1. Wade

one

wade

The hot Alabama sun beats down on me. Sweat soaks through my T-shirt. It's my third one of the day and by the time I'm finished with work, I'll have gone through five or six. It all depends on if I'm willing to peel off the last one or not.

My booted foot rests on the kickplate of my shovel while my arms drape over the wooden grip, as if it's meant to hold me. It teeters, and instead of giving up, I lift it and slam it back down into the still solid portion of Ms. Linda's flower bed with an exasperated groan.

As soon as the air escapes my lungs, I immediately regret it. Ms. Linda may be elderly, but the woman can hear for days. And that's not always a good thing. In fact, apart from her stellar hearing—and listening—abilities, she has a yap that goes a mile a minute and in all my years of living in Magnolia Grove, she has yet to fail having an opinion on something or someone.

"What's wrong?" she asks as she comes around the corner of her house, toward the side where she had an urgent request to plant an entire house length of red buckeyes, but because I am not an Ohio State fan—Roll Tide—I refer to them as firecracker plants. They're actually shrubs or a small tree. The point is, Ms. Linda didn't need them in August and could've waited until the darn southern sun went dormant for the season.

Everyone in Magnolia Grove knows that whatever Ms. Linda wants, Ms. Linda gets.

Ms. Linda carries two glasses of what I can only assume is sweet tea, with her lawn chair tucked under her arm, wearing hot pink pants to go with her hot pink toes, sandals, and the pink in her blouse that outlines white flowers. I asked her once why she wears so many clothes in the summer—because let's be honest, summer here is brutal—and she said she was born and raised in Alabama and the heat doesn't bother her.

Her words, not mine.

I hate the heat, but yet I stay.

"Nothing at all, Ms. Linda." Absolutely everything. In an hour, I'm supposed to meet my old college buddy, Jed, who lives in Mobile, down at River's End for some burgers and beer. By the look of things, if I don't finish in the next few minutes, I'll either have to cancel on Jed or I'll have to let Ms. Linda down.

The thing is, Ms. Linda doesn't really appreciate being let down, and she's been really good to me.

She hands me the tall, ice-filled glass of sweet tea. I down it in one giant, mildly refreshing gulp and let the ice rest on my face until it begins to melt. It feels good and has me considering a dip in the river, even though it's like bathwater these days.

"Let me go fill that up for ya," Ms. Linda says, taking my glass from me and ruining what little air conditioning I've had all day.

"It's good, Ms. Linda. I really need to get finished here," I yell as she makes her way into her house. I've lost count of how many times I've been in her home. My days with her go way back to when I was a little guy, screaming through the neighborhood. When my grandma didn't watch me during the day, Ms. Linda did. She has, what my mom refers to, as a "don't touch" home.

"Don't touch this. Don't touch that," is all my mom would say when she'd drop me off for the occasional babysitting.

Ms. Linda returns, but this time with a pitcher of ice water. "Here," she says, handing it to me. "This ought to cool you off."

"Yes, ma'am." I drink about a third, set it in the shade, and get back to digging my next hole.

Ms. Linda sets her chair up near me, poised to watch me work.

"When's Ms. Goldie coming back?" she asks after my fourth or fifth heave of earth.

Marigold "Goldie" Jenkins is my seven-year-old daughter who lives with her mother, Anastasia, in Jacksonville. Ever since Goldie started school, I've only had her part-time during the summer and every other holiday. Every time I have to take her back to her mom, I think about uprooting my business, selling my home, and moving to Florida so I can see Goldie whenever I want. And each time, I find every reason to stay in Magnolia and far away from Ana and her husband Franco.

In Magnolia, I own and operate a successful landscaping business. I even have a catchy name: Jenkins Landscaping. When you're twenty-two and facing fatherhood, you do what you need to do to take care of your child. I wasn't exactly thinking when I turned my childhood mowing job into a full-fledged business. Mostly, it was just easy.

Landscaping pays the bills and then some, but only thanks to the people of Magnolia Grove. Outsiders have tried to come into town, but they never seem to stay around. People here are loyal. We're all family.

Even those of us who don't get along.

"Uh, not until October," I tell her as I drop to my knees and set the next firecracker into the ground. After I work the soil around the root loose, I fill the hole with feed and then topsoil, packing it down.

"What? That is just blasphemy."

I don't have the heart to tell Ms. Linda her use of blasphemy doesn't really work in this situation. I'm sure she knows, and embarrassing her isn't high on my list of things I'd like to do.

"Yes, ma'am."

"Ms. Goldie needs to live in Magnolia, among her people."

Her people would be my parents and a slew of great-aunts, uncles, and cousins, as well as every honorary family member out there. While I don't disagree, Franco has a big family and, according to my daughter, they treat her well. As much as I'd love for Goldie to live here full-time, it'll never happen unless her mother moves to Alabama, and since our drunken hook-up ruined her chances at the University of Alabama, she's sworn the state off.

"Yes, ma'am," I say, only to be polite.

Before I start to dig the next hole, my phone rings. I don't bother to look at the caller ID. "Jenkins."

"Is this Wade Jenkins?"

"Speaking." I pull my phone away from my ear and look at the number. It's unfamiliar except for the 904-area code. "Who is this?"

