Page 60 of The Unmaking of June Farrow
He’d already been in the fields when I came into the kitchen that morning, which meant that he’d gotten no more than a few hours of sleep. He was working almost around the clock and for the most part, it looked like he’d managed to keep the color change at bay. But theblight was still there, waiting for its chance to take the field. It was only a matter of time before it did. Eamon just had to make it to harvest first.
Esther took her foot off the brake, guiding the truck back onto the road. “How are you holding up?”
I looked at her, unable to muster anything that resembled an answer. “Why didn’t you tell me the sheriff wanted to talk to me about the minister’s murder?”
She arched an eyebrow in response to my tone. “Honestly, I didn’t think you’d be here long enough for it to matter. It’s just some nonsense between him and Eamon.”
“What kind of nonsense?”
“The kind that men always seem to find themselves in.”
She said it with a weariness she hadn’t had the last time I saw her. When I’d gone to the farm, she’d been controlled and direct, almost cold. Now, I could see an undercurrent of worry in her.
“This isn’t a good idea.” I said, my pulse quickening as we turned onto the river road.
“People are starting to wonder why you haven’t shown your face. Even the hands at the farm are starting to talk. The longer you’re out of sight, the more cause they have to start creating their own explanations. You’ll smile at a few people, give a few waves, and then we’ll be on our way.”
“And if people talk to me? Ask me questions?”
“Stick to the story, and we’ll be fine.”
We.The subtle reminder that this bore a weight on all of them wasn’t lost on me. She had herself, a family, and a farm to look after, but no one was looking after me. I’d come all this way to learn the truth about Susanna, and I’d discovered only that I was more alone than ever. But on this side of the door, June had knit herself into the fabric of a whole life only to leave it behind. I needed to know why.
Eamon seemed genuinely concerned about what the town would do if they thought we knew anything about what happened to Nathaniel. What he hadn’t said was exactly what that might be.
Esther fell quiet, her carefully constructed answers lingering between us. The first time I’d seen her, I’d been overwhelmed with relief. Like she and the flower farm were a safe place that would catch me. But I was beginning to think there was more Estherwasn’tsaying than what she was. Just like Eamon.
Her silver-streaked hair lifted into the air as we picked up speed and the wind poured into the truck. I wanted to press her, to make her tell me what was really going on here, but this woman wasn’t the one who’d raised me. I studied her from the corner of my gaze, looking for some reflection of the woman Gran had become, but I couldn’t find it. She and Esther were different in more ways than one.
We made it around the next turn, and the view opened up to the wide vista of the Blue Ridge Mountains. Soft, dusty blue peaks rolled like waves in both directions, a thread of clouds coloring the morning sky. In a few hours, when the sun reached its zenith, that vista would turn a vibrant green, and then several shades of purple as the sunset loomed.
My hand gripped tighter on the lip of the open window as downtown Jasper appeared in the distance. The buildings that stretched ahead were like perfect copies of the ones I knew. The reflection of a reflection in a mirror.
The shop fronts looked almost the same, but some of the doors were different, the old parking meters on the street not yet installed. There were things that still had the shine of being new, like a sign over the hardware store that had apparently been an appliance repair shop. Or the chrome-framed stools that glinted behind the windows of the Jasper Diner, which was, in my time, Edison’s Cafe. There was a small produce shop front in what was now…I couldn’t remember. I could see the windows of the little building wedged between Dr. Jennings’s office and the grocery in my mind, but what was it?
There was no streetlight at the crossroad that led over the river bridge, and the courthouse doors were propped open, along with the windows that faced the street. Across the intersection, a paintedsign for the Midsummer Faire was strung up over an iron archway that framed the bridge. A six-pointed white tent had been erected behind it.
“This is…” My voice trailed off. I wasn’t sure what word to use. It was strange and unsettling. The sight made my skin crawl.
“Yeah” was all Esther said, as if she actually knew what I meant.
If she was already experiencing the side effects of crossing time, then she’d walked through that door, like me and Susanna. She’d said almost nothing about it, and I had to imagine that was on purpose. My fate had been sealed when my mother brought me through that door. When had Esther opened it?
The truck came to a stop as two women crossed the street, and the man on the sidewalk beside us stopped in his tracks, eyes squinting as they focused on me. Esther pulled to the side of the road and set the parking brake, letting the engine cut off.
“Now, you just let me talk.” She waited for me to give her a small nod before she got out.
I sat unmoving for several seconds before I finally followed. The truck rocked as she let the tailgate swing open, and as soon as I was standing on the sidewalk, several pairs of eyes from the courthouse to the river bridge had found me.
“Ignore them,” Esther murmured, pulling the first of the full buckets toward her. She hauled it up into her arms, the stalks of flowers towering over her head.
I did the same, following her across the brick-paved street to where the large white canvas tent had been raised. This was exactly how we still did it, tenting the bridge and filling it with lights so that the Faire felt like it was suspended over the river.
Every farmer and business owner in town made a contribution, and the flowers were Esther’s. I’d grown up doing the same delivery with Gran each year, and our blooms hung in garlands from the corners of the tent, adorned tables, and decorated booths from one end of the bridge to the other.
The pound of a hammer rang out, the busy street loud at our backs. Esther hoisted the bucket higher in her arms, leading us to the mouth of the bridge, where a man with a clipboard had spotted us.
“Morning!” He looked up from his pen, eyes skipping to me.