The passengers had all disembarked.
For a surreal moment, Marigold thought he’d actually forgotten about her. But then she heard him jump back onto the car’s platform. His movements sounded heavier, not like the easy swing she’d seen earlier. He reentered the car, held out a hand toward the new line preparing to board—a signal for them to wait—and then closed the door.
Marigold stood.
North stared at her with that same guarded expression. “I only have a second.”
“I know.”
“Are you here to see me?”
“Of course I’m here to see you.” Marigold moved toward him, up the sloping aisle. “I wanted to talk.”
“No.”
She stopped. Her heart stuttered. “No?”
North glanced away. “I meant … my break isn’t for another ninety minutes. And there’s a line of tourists out there dying to hear my tremendous farewell speech.”
“Oh. Yeah, sure. Of course.”
They were staring at each other again. A lump rose in Marigold’s throat. She remembered herself, forcibly, and hurried to the door. She waited for North to open it. He didn’t. She glanced at him, hurt and unsure—Am I supposed to do it?—and that was the moment his hard expression crumbled and his warm eyes filled with remorse.
“You’ll wait for me?” he asked. “You have the time to wait? I’m sorry. There’s no one else here right now who could take my place.”
The lump returned. “I can wait.”
North reached for the door, but then, in an afterthought, kicked open the metal box near his feet, grabbed an object from inside it, and thrust it into her hands. “Here. To keep you occupied.” But then he frowned as if he’d said something idiotic. “Meet you in front of the museum at four o’clock?”
Marigold clutched the object to her chest and nodded.
* * *
It was a sandwich. To keep her occupied, North had given her a vegetarian BLT with avocado and imitation B.
This was interesting for four reasons: One, he’d been flustered enough to misspeak. North rarely got flustered and even more rarely misspoke. Two, he’d given her a part of his own lunch. He must not completely hate her. Three, he’d forgotten about her lifelong aversion to the texture of raw tomatoes. This was disappointing to an extent that made Marigold feel uncomfortable. And four, he might be a vegetarian now. North had always wanted to be a vegetarian, but he’d needed the more complete proteins found in meat to do his farmwork without getting tired. Surely it took less energy to do this new job.
Marigold sighed as she rewrapped the sandwich. Her mother would be thrilled. She was the owner of a popular vegan restaurant in downtown Asheville, and she already believed that North hung the moon. This would cement it. Marigold wasn’t a vegan or a vegetarian—she loved meat, probably because she’d always been denied it—but she was understanding toward those who were. Still, the tempeh bacon made her sad. It represented another change in North’s life that she hadn’t known about.
She watched the Maria clank its way down below her line of sight. At least the temperature was several degrees cooler up here. The accompanying breeze was a solace as she approached a cluster of old-looking buildings: restrooms, the museum, a concessions stand, and a gift shop. A wide pathway—asphalt imprinted to look like stone—ran behind them, winding its way up toward what could only be the summit. Marigold had a lot of time to kill, so she checked out each building, starting with the women’s restroom. It had been a long drive.
After taking care of that, she wandered over to the concessions stand, which she found typically Southern in flavor. There were bottles of water and Gatorade, cans of soda, granola bars, candy bars, and those orange-colored peanut butter crackers. But they were also selling mason jars filled with apple butter, chow chow, pickled okra, and blackstrap molasses, and they had an entire shelf of fruit cider—strawberry, peach, muscadine, and scuppernong.
Marigold hadn’t eaten since breakfast, over eight hours ago. North had guessed correctly; she was famished. She bought a package of trail mix and wolfed it down. She stared at North’s sandwich. Then she removed the tomatoes and ate it, too. It tasted better than the trail mix.
Next up was the museum, which turned out to be one dimly lit room. Its displays explained the park’s flora, fauna, geology, and topography. Marigold read each sign dutifully, but without the focus to comprehend any of their sentences, until she reached the corner dedicated to Dr. Elisha Mitchell. A single word jumped out, and her heart staggered.
