment later, I heard the door open behind me.

“Hey Virgil, the usual?” 

I shifted in my seat to see the tow truck driver standing there. Not only had he ditched his battered tow truck, he had removed his overalls. He was wearing jeans and a stained t-shirt. He wore an old leather jacket on top of it. He nodded to Aubrey, who disappeared back into the kitchen. Virgil turned to me and lifted his hand to the brim of his hat.

“Ma’am.” 

“Hello,” I said in reply.

Aubrey reappeared from the kitchen then.

“I’m sure everyone who comes in here asks this, but where’s the best spot to see the wildflowers?” I asked her.

“There’s a trailhead on the north end of town, can’t miss it, there’s a bunch of signs.” Aubrey said.

“How far, do you think?”

“Maybe half a mile?”

“Thanks, I’ll head up there after I eat.”

“It’s closer to a mile,” Virgil interjected.

“That’s fine, I’ve got good shoes.”

“I can slip you up there,” Virgil said. He took a seat at the counter. “I’ll eat here, Aubrey.” He took his hat off and ran his hand through his hair, trying to tidy it a bit. Aubrey had a strange look on her face, like she had just seen a dog walk on its hind legs, but she didn’t say anything to him, she just nodded and put a placemat down in front of him on the counter.

“I’m fine, really,” I insisted. “I walk five miles at the gym as a warm up.”

“There’s a big blind curve in the road, just before the meadow. It’s close to my garage, so I see people come flying around it doing sixty, seventy miles per hour sometimes.” He paused. “It’ll be dark soon, too. Wouldn’t be very good press if you got hit right before the festival started. The sheriff’s office will be out directing traffic and such on the weekends, but they don’t bother during the week,” he went on. “I keep askin’ the sheriff to patrol that stretch during the off time and write some tickets, but they have better things to do I guess.” He shrugged. “I don’t mind, I’m done working for the day.”

Aubrey placed my chicken salad sandwich in front of me. 

“I think that’s the most I’ve ever heard you say at one time,” she remarked to Virgil. He didn’t respond, but I could see the tips of his ears turn pink.

“Well, thanks,” I said, taking a small bite of my sandwich.

After we finished our respective sandwiches, he led me out to the black truck in the parking lot. He unlocked the door for me and held it open. I climbed in and he shut it behind me. When I saw the curve in the road, I understood his concern. Someone taking it too fast could definitely drift across the yellow lines or onto the shoulder. He drove perhaps another half mile after the curve and then parked along the side of the road in a little cutout in the trees. There was a dirt road that cut through the trees with signs marking it as the wildflower trail. Other hand painted signs read: “No Motor Vehicles Beyond This Point.” “Take Only Pictures, Leave Only Footprints.” “Save the Bees.”

He parked and we climbed out of the truck.

“It’s just up here,” he pointed, but then he led me up the trail. The trail itself was perhaps a quarter mile long and when we came to the head of it, my breath caught in my throat. I was expecting at best, an oversized flower bed. None of the pictures I saw in other publications, nor Mel’s research prepared me for what I was seeing. There were flowers as far as the eye could see stretching conceivably for hundreds of acres, butting up against the Amber Ridge mountains in the distance. There were flowers of every imaginable color and kind; zinnias, primrose, aster, daisy, coneflower and more I couldn’t name. They all grew together in a tangle of vines and leaves. Even though the sun was sinking low in the sky, the sound of bees buzzing and birds singing filled the air. The air was growing cooler, and I wasn’t dressed for it, but I couldn’t take my eyes off the meadow.

“It’s… incredible,” I breathed. I crossed my bare arms over my chest to keep warm. It was so beautiful that it made me want to cry. I don’t know how long I stood there, but eventually I shivered involuntarily. I felt him put his jacket around my shoulders.

“Please, I’m fine,” I protested.

“Your teeth are chattering,” he said. It was probably 50 degrees, but when the sun disappeared behind the trees, it felt even cooler. The jacket smelled like old leather, and some kind of cologne. It wasn’t unpleasant but at that point, I started to feel guilty and turned back. I could come back in the morning and take some pictures. Virgil walked me back to the truck and drove me to the inn. I thanked him for showing me the meadow, handing his jacket back to him.

“Ma’am,” he said as he raised his hand to his hat as we parted. Because of course he did. He sat in his truck until I was inside the inn before driving off. I shook my head in disbelief. Did Mel set up a very elaborate ruse to troll me, or was this guy for real? Virgil was like a relic from some bygone era.

I went up to my room. It was still early, but between the drive up and sleeping on the couch the night before, I was pretty tired. I wanted to get up early the next morning anyway, so I read through more of Mel’s research and a little later, I turned out the lights and settled down to sleep.