Page 28 of Forget Me Not
“Gorgeous morning,” I say, my empty mug still clutched in my hand. I register a twitch of a smile, a gentle nod, but still, she says nothing. “Are you always up this early?” I ask, switching tactics. A direct question, after all, requires a response. A fairly obvious but helpful trick I learned after ten years of interviews. “It’s barely light out.”
She nods again, still refusing to engage, and I take the opportunity to scrutinize her more carefully, feeling another rush of remorse at reading her words. Of course, she’s not the same person she was when she wrote them; forty-one years is an incredibly longtime. She probably doesn’t even remember that diary, the things she thought when she was only eighteen, but I can’t help but wonder how she would feel if she knew that I had it.
Like sneaking through a stranger’s medicine cabinet, thumbing my way through a pile of clothes, it’s a blatant invasion. Helping myself to a person’s private thoughts.
“You know, I was just thinking about how we haven’t had a chance to get to know each other yet,” I try again, making my way across the porch. “I know I only just got here, but I’d love to hear how you and Mitchell got together.”
I raise my eyebrows, hoping that if I can get her to tell me the story herself, maybe I won’t feel so guilty about all this knowledge I shouldn’t already have.
She turns to me, finally meeting my stare.
“You don’t want to listen to that.”
“I do,” I say, slightly taken aback at the sound of her voice; entirely lucid but low and melodious, not at all what I was expecting. “I’d love to know how you created this place.”
She regards me cautiously, her eyes that light, liquid gray, and I wonder if maybe she’s just being modest. Like the kind of people who bat away compliments, too insecure to accept the praise.
“We were young when we met,” she concedes at last, and I feel a small thrill in getting a little bit closer, prying away this piece of the truth.
“Liam told me you started Galloway in the eighties.”
“We lucked into the land.” She nods. “We’ve always been very… self-sustaining.”
I open my mouth, prepared to ask another question, when I hear the screen door slap again. Then I twist around in the direction of the noise, eyeing Mitchell as he walks toward us with two large mugs steaming hot in his hands.
“Good morning,” I say, flashing a smile as I wait for him toshoot one back, though his expression stays vacant so I simply watch as he walks. His body cutting clean across the porch like a shark breaching the water, silent and sleek and a little unsettling. “Marcia was just telling me the story of how you two started this place.”
“Oh, was she?” he asks, eyebrows raising in amusement. “And what, exactly, did she say?”
I turn back toward Marcia, a gentle swallow as her eyes dart to the ground.
“We didn’t get far,” I say after a long stretch of silence, my gaze now boring into her hands. Her grip has tightened around the armrests, the thin skin on the top threatening to tear, and I feel the inexplicable urge to backpedal, something about Mitchell’s expression and Marcia’s sudden silence making me uneasy. “I’m just so impressed by everything you’ve built.”
I look up at Mitchell now, my own skin bristling at the way he seems to be assessing me carefully. Then he hands Marcia a mug, his eyes never once leaving mine. After a few seconds, the prolonged staring is too much to bear so I lower my gaze again, instead staring at the mug in her hand. It’s the same white, ceramic mug as the ones in my cabin, the very same one as what I’m holding right now, and I watch as she takes a tentative sip, the herbal smell wafting in my direction making my hair stand on edge.
“Well, don’t let me disturb your morning,” I say at last, gesturing to the vineyard and suddenly desperate to get off of this porch. Mitchell nods, Marcia’s eyes still stuck to their spot on the floor, and while I know I haven’t done anything wrong—at least, nothing they know about, my mind back on the diary again—it still feels like I’ve broken some cardinal rule. Like Mitchell just caught me snooping through his things and he’s waiting for me to drop to my knees, beg for forgiveness.
Like I somehow just got Marcia in trouble, even though she never told me a thing.
CHAPTER 18
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 myhead 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 Mitchellhadbeen 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 despiteMitchell’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.
