Magnolia by Kristi Cook Page A

gliding silently through the purplish-hued twilight. Along the banks, colorful wildflowers ruffle in the breeze—wild hyacinth, swamp hibiscus, and cardinal flowers. I can hear the shuffling of muskrat and opossum in the tall grasses on either side of me. A snake slips into the water with a splash. In the distance, a lone owl hoots. These are all familiar sounds—sounds of home. As I cut my paddle through the water I feel my worries slip away, replaced by a peaceful calm.
    It doesn’t take me long to reach my destination, a little cove at the bend of the creek with a stretch of sandy beach. Hoppingout, I lug the kayak up onto the sand, grab the towel I’d stowed inside, and head up the steep, grassy embankment.
    I let out a sigh as I crest the rise, taking in the sight before me. It’s ruins of some kind—a relic from the days when Magnolia Landing was a working plantation. Not much is left but a stone foundation and crumbling whitewashed bricks. Two walls still stand—at least, partially so—and a crumbling staircase rises toward the sky.
    It probably used to be a storehouse of some kind, as it’s not far from the original ferry-landing site that gave the plantation its name. Whatever the case, it’s been taken over by nature now, tangled vines creeping across the bricks and crawling over the foundation.
    But there’s something about it—some sort of gothic appeal—that sparked Nan’s imagination. We’d spent hours here as children, pretending that we were planters’ daughters waiting for our beaux to return from the war, or abolitionists hiding out as we plotted to free slaves. Sometimes I played the part of Nan’s lady’s maid, braiding her long hair and decorating it with dandelions. Other times, Ryder would join us, playacting whatever male role Nan assigned him.
    I find a spot on a little rise and lay down my towel before sitting on the ground and pulling out my cell from my pocket. Quickly, I type out a text: Are you okay?
    Nan answers almost immediately. I’m fine. See you Saturday.
    That’s it—no explanation, no elaboration. I’m not sure what I expected, or why I had to come all the way out here to try to contact her. Suddenly, I feel alone. Too alone. I miss my sister; I want her here with me. Saturday is five days away—what am I supposed to do until then? I can’t stop thinking about it—Nan, with a brain tumor. I can’t stop worrying. Even now, my stomach is in knots.
    At the sound of footsteps, I turn to find Ryder headed toward me. Somehow, I’m not surprised. He lifts one hand in greeting as he approaches wearing faded jeans and a plain white T-shirt. His hair is wet, like he’s just gotten out of the shower.
    As much as I hate to admit it, I’m happy to see him—glad for the company, even his.
    â€œI figured I’d find you here,” he says, his eyes filled with concern. Everything about him, from his posture to the tight set of his jaw, broadcasts a worry that matches mine.
    Feud forgotten, I scoot over, making room for him on my towel. “I guess you heard?”
    â€œYeah. Your mom called mine.” He sits down beside me, smelling of soap and aftershave. “She’ll be fine, Jemma. Nan’s strong,” he says, almost repeating word for word what my dad had said earlier.
    I reach for a blade of grass and snap it off, twirling it absently between my fingers. “This all seems so surreal. I keep hopingI’ll wake up and find out it was just a dream. Nan’s always been as healthy as a horse—it just doesn’t make sense.”
    â€œI know,” he says with a nod. “But these kinds of things never seem to make sense. My mom said that they don’t think it’s cancerous, though. That this kind of tumor almost never is. So that’s good, right?”
    â€œYeah. So I guess that means she won’t have to have chemo or radiation or