North. His wife, Maria’s maiden name had been North.
It was a coincidence. A first name versus a surname, and North had been named after—of all the hideous things—the North Pole. His seasonally passionate parents had also named his older brother Nicholas and his sister, Noelle. It was worse than her own mother naming her Marigold Moon. But Drummond Family Trees had been growing and selling Christmas trees for two generations, and they were aiming to extend it into a third. When North’s father had been diagnosed with Parkinson’s, the pressure had been put onto Nick, who’d run away in response. Noelle wanted the farm, but their parents had misguidedly offered it to North instead, because he was male. Then she’d run away, too. North didn’t want it, but he was all they had left. His parents weren’t cruel. However, they’d made an ugly mistake, and now North was the one paying for it. Except … maybe he wasn’t anymore?
Maria S. North.
It meant nothing. But it felt like something. The word north always felt like something. Marigold wondered when that would stop, when the stilted female voice on Google Maps wouldn’t crush her spirit every time it told her to turn north onto the interstate.
This is why you’re here, she reminded herself. To stop this sadness and guilt.
Still, Marigold left the museum and hurried into the gift shop next door. A carved wooden bear with a WELCOME sign greeted her at its threshold. The smell of Christmas grew stronger, to the point of being overpowering.
Does this mean Christmas is ruined forever, too?
The shop was also one room, and a self-inflicted browse revealed the usual trinkets—souvenir postcards, magnets, pins, books, puzzles, T-shirts, and sweatshirts, all featuring the mountain or the Blue Ridge Parkway. A girl about her age stood behind the counter in a powder-blue polo and matching powder-blue pants. In an organized row in front of her register were a dozen tiny brown bottles with eyedroppers. Marigold picked one up. Pure balsam fir oil.
“It’s what you’re smelling right now,” the girl explained.
“Mmm, it’s nice.” But as the lie tumbled from her lips, it evolved into the truth. Marigold wanted one of these tiny bottles. She needed one.
She bought one.
Outside the spell of the shop, her regret was instantaneous. She’d already spent too much on the funicular and the trail mix, not to mention the gas it took to drive here. But she was too embarrassed to return it. She’d just have to replace a few more meals next week with ramen. Marigold was already eating a lot of ramen. She had two jobs in Atlanta: an internship at an animation studio, which was what she hoped to be paid for doing some day, and a serving gig at an Outback Steakhouse. That was where the rest of her meals came from—the cheapest menu items, purchased with her employee discount. Sometimes her grandparents, who ran a popular Chinese restaurant in nearby Decatur, would leave food on her doorstep while she was at work. It always made her cry.
Marigold checked her phone and was dismayed to see only forty-five minutes had passed. The screen showed two bars on a 1x signal—it might as well be dead—so she couldn’t even call her mom or go online. Her eyes rested on the funicular tracks as another green car crested the mountain. After some quick math, she realized it wasn’t North. His car was at the bottom.
She shivered and rubbed her bare arms. Now that her body had cooled, the air seemed chilly and autumnal. Most of the park’s visitors were wearing pants or jackets, as if they’d known—duh—they’d be going on top of a mountain
today.
To be fair, I did not know I’d be going on top of a mountain today.
The only thing remaining was the summit itself, so Marigold trudged onto the pathway. It was even colder under the trees, but it was also more tranquil. The air tasted clean and newly born, and as she brought it deeper into her lungs, she discovered she’d been holding her breath. But here there was lichen-covered bark and moss-covered logs, pinky-purple wildflowers and spiky-soft bee balm, and even a chirping bird with fluffy blue feathers. It wouldn’t have looked out of place on Snow White’s finger.
