Page 20 of Forget Me Not

I dedicate the morning to my list of chores: feeding the chickens, scattering fistfuls of feed across their pen and refilling their water from the hose by the house.

Then I collect the eggs, dipping my hands into their nests and tucking them inside a lined basket before bringing it to the shed like Mitchell had asked.

I unhook the padlock, stepping inside. The stuffy scent stuck in my nostrils as I place the basket on the closest counter, eyeing all the tools hanging up on the walls.

Something about this room still makes me uncomfortable, some unnerving air to it I can’t quite place, and I let my gaze wander around for a while before grabbing a set of shears and turning back around, shutting the doors swiftly behind me like I’m trying to lock some evil aura inside.

I head into the garden, picking what’s ripe before tossing everything into a strainer.

Rinsing the fruits and vegetables clean.

Then I weed and water, fertilize and feed, the morning passing by in a dreamy haze as the heat of the day slowly mounts until I feel the familiar sting of sweat on my skin.

I’ve tried to keep busy, keep my head down, but after what feels like at least a few hours, I chance a glance back at the main house, relieved to find the porch is empty.

Marcia and Mitchell nowhere to be found.

I exhale, immediately more relaxed now that I’m not being watched—because Mitchell had been watching me earlier.

He had been watching intently. Even after Marcia had left, standing up to make her way back to the house, he had stayed behind, rocking slowly on the porch with his eyes on my back as I puttered around.

I told myself he was just making sure I was doing everything correctly, given that this is my first real day, and while I’ve been trying not to read too much into his sudden hostility—I had been warned, after all, that Marcia and Mitchell are private people; that I shouldn’t expect to get too close—the secrecy is strange, their blatant refusal to answer innocent questions.

The way Mitchell seemed both amused and angry when he saw Marcia and me talking, walking outside as if to break us apart.

I make my way to the side of the house, the only spot where I can find some shade, and twist the bib attached to the hose, bringing the stream of water up to my lips.

It isn’t cold, it isn’t even cool, but I take a few sips anyway, making a mental note as I drink to talk to Liam about it all later.

I’m sure he knows more about our hosts—some little detail that might be useful, something that could help explain—and I think back to our conversation yesterday, his cryptic warning as we sat beneath the trees.

I guess you can say they’re protective, he had said, looking at me with a strange mixture of affection and remorse like he was happy I was here, grateful for the company, but also suddenly sorry I came. Protective of their privacy.

I turn the hose off, wiping the water from my chin with the back of my hand before resting it on the side of my hip, deciding it’s time to take a small break.

Then I look around slowly, my attention now directed to the side of the house, because despite Mitchell’s abruptly odd behavior, I can’t help but admire what he’s done with the place.

In addition to the herbs and produce I’ve been instructed to pick, there are plants and wildflowers covering almost every inch.

I recognize the basic ones—the ones with easy names like lavender and lilac, black-eyed Susans and sunflowers stretching their necks to the sky—but there are also plenty of plants I’ve never seen before, a plethora of things I can’t even name.

There’s a whole secret garden over here, away from everything, and I trail my fingers across the various flowers, their petals soft as silk to the touch.

I lean in, take a deep breath.

“You ever taste that?”

I twist around, surprised to find Liam standing behind me. He’s smiling wide, catching me in this private moment. I hadn’t even heard him walk up.

“Honeysuckle,” he elaborates, gesturing to the plant in my hand when I don’t respond. “It’s good.”

“No,” I say at last. “Can’t say that I have.”

He scoffs, though it’s a teasing sound. I can tell by his growing grin, the way he takes a step closer with his chin tucked low.

“And you call yourself a Southern girl.”

“Do I?” I ask, watching as he walks even closer, toward the plant I was just touching.

A giant green shrub with little white flowers sprayed across the surface.

I had been drawn to the smell of it, the subtle sweetness, and I watch as he plucks one of the flowers and brings it up to his lips. “I don’t recall saying that.”

“You grew up around here, right?” he asks, sucking the stem.

“I did,” I agree, remembering how I blurted that out during my first night here. A desperate attempt to break the mounting silence.

“Which part?”

“Claxton,” I say, trying to figure out how to change the subject before he can connect too many dots.

I have no idea if Liam has heard of Natalie Campbell, a former Galloway worker who disappeared, but the fact that she was my sister seems like something I should have disclosed back when he was asking about my past.

“Though I wouldn’t call myself Southern anymore,” I add. “This is my first time back in years.”

“Well, you know what they say.”

“What do they say?”

“You can take the girl out of the South…”

He smiles again, trailing off, and I can’t help but smile back. Relieved the name of my hometown didn’t ring any bells.

“Here, try it,” he says, grabbing another. “Use your fingers to squeeze the stem.”

I follow his lead, snapping a flower of my own and squeezing the tip at the bottom of the bloom. Then I pull the stem out, a little bead of nectar erupting from the opening before touching it to my tongue, the bubble bursting with a honied gush.

“It’s good, right?”

“It is good,” I say, savoring the sweetness before picking another.

“You can do all kinds of things with honeysuckle,” he continues, watching as I scrape the flower with my teeth. “Put ’em in salads, boil ’em in tea. Those little blue berries are edible, too.”

I look at the berries peppering the shrub, oblong like blueberries stretched into a tube. Then I pick one from the stem before popping it into my mouth, suddenly more comfortable with Liam here.

“Just don’t go blindly eating stuff around here,” he adds. “Not if you don’t know what it is.”

“Mitchell said I could eat whatever I want,” I counter, teasing him back. Of course I know better than to eat random things growing out in the wild but Liam keeps talking, not reading my tone.

“Yeah, over there,” he says, gesturing to the produce. “All of that is edible. But some of the other stuff around here is toxic.”

“Like what?” I ask, glancing down at the shrub like it just sprang teeth.

“Mostly out there, out by the water,” he says, turning to face the marsh behind us as I remember what I saw this morning, that still little body blowing in the breeze. “Marshland grows all kinds of things.”

“So you’re telling me not to make my dinner with the poison ivy I saw by the guesthouse,” I say, smirking.

“Yes, that’s right. Try to avoid that.”

“Got it.” I smile. “Thanks for the tip.”

Liam winks at me, that cheeky grin, and I feel a familiar flush in my chest. The same one I felt just yesterday, during our picnic, when we had been ribbing each other like we’d been friends for years.

“By the way,” I say. “I noticed something by the dock this morning. It was an animal, and I’m pretty sure it was dead.”

Liam is quiet for a beat before twisting around, letting his gaze follow mine.

“It looked like a fox.”

“Yeah, that can happen,” he says simply. “I’ll take care of it.”

We stay silent, my eyes still squinting into the distance.

“Anyway,” he says, slapping his legs as I look to the edge of the vineyard, a couple wheelbarrows next to a towering stack of blue buckets waiting for us to fill them all up. “The grapes are ready whenever you are.”