Page 49 of Meadowsweet and Marigold
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 themelody. "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.
Cypress had been her first real love. Not her first boyfriend—there had been awkward high school relationships before him—but the first person who made her feel seen beyond the surface. She'd met him during her second year at the conservatory, when she was still fighting for recognition, still proving herself worthy of center stage.
