With a weekend like this, Avery’s worries of if she’d made the right decision in bringing her daughter to this foreign land almost disappeared. Marigold was having the time of her life; Fairtree Farm was a godsend in making sure her daughter was well and truly satisfied. She seemed rather in her element for a four year old: running around in the dirt, making mud pies and chasing Orpington’s large guardian dog, Shadow around the farm; a small shadow for Shadow.
Avery had contented herself to follow her daughter around, occasionally talking with the residents and with the Glynn children (by now she’d gotten most of their names matched to names thank the Lord), and looking forward to the bonfire later that night. It seemed Marigold was constantly on the move, searching for what she called the “perfect dirt”, and despite Avery not knowing what in heaven’s name “perfect dirt” was, she followed her to a little patch where a man had already begun to dig his hold for his sapling. Marigold, of course, paid little mind to who had actually gotten there first, and dug her hands right into the pile he’d made without so much as a greeting. This caused her mother to scold her, albeit gently. “Marigold Alexandria Davenport,” She called sternly, picking up her skirts to hurry over. “What did I say about askin’ people first?”
To the man’s credit, he didn’t seem that too fazed; it was a good thing, otherwise Avery would have to try and juggle being cross at her daughter for intruding and at the man for being indignant about the unpredictable whims of a child. “Yes, she’s mine.” She responded, catching her breath as she looked at the man. Blinking, she furrowed her brow. He looked extremely familiar, and yet different. Avery had carried over the habit of never forgetting a face from her days in California, but even still there was something different to him. Simple. But different.
Avery had contented herself to follow her daughter around, occasionally talking with the residents and with the Glynn children (by now she’d gotten most of their names matched to names thank the Lord), and looking forward to the bonfire later that night. It seemed Marigold was constantly on the move, searching for what she called the “perfect dirt”, and despite Avery not knowing what in heaven’s name “perfect dirt” was, she followed her to a little patch where a man had already begun to dig his hold for his sapling. Marigold, of course, paid little mind to who had actually gotten there first, and dug her hands right into the pile he’d made without so much as a greeting. This caused her mother to scold her, albeit gently. “Marigold Alexandria Davenport,” She called sternly, picking up her skirts to hurry over. “What did I say about askin’ people first?”
To the man’s credit, he didn’t seem that too fazed; it was a good thing, otherwise Avery would have to try and juggle being cross at her daughter for intruding and at the man for being indignant about the unpredictable whims of a child. “Yes, she’s mine.” She responded, catching her breath as she looked at the man. Blinking, she furrowed her brow. He looked extremely familiar, and yet different. Avery had carried over the habit of never forgetting a face from her days in California, but even still there was something different to him. Simple. But different.