A spotted dog in a bandana bounded past, followed by an older woman with a large backpack and walking sticks that looked like ski poles. It was the first actual hiker that Marigold had seen here. But the closer she got to the summit, the more crowded it was. The shelter of the trees disappeared, and the peaceful nature sounds grew into clamorous playground noises. Children laughed and cried and screamed with the freedom of summer vacation. A peculiar stone structure emerged. It resembled a stumpy castle tower, and it was packed with tourists.
Marigold wove through the throng, across a bridge, and around the packed observation deck. The 360-degree view was undeniably beautiful—if she were in a happy mental space, she might describe it as stunning, or even breathtaking—but she wasn’t in a happy mental space. The wind whistled and nipped at her exposed skin, so she left after only a minute. She ducked beneath the bridge. Leaning against one of its concrete pillars, she slid down into the dirt. The gravel sparkled with flecks of mica, and the patches of grass were spotted with yellow dandelion flowers. Marigold hugged her knees against her chest.
It’s not so bad, she told herself.
Ahead of her were rolling ridges and mountain ranges cloaked in mist. Below her, the twin cars of the funicular rose and fell. And behind her, inside the ground, was Dr. Elisha Mitchell. His tomb didn’t look like much—a pile of flat rocks inside a rectangular wall made out of similar rocks—but she knew what it was, because people kept asking what it was and then reading the plaque out loud.
Marigold redid the calculations. North’s car would make one more full trip before she saw him again. She rifled through her purse, searching for paper and a distraction, but could only find the receipt for the balsam oil. Slowly, perhaps unconsciously, she drew her favorite character onto the back of it, a cantankerous but lovable sloth named South.
South was North, of course. But … he actually was.
North had recorded the voice of the character. Marigold made comedic animated short films for YouTube, but she wanted to make them for television. It’s why she had moved; Atlanta was home to several animation studios. She’d been fortunate—and talented enough—to score the internship, even though the grunt work often sucked. She trusted it would get better.
A boy with dirt on his nose appeared behind her. “I can see my echo.”
Marigold wasn’t in the mood, but she smiled anyway to be polite. “Oh, yeah?”
“Watch this.” He cupped his hands around his mouth and shouted, “Mountain, mountain, mountain, mountain.”
She nodded.
“Awesome, awesome, awesome, awesome.”
She smiled again, for real this time.
He pointed at her drawing. “Can I have that?”
“I’m sorry.” His mother, a harried-looking woman with stress between her brows and giant silver hoops in her ears, rushed up and grabbed his hand. “Emiliano Navarro Castellanos. What have I told you about bothering strangers?”
“It’s okay. He’s not bothering me.” Marigold added a marigold into the sloth’s hands and then held out the drawing for Emiliano. “His name is South. He only eats orange flowers and heirloom tomatoes.”
Emiliano looked up at his mother. She nodded, and he eagerly accepted the drawing. “Thank you. Gracias!” His mother thanked her, too, but Emiliano was already skipping away and pulling her along with him.
Marigold felt inexplicably sad to see them go—a general, misdirected stirring of loneliness and fear. She didn’t know how long she’d been staring at Dr. Mitchell’s tomb when her heart compressed with a sudden and knowing panic. She checked her phone. And then she scrambled to her feet. Racing down the peak, she dodged strollers and a tour group in matching neon T-shirts. It was exactly four o’clock. Railways were punctual. He would be punctual. What if he left, thinking she’d changed her mind?
* * *
In the last ninety-three minutes, North’s confidence had continued to spiral downward. His usual posture of self-assurance bordering upon arrogance had wilted into hunched shoulders and slack arms. As Marigold gasped and wheezed toward the museum, his back was to her, but she still registered the defeat in his body.
She slowed her pace. Her own confidence dared to grow.
His ears pricked up as if receiving some subtle signal, and he turned to face her. Shoulders pulling back. Chin rising.
Marigold stopped when she was still several feet shy. “Sorry I’m late. Thanks for waiting.” Her voice was a little breathless.
“You, too,” North said.
“And thanks for the sandwich.”
He winced.
“I’m serious, it was good. I was really hungry.”
