Page 78 of Meadowsweet and Marigold
"Interrogation?" she asked, her voice carrying a note of alarm that made everyone laugh.
"Of Cypress," Gus clarified, setting the rolls on a cooling rack with practiced efficiency. "We want to hear all about his mysterious photography career and what brought him back to our little corner of the world."
Cypress grinned, lowering his camera. "Hardly mysterious. And definitely not glamorous enough to warrant interrogation." But there was something in his eyes as he looked at her, a question or perhaps a hope that suggested he'd welcome the chance to talk, to explain, to bridge the years of silence between them.
"Don't let him fool you," Meadow said without looking up from the stove. "Cypress always was good at making his adventures sound more boring than they actually were. Remember that summer he convinced us he was just 'exploring the woods' when he was actually mapping every cave system in a fifty-mile radius?"
"That's different," Cypress protested. "That was scientific curiosity, not adventure."
"You nearly gave your grandmother a heart attack when you didn't come home for two days," Flint pointed out with a grin. "I'd say that qualifies as adventure."
Watching them tease each other with the easy familiarity of old friends, Marigold was struck again by the depth of history these men shared. Cypress wasn't just a stranger who happened to know her in college—he was part of the fabric of this place, connected to Meadow and his friends by bonds that stretched back to childhood. The realization added another layer of complexity to an already complicated situation.
"Should we eat?" Gus asked, glancing around the kitchen with the satisfied air of someone who'd orchestrated a successful meal. "Everything's ready, and I'm sure everyone's hungry after the day we've had."
There was something in his tone, a subtle emphasis on "the day we've had," that suggested he was aware something significant occurred during the time Meadow and she were away. She wondered what Meadow might have said during her absence upstairs, what explanations or lack thereof might have been offered for their delayed arrival.
"Absolutely," Meadow agreed, finally turning from the stove with a large serving bowl of what appeared to be some kind of stew. "I'm starving."
The meal that followed was a masterpiece of comfort food and careful conversation. Gus's dinner rolls were indeed perfect—golden brown and fluffy, with a slight sweetness that complemented the rich stew Meadow had prepared. Her hastily assembled charcuterie board proved to be the perfect appetizer, the various elements working together to create something greater than the sum of its parts. Flint had contributed a salad of mixed greens from what must be an impressive garden, while Cypress, claiming limited culinary skills, had brought a bottle of wine that suggested better taste than he credited himself with.
The conversation flowed as smoothly as the wine, covering safe topics—Cypress's photography work, her adjustment to rural life, the approaching winter and its implications for ranch work. But beneath the surface pleasantries, she could feel undercurrents of tension and curiosity, questions that hovered unasked in the spaces between words.
Cypress told stories of his recent projects—a series documenting urban decay in Detroit, another capturing the revival of small-town Main Streets across the Midwest. His passion for his work was evident in the way his eyes lit up when he described a particularly challenging shot or a moment when everything came together perfectly. The camera around his neck wasn't just equipment; it was an extension of himself, a tool for seeing and preserving the world in ways others might miss.
"The magazine piece that brought me here is actually part of a larger project," he explained, gesturing with his fork as he spoke. "Rural communities that are thriving despite economic challenges. Willowbend caught their attention because of the sustainable agriculture initiatives and the way the community has managed to maintain its character while adapting to modern realities."
"So you'll be here for a while?" Marigold asked, trying to keep her voice casual despite the way her heart rate spiked at the possibility.
"A few weeks at least," he confirmed. "Long enough to really capture the rhythm of life here, the seasonal changes, the relationships between people and place." His gaze met hers across the table. "Though I have to admit, discovering you're here adds a dimension to the project I wasn't expecting."
The comment hung in the air, weighted with implication and memory. Marigold was acutely aware of Meadow's presence beside her, of the way his posture had shifted subtly since Cypress mentioned an extended stay. There was no jealousy in his manner—at least, nothing overt—but there was definitely a heightened awareness, a careful attention that suggested he was cataloging every interaction between Cypress and her.
"What kind of photography do you specialize in?" Flint asked, steering the conversation into safer waters with the kind of social skill that suggested he'd navigated similar situations before.
"Documentary, mostly," Cypress replied, seeming grateful for the redirect. "Though I've been experimenting with portraiture lately. There's something about capturing people in their natural environments, showing who they are when they think no one's watching."
"Sounds invasive," Gus observed with a grin that took the sting out of the words.
"It can be," Cypress admitted. "That's why consent is so important. I never photograph people without permission, and I always share the images with them before publication. The goal isn't to exploit but to honor—to show the dignity and beauty in ordinary lives."
The passion in his voice reminded Marigold forcibly of the boy she once knew, the one who saw art in everything and never tired of trying to capture it. That fundamental aspect of who he was hadn't changed, even as the years had refined his skills and broadened his vision.
"Do you have any of your work with you?" she asked, genuine curiosity overriding her emotional reservations.
Cypress brightened. "Actually, yes. I brought a portfolio for this project—examples of my previous work to show potential subjects. Would you like to see?"
She nodded, and he excused himself to retrieve his bag from the car. In his absence, the kitchen fell into a comfortable quiet, the kind that came when people were content with each other's company even without conversation.
"He seems nice," Gus commented, refilling wine glasses with practiced ease.
"He is," she agreed, realizing as she said it that it was true despite everything. Whatever happened between them, whatever pain their ending caused, Cypress was never cruel or deliberately hurtful. Their breakup was devastating precisely because it came from someone she trusted completely, someone who'd never given her reason to doubt his feelings.
"Known him long?" Flint asked with the kind of studied casualness that suggested deeper interest.
"College," she said simply, not wanting to elaborate while Cypress was within earshot.
Meadow hadn't spoken since Cypress left the table, but she could feel his attention like a physical presence. Whenshe glanced at him, his expression was thoughtful rather than troubled, as if he was working through some complex equation in his mind.
