Page 19 of Meadowsweet and Marigold (EverAfter CozyXverse #1)

UNEXPECTED TROUBLES?

~ M ARIGOLD~

Marigold steps into her cottage, the wooden floor creaking beneath her feet like a familiar greeting.

The evening light filters through half-drawn curtains, painting golden streaks across her sparse furniture.

Her fingers trail along the back of her secondhand couch, the fabric worn but clean—just like her new life here in Willowbend.

Imperfect but honest. The dinner invitation sits heavy in her thoughts, a pebble dropped in still water, rippling through her carefully constructed calm.

She peels off her day clothes, dropping them in the wicker hamper beside her bedroom door.

The cottage is small enough that she can see the kitchen from her bedroom doorway—one of the charming inconveniences of country living that she's slowly learning to appreciate.

Space was a luxury she'd sacrificed for distance, for the sanctuary of anonymity.

The bathroom mirror catches her reflection, and Marigold pauses.

Sometimes, she still expects to see the woman from before—the principal dancer with perfect posture and confidence woven into every limb.

Instead, she sees someone softer around the edges, hair a little wilder, eyes a little wiser.

She turns away before she can start cataloging the differences.

The shower's water pressure isn't what she had in the city, but the warmth is welcome against her skin.

She tips her head back, letting water cascade down her face, neck, shoulders.

Her muscles still hold the memory of discipline—shoulder blades pulling down and back, core engaged even in this private moment. Old habits from a dancer's life.

Shampoo lathers between her fingers, smelling of lavender and something earthy.

Not the expensive salon brand she once used, but something local she'd picked up at the farmers' market.

Another small adaptation to her new life.

She rinses, conditions, and then stands under the spray a moment longer than necessary, letting the water wash away the day's lingering tensions.

Wrapped in a towel, hair dripping cool trails down her back, Marigold stands before her modest closet.

The dinner isn't formal, but it matters.

It's a step forward, a tentative reach toward belonging that both terrifies and exhilarates her.

Her fingers brush past the darker colors she's favored since arriving in Willowbend—the blues and grays and blacks that helped her blend into the background, unremarkable and safe.

Today feels different. Today calls for something else.

She pulls out the white sundress she'd bought on impulse last month but never found the courage to wear.

The fabric is light, airy, with embroidered marigold flowers and green leaves trailing around the hem and bodice.

A dress that bears her name, like a declaration.

When she'd seen it in the boutique window, she'd stopped dead in her tracks, heart squeezing with recognition.

It had felt like a sign, though of what, she wasn't certain.

Marigold slips it over her head, the cotton cool against her still-warm skin.

It fits perfectly—not too tight, not too loose.

The skirt falls just below her knees, swishing softly when she turns to examine herself in the mirror.

The white makes her skin look warmer, her eyes brighter.

She looks alive. Present. The woman in the mirror looks like someone who might laugh unexpectedly, who might take a second helping of dessert, who might say yes to a dance under the stars.

The thought makes her chest tighten with something between hope and fear.

She opens her dresser drawer and retrieves a small wooden box.

Inside lies a delicate gold chain with a single pearl pendant—her grandmother's, one of the few precious things she'd brought with her from her old life.

She fastens it around her neck, the pearl resting in the hollow of her throat like a full moon against the night sky.

Her gaze drops to the floor of her closet, where a pair of cowboy boots sits, still looking new despite the scuffs she's added during her short time in Willowbend.

She remembers buying them—her first splurge after receiving her first paycheck from the bookstore.

They'd felt ridiculous and wonderful all at once.

A tangible reminder that she was starting over, that she could be someone new here.

Marigold sits on the edge of her bed and pulls them on, enjoying the solid feeling of the leather, the slight lift of the heel that straightens her posture just so.

They shouldn't work with the delicate dress, but somehow they do—the contradiction feels right, like her ballet-trained grace now walking country roads.

Earrings—small gold hoops—and a touch of mascara complete her transformation. She leaves her hair down, letting it dry into natural waves instead of the severe styles she'd worn on stage. Another small rebellion against her past self.

