Page 51 of Meadowsweet and Marigold
Why would he?
Their relationship is ancient history, a footnote in both their lives.
Still, the thought of seeing him tonight—of sitting across a dinner table from him, making polite conversation as if they were merely acquaintances—makes her stomach clench with a confusion of emotions. Curiosity. Anxiety. A treacherous flicker of something like hope.
Marigold shakes her head, trying to dislodge these useless thoughts. Whatever Cypress Wolfe is doing in Willowbend, it has nothing to do with her. His presence at Meadow's dinner is simply an uncomfortable coincidence. She won't let it derail her evening or the tentative peace she's building here.
She stands, brushing invisible dust from her dress, and takes a deep breath of the clean country air. The past is just that—past. Tonight is about moving forward, about the new connections she's making, not the old ones she lost.
She repeats this to herself like a mantra as she waits for Meadow's truck to appear on the horizon, willing herself to believe it.
Waiting has never beenMarigold's strong suit. As a dancer, she'd learned to fill every moment—stretching during water breaks, mentally rehearsing choreography while riding the subway, studying videos of performances while eating dinner. Stillness feels like waste, like opportunity slipping through her fingers. The thought of sitting idle on her porch while waiting for Meadow makes her skin prickle with restless energy. She needs to do something useful, something productive. And really, she can't show up to dinner empty-handed, can she?
Her mother's voice echoes in her memory: "Never arrive as a guest without bringing something for the table." It was one of the few lessons from childhood that didn't come with complicated layers of expectation and disappointment. Simple hospitality. Respect for one's host.
Marigold steps back inside her cottage, mind already cataloging possibilities. Her pantry isn't exactly bursting with gourmet options—she shops weekly at the local market, buying only what she needs, still adjusting to cooking for one after years of erratic rehearsal schedules and cast dinners. But she's not completely unprepared.
She opens her refrigerator, scanning the contents with a critical eye. Half a block of sharp cheddar. A small wedge of brie she'd splurged on yesterday, enticed by the friendly cheese vendor with her samples and local honey. A package of prosciutto, paper-thin and delicate. Some grapes, still firm and sweet. A jar of olives. An apple just reaching perfect ripeness.
In her pantry, she finds water crackers, a small jar of fig jam, and a bag of candied pecans left over from a salad she'd madeearlier in the week. Not a feast, certainly, but the beginnings of something presentable.
"A charcuterie board," she decides aloud, liking the practicality of it. She won't have to cook anything, just arrange what she has with some artistic flair. It's transportable, shareable, and casual enough not to seem like she's trying too hard—though the irony of that thought isn't lost on her as she begins gathering her ingredients with focused precision.
She retrieves the wooden cutting board she'd found at an estate sale last month. It's solid oak, weathered to a soft golden hue, with a single crack running like a river through its center. The imperfection had drawn her to it—something once perfect now beautifully flawed. She runs her fingers over its smooth surface before setting it on the counter.
Next comes the assembly, a process not unlike choreographing a small dance. Every element needs to be in harmony, complementing rather than competing. She starts with the cheeses, slicing the cheddar into thin rectangles that she arranges in a neat fan on one side of the board. The brie she leaves whole but positions it slightly off-center, a focal point around which other elements will orbit.
The prosciutto requires delicate handling. She lifts each slice with her fingertips, letting it drape naturally, creating soft peaks and valleys that add dimension to the board. She places these in a loose curve that balances the rigid geometry of the cheddar.
Grapes cluster in the corner, a small burst of nature's perfect design. She leaves them on the stem, knowing the garden-fresh appearance adds visual interest. The apple she slices thinly, then fans out like an opening hand beside the brie, brushing each piece with a bit of lemon juice to prevent browning. Olives fill a small depression in the wood, their deep green adding necessary contrast to the palette.
The crackers form a backbone along one edge, sturdy and reliable. A small spoonful of fig jam nestles beside the brie, its rich color like a jewel against the pale cheese. The candied pecans she scatters with apparent randomness that is, in fact, carefully considered—each nut placed to add textural interest between the softer elements.
As she works, Marigold finds herself relaxing into the task. There's comfort in creating something, even something as ephemeral as this. Her hands know what to do without too much direction from her brain, the same automatic precision she'd developed through years of dance. Different medium, same principle: control, balance, aesthetic awareness.
When she finishes, she steps back to assess her work. The board looks rustic yet elegant, abundant without being excessive. It's not perfect by city restaurant standards, perhaps, but it has charm and evidence of care. The kind of offering that says, "I made an effort" without shouting it.
She wraps it loosely in parchment paper, enough to protect it during the short journey but not so much as to disturb her careful arrangement. Then she finds a clean kitchen towel to wrap around it for insulation, tying it with a bit of twine in a simple knot.
Just as she's securing the package, she hears the distinct rumble of a truck engine approaching. Her heart does a small, surprising leap in her chest. Meadow. She glances at her reflection in the small mirror by the door—her hair has dried into loose waves that frame her face softly, her minimal makeup still fresh. She pinches her cheeks lightly, adding a touch of natural color, then smooths her hands down the front of her white dress, feeling suddenly, absurdly nervous.
This isn't a date, she reminds herself firmly. It's a ride to a dinner party. A neighborly gesture from a man who happens to be an Alpha, who happens to have eyes the color of pine forestsin sunlight, who happens to make her Omega instincts sit up and pay attention whenever he's near. None of that makes it a date.
The truck engine cuts off outside. She expects to hear a horn, but instead, there's the sound of a door opening and closing, followed by footsteps on the gravel drive. He's coming to her door. The realization makes her hands flutter briefly before she clasps them together.
Marigold takes a deep breath, centers herself the way she would before stepping onto a stage, and reaches for the charcuterie board. She'll meet him at the door, casual and composed, as if her stomach isn't currently performing its own private ballet.
Marigold opens the door just as Meadow raises his hand to knock, creating a moment of perfect timing that makes them both pause. He stands on her porch, backlit by the golden hour sun, his broad shoulders blocking most of the view behind him. He's changed since she saw him at the ranch earlier—dark jeans that look new but not stiff, a button-down shirt the color of weathered sage rolled up at the sleeves to reveal tanned forearms corded with lean muscle. His hair, usually tucked under a battered cowboy hat, is free now, the dark strands catching copper highlights in the evening light. He looks like he belongs on a magazine cover for rugged country living, except for the slightly uncertain smile that softens his features when he sees her.
"Hi," she says, the word coming out softer than intended. She clears her throat. "Thanks for coming to get me."
"No trouble," he answers, his deep voice resonating in the quiet evening air. His eyes take her in, a slow, appreciative sweep that doesn't feel invasive but rather like genuine admiration. "You look nice."
The compliment is simple, almost understated, but the quiet sincerity behind it makes her cheeks warm. "Thank you. Youtoo." She gestures with the wrapped board in her hands. "I made something for dinner. Just a little charcuterie board with what I had on hand."
Meadow's eyebrows lift slightly. "You didn't have to do that."
"I wanted to contribute something." She shifts her weight, suddenly aware that they're still standing in her doorway, this strange liminal space between her private world and his. "Shall we go?"