“Sorry about the you-know-what. I didn’t even think of it until you’d left.”
A smile broke through her cautious reserve. North had remembered. “So, was my interpretation correct?” she asked. “Are you officially a vegetarian?”
“Your mom would be proud.”
“She’d ask why you still eat dairy.”
North laughed unexpectedly. Her heart panged in response. He had a great laugh—funny and deep. “How’s she doing, anyway?”
“Good. Pretty good, at least.”
“I’m glad to hear it,” he said. The sentiment was sincere. North and her mother got along well, which was remarkable because Marigold’s mother didn’t care for most men. Marigold’s father had always been sort of awful, but they hadn’t known how awful until a year and a half ago when his other wife had surprised them on their doorstep.
It was taking a while to get over those scars.
Her father had never been around much—his work in orthopedic sales kept him away for weeks at a time, he’d claimed—but her mother had been fine with that. She clung to her free-spirit identity to an extent that verged upon irony. And she’d never been his legal wife, only a partner. It was why Marigold shared her mother’s Chinese surname and not her white father’s Irish surname. Unfortunately, this was also why, when his actual wife showed up, they’d lost their house and most of their savings. Those things had never belonged to them, either.
North had played a huge role in getting their lives back on track. When she met him, Marigold and her mother had been living in a dirty, crowded apartment and were saving up for a new house. Not only had North cleaned and organized their apartment to make it livable, but he’d also helped them find the house. And then, when that space had required a ton of work, he’d driven his truck over every night for the three weeks before their move-in date to paint the drab walls, fix the leaky plumbing, rip up the musty carpeting, refinish the damaged hardwood, and carry in the heavy furniture. And he’d done it the whole time knowing that as soon as her mother was settled, Marigold would leave. It wasn’t what he’d wanted. North had helped because it was what her family had needed.
This was the debt that felt like it could never be repaid. This was why she was here.
It was why they understood each other, too. Marigold respected North’s sense of duty to his family. She never would’ve left home if she felt that her mother wasn’t stable enough to be alone. But Marigold also knew it was important to carve out your own life—something her mother had always encouraged, even when things were rough—and she was worried that North had given up trying.
The confident edge returned to his voice. “I have a tip.”
Marigold arched an eyebrow.
“The next time you attempt to spy on someone who k
nows you, wear a hat.” North pointed at her braid. “It’s a dead giveaway.”
“I wasn’t spying.”
“You were one hundred percent spying.”
She shrugged it off. “Maybe … ten percent spying, ninety percent wondering what the hell you’re doing here.”
“I’m working. What the hell are you doing here?”
“Your mom told me you’d be here, so I came.”
He was as stubborn as a boulder. “Why?”
“Because I wanted to talk to you.”
“And how’s that going for you so far?”
Marigold glared at him. Glared. And then she burst into laughter.
North looked away, trying to hide a grin. “All right. Okay.”
“You’re impossible.”
“I know.”
“And you look ridiculous in that uniform,” she said.
“I look incredible.”
“Incredibly ridiculous.”
“Incredibly handsome.”
She laughed again, and he smiled directly at her—for one brief, brilliant second—before turning around and striding away. “Come on,” he said. “I know a place.”
Marigold would follow North anywhere.
* * *
They trekked up the pathway, but instead of taking her back to the summit, North nodded toward an offshoot that led into the forest. A sign marked it as the Balsam Nature Trail. She hadn’t noticed it earlier. “You came on a good day,” he said. “It already rained. Usually, it showers in the afternoon.”
“How long until your break’s over?”
North didn’t even have to glance at his phone. “Twenty-two minutes.”
“Then let’s not waste any more time discussing the weather.”
He didn’t respond, so Marigold took his silence as assent. They entered the sanctuary of the woods. Pebbles crunched underfoot. “Except, okay,” Marigold relented, a few seconds later, “I do have one question. What’s up with all the dead trees? Is it acid rain or something?”
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