The wall clock tells her she has just enough time to drive to Meadow's ranch without being awkwardly early or frustratingly late. She grabs her small handbag, checks for keys, phone, lip balm—the essentials—and steps outside, locking the cottage door behind her.

The rental sedan sits in her gravel driveway, unremarkable and reliable—until today, apparently. Marigold slides into the driver's seat, the leather warm from the late afternoon sun. She turns the key in the ignition.

Nothing happens.

She tries again, this time pressing gently on the gas pedal. The engine makes a halfhearted whirring sound, then falls silent. A third attempt yields the same result.

"You have got to be kidding me," she mutters, resting her forehead against the steering wheel. The car had been fine this morning. She hadn't left any lights on. The tank was half full. What could possibly?—

She stops herself mid-thought. Cars break down. It's a normal, ordinary inconvenience that happens to people every day. Not everything is a cosmic sign or a test of her resolve.

Marigold steps out of the car, squinting down the long country road that leads to town in one direction and deeper into the rural landscape in the other.

Meadow's ranch is maybe three miles away.

She could walk it. The boots are comfortable enough, and the evening is pleasant—warm but not stifling, with a gentle breeze rustling through the tall grasses that line the road.

But she glances at her white dress, thinking of the dust from the unpaved sections of road, the possibility of rain later in the evening, the time it would take. She'd arrive disheveled and late. Is that how she wants to present herself? As someone who couldn't handle a simple setback?

The thought of calling Meadow makes her stomach flutter with nerves. They've spoken at the ranch, exchanged pleasantries at the market, shared quiet moments with the horses. But she hasn't reached out to him directly before, hasn't asked for help. It feels like crossing a threshold.

Marigold pulls her phone from her bag, staring at the screen for a long moment before finding his contact information. He'd given her his number "in case of emergencies," though she doubts this qualifies. Still, she has little choice unless she wants to miss the dinner entirely.

Her thumb hovers over the call button. This is ridiculous—she's a grown woman calling a neighbor for assistance, not proposing marriage. With a short exhale, she presses call.

He answers on the second ring. "Marigold?" His voice is low and clear, with that slight hint of surprise that suggests he hadn't expected to hear from her.

"Hi, Meadow. I'm sorry to bother you." She winces at the automatic apology. "The rental car won't start, and I was trying to get to—well, to your place for dinner."

"Where are you now?" No judgment in his tone, just practical concern.

"At my cottage. I thought about walking, but?—"

"I'll come get you." He says it simply, as if it's the most natural thing in the world. "Give me fifteen minutes."

"Thank you," she says, relief warming her voice. "I really appreciate it."

"No trouble." There's a pause, and she can hear the sound of movement on his end. "Actually, I'll need to talk to Cypress about getting you a replacement vehicle. He handles the rentals in town, or he might be able to fix whatever's wrong with this one."

The name catches her off guard, familiar yet distant, like a song she once knew all the words to but now can only hum the melody. "Cypress," she repeats, the name feeling strange on her tongue.

"Yeah, he's back in town as of yesterday. Good timing, actually—he's coming to dinner tonight too."

Marigold's mind races, but she keeps her voice steady. "Oh, I see."

"I'll be there soon," Meadow says, either not noticing or kindly ignoring the change in her tone. "Just sit tight."

"I will. Thanks again."

The call ends, and Marigold stands in her driveway, phone still clutched in her hand, the name Cypress Wolfe echoing in her thoughts like a stone dropped down a very deep well.

Cypress Wolfe.

The name sits heavy in Marigold's chest, a small stone of memory polished smooth by time but still solid, still present.

She doesn't want to pry, doesn't want to ask Meadow for details, but her mind fills in the blanks anyway, conjuring images of a younger Cypress with his quiet smile and hands that always seemed to know exactly what they wanted to do.

It was years ago—before the spotlight, before Rowan, before everything fell apart—but some memories refuse to fade, no matter how far you run.

She lowers herself onto the porch step, absently smoothing her white dress over her knees. The marigold flowers embroidered on the hem suddenly seem like a cruel joke—a reminder of how things circle back, how the past is never truly past.