"Yes, hi. This is Moira Banks. I'm a nurse at Jacksonville Hospital. You're listed as an emergency contact for Anastasia Starke. She asked me to call and let you know she's in the hospital and she needs you to come immediately."

"My daughter? Is she okay?"

"Yes, sir. She's with our social worker right now."

I look at Ms. Linda, who stands and looks at me like I need to fill her in. "Is Ana okay?"

"Sir, it's best for us to talk when you get here."

"I'm on my way, but it's a four-to-five-hour drive, depending on traffic."

"I'll be here." She hangs up. I stand there for a moment, with my phone held against my ear. Finally, my hand moves of its own volition.

"Uh, Ms. Linda. I need to head up to Jacksonville. Something's going on with Goldie's mom, and she needs me. I'll . . ." I pause and look at the mess I've left in her yard. It's very unlike me to leave a mess behind. "I'll send my dad over, and he'll get this cleaned up."

"Don't you worry, Wade. Go on. This can wait until you get back."

I nod and force myself to react. By the handful, I grab my tools, buckets, and anything else I can scoop up. Ms. Linda helps and carries things to my truck.

"Let me make you a sandwich," she says after she drops two firecracker shrubs next to my tire. Honestly, I would've left those here, but I put them into the back of my truck anyway.

"Don't worry about it, Ms. Linda. I need to get on the road. When I stop for gas, I'll grab something to eat."

When she doesn't argue with me, I know she senses how serious this—whatever it may be—is.

"I'll get an update from your mom."

I nod and hop into my truck and head toward the interstate. As soon as I'm out of town, I call my dad, give him the details, and ask him to check in with Linda.

"Call us as soon as you know what's going on," he says before we hang up.

By the time I make it to Jacksonville and the hospital, visiting hours are long over, but the woman I spoke to earlier has put my name on a list, which allows me to go in. The guard gives me directions to where I need to go, and when I reach the floor, I head directly to the nurse's desk.

"Hi, I'm Wade Jenkins. Moira Banks called me about Anastasia Starke."

"I'm Moira," she says, shaking my hand. She motions for me to follow her down the hall. We come to a closed door, and she knocks softly before we head in.

Ana's in bed, lying on her side. Next to her, a machine beeps. As I approach her bed, I see Goldie curled into her mother.

"Ana?" I say quietly. She looks at me over her shoulder, and my heart sinks. Someone has done a number on her face. Both eyes are black and blue, her nose looks broken, and she has a bandage on her cheek. As well as a cast on her arm.

"What the hell happened?" I go around to the other side of the bed and look at our daughter, who is sleeping peacefully next to her mom. She doesn't seem to have a bump or bruise, or a single curl out of place. Then, what Moira said earlier plays back in my mind.

"Who did this to you?"

"Franco," Ana says tearfully.

"Wh-what?" I don't like the guy because he keeps my daughter a day's drive from me, but I never suspected him to be violent. If I had gotten that vibe from him, I would've said something. "Ana, Franco did this?"

She nods as tears fall from her eyes. I reach for a tissue and dab at them. "Ana," I say her name again, but this time my tone is full of sorrow.

Ana and I are friends because we have a child together. We met during a frat party on campus and had a drunken hook-up. My long-term girlfriend had told me earlier that day she wanted to be free and enjoy her college experience.

I was heartbroken, drowning my sorrows, and in walks Ana. This cutie, with long, curly blonde hair, sparkling blue eyes, and legs that went on for days.

Six weeks later, she's in my room crying because her period was late. I never thought to ask her if the baby was mine. Something in my bones told me he or she was. But that was the extent of things for us. We never tried to make a go of things, and halfway through her pregnancy, she met Franco. They had a rocky relationship from the start, but things seemed to even out after they got married.

I pull the chair next to her bed and reach for her hand, the one under Goldie's head. "What happened?"

"A couple of weeks ago, he lost his job. I thought we had a healthy savings, but it turns out we don't, and the bank sent us foreclosure papers, and . . ." She sobs. "I need you to take Goldie, Wade. I don't want her here, seeing this stuff. I don't know what's going on with Franco, but she can't be here."

"Where's Franco now?"

"In jail. I think," she says. "The cops came, and . . ."

"Did he hurt Goldie?"

She shakes her head. "No, but she heard me crying and him yelling, and just please take her back to Magnolia Grove."

"I will, but what about school?"

"I don't know," she says. "Maybe she can start there or something."

I nod, knowing we'll figure it out later.

"Why don't you come back to Magnolia with us?"

Ana shakes her head. "My dad is flying here to take me back home. I think it's best until I can figure this stuff out with Franco."

Home is some small town in Wisconsin. I went there once, for her baby shower. I like her parents a lot, and they're great to Goldie.

"Please tell me you're leaving him?"

Ana nods.

I squeeze her hand and lean forward. It's taking everything in me to stay still, to stay in the room and not head to the jail to confront Franco. Ana made me promise a long time ago to stay out of her relationship with him, and I agreed.

"Ana . . ."

She shakes her head. "My dad is coming, Wade. I'm leaving, I promise. But I can't take care of Goldie while I'm trying to navigate this path my life is on. I know you want to do something, but please, just trust me."

"Okay, Ana."

I continue to sit there, watching them sleep. When the sun comes up, Ana and Goldie have an emotional goodbye, and I take my daughter back to Magnolia.