The road curved into the trees, the summer vines already creeping onto the cracked pavement. It was like that this time of year, as if the woods were nibbling at the edges of town, just waiting for a chance to swallow it whole.
There was a quiet in the mountains, even when the cicadas and the crickets were singing and the wind was howling. It was the sight of those rolling blue peaks in the distance that made me feel like maybe the earth wasn’t really spinning.
None of the farms that were still running grew tobacco anymore. The river had kept the land fertile, carving through the fields before it began its descent into the lowlands, and now, the families in Jasper mostly raised hogs or grew sweet potatoes. There were even a number of Christmas tree farms now.
The radio cut in and out with bits and pieces of Billie Holiday’s “I’ll Be Seeing You,” and I breathed through the tight feeling in my chest, eyeing the cracked display. I reached for the knob, turning it just to be sure. But it didn’t matter how many channels the dial scrolled past, the song was the same. The radio had been busted for years, but I could hear the static-muffled notes and butter-smooth voice buzzing in the speakers.
Sometimes, if I focused, I could push the episodes from my mind like tightening the tap on a faucet just a little bit more to stop the drip. But that was becoming less and less easy to do. The man I’d seen on the porch last night had been proof of that.
I steered the truck down the winding roads and let one hand fall out the window, splaying my fingers so that the wind could slip through them like warm water. The song faded from my mind as the cool morning burned out of the air and the sun rose higher.
When town appeared in the distance, I saw the doors of the flower shop were already propped open. The engine groaned as the gear shifted down, and I came to a stop at the only traffic light in Jasper, which hung from a tenuous wire over the main intersection in town. A right turn would take me over the bridge that crossed the river, now sparkling with sunlight. I could see the steeple of the church, and I resisted the urge to search the cemetery’s green hill for the freshly dug grave we’d stood by the night before.
To the left of the stoplight stood the county courthouse. The red brick was the same that had been used for all the buildings, but its white dome top and marble floors were too grand for Jasper, built at a time when the farms in these hills were producing the east’s best tobacco. No one had known this town wouldn’t ever become anything more than a few farmers and their local gossip, bypassed by an interstate that would run all the way from California to the coast of North Carolina.
The traffic light clicked off and then on again as the bulb lit green, and I let my foot off the brake, pulling into the parking spot in front of the shop. The old metal sign that hung above the door read ADELINE RIVER FLOWER FARM.
Birdie was at work behind the counter, a pen clenched between her teeth as she read the order taped to the wall. Ida’s daughter, Melody, spotted me from the front counter before I even had the gear in place. She’d been our summer hire for the last two years when she came home from college and we needed extra hands for wedding season. We might be in the middle of nowhere, but the brides that came in droves to be married with a mountain view in Asheville wanted Adeline River flowers in their bouquets and boutonnieres.
Melody came outside, her linen apron tied with a perfect bow at her waist. She was eleven years younger than me, and hers was a face that had always reminded me just how much I’d never really fit. Not in this town, my life, or even in my own skin. She was always smiling. Always polite in that way that southern people were taught to be. Like nothing dark had ever touched her.
She made her way around the truck, giving the back a few jerks until it opened. “Morning, June.” Her singsong voice was a pitch even higher than her mother’s.
“Morning.”
“The service was so beautiful last night. Me and Mom both thought so.”
I found Melody’s eyes in the rearview mirror as she slid the buckets toward her. The look on her face made me wonder if Ida had told her to keep an eye on me after last night. I wouldn’t put it past her.
“Thanks.” I tugged at the rolled handkerchief tied around my head, dropping it to the seat beside me before I pulled my hair from its knot. The sun-warmed waves spilled over my shoulders.
“I didn’t know you were cutting the larkspur today.” She said, “This everything?”
“That’s it. They’ll be by with more in a couple of hours, and there should be room in the cooler.”
“All right.” She swayed from left to right as she lugged the buckets to the sidewalk. “Want me to get Birdie?”
“No,” I said, working the stubborn gear back into reverse. “I’ll catch her later.”
She gave me a dutiful nod as I pulled back onto the road, and I drove the rest of the way to the house, the truck jostling as I turned into the uneven drive. I came to a stop in front of the cottage. It was painted in a sunlit peach color, and the garden was in full bloom, making the house look like a page from a storybook or one of the postcards on the counter at the grocery. It still didn’t feel like that, though.
The screen door of the house squeaked as I worked the keys from the ignition, and I climbed out of the car as Ida appeared on our porch.
“Oh hey, honey.” She came down the steps as I pushed through the gate. She had the house key Birdie had given her dangling from a hooked finger. “I was just on my way to the courthouse, but I left some dinner in the fridge for y’all. Didn’t want to leave it out here in this heat.”
“Thanks, Ida.”
She hesitated, hands fidgeting with the keys. “I was a little worried about you last night. Looked like something gave you a fright.”
I could see that look in her eyes as they narrowed on me. To her, I’d always be the little girl in a torn dress stealing ripe cherries from the tree in her backyard, and I had a feeling she considered herself something like my keeper now that Gran was gone. That would become a problem, especially if I wanted to keep those flashes of light and vanishing sounds to myself.
I shook my head. “Just tired. It’s been a long few days.”
“Well, of course it has.” She softened, smile turning sad.
I stepped around her on the pavers that led to the porch, climbing the steps. “Thanks again.”
“No problem, honey.”
I watched her in the reflection of the window as I unlocked the door. She stood there a beat too long before she finally went out the gate.
Any other day, I’d walk into the house to find the smell of Gran baking biscuits or the sound of her humming from the sitting room, but this time, there was only silence. It didn’t sting like it had the night before, but it was still there—that emptiness.
I dropped the keys into the bowl on the table and took the pile of mail from its corner before I climbed the stairs. My legs felt heavy, and the tingle of sun still bit my skin. The bathroom I shared with Gran was at the top of the steps, lit by another stained glass window that painted the white penny tile with yellow and orange light. I propped the window open and turned the faucet to fill the tub before I raked a hand through my hair, holding it back from my face. There was still dirt beneath my fingernails. Somehow, there always was.