“Perhaps, but that doesn’t make it any less true. Your dad is right. You have quite a knack for this stuff.”

She returns her focus to the field, eyes moving back and forth between her subject and the sketchbook. Just like someone else I now know. She dips her brush in the red mixture. I watch it transform into a soft pink hue as it seeps into the paper fibers. “It is nice to see something different. There’s only so many ways to paint a bowl of oranges.”

“Why don’t you try painting some new things?”

She wriggles her legs and repositions them beneath her. “Dad’s been busy with work. So it’s been tough to find the time to, you know, get out and stuff.” My heart breaks a little for her. To have a dream, to recognize exactly what you want, and not be able to chase it. I’m all too familiar with that feeling.

“Maybe your Aunt Claire can show you a thing or two around town?” Russell arrives on the side porch, surprising both of us. “I’d love to see that bridge done in oil paints on a canvas.”

“Dad. I didn’t know you were there. That’s not what I meant . . .” It’s impossible for her to disguise the guilt and disappointment in her voice.

“It’s okay, pumpkin.” His tone evokes empathy embedded in an unspoken apology.

“Dad, pumpkins are fat . . . and orange.” Leave it to teenagers. They discover ways to refute the most tenderhearted show of parental emotion.

“Well, they still remind me of my little Cinderella.” He smiles, and the hint of a grin grows on Lizzie’s face, even if she doesn’t allow him to see it.

“I’m not so little anymore.” She returns to her painting while Russell and I share a knowing smirk.

Lizzie is growing up so fast. And she’s got a gift. “Well, if there’s one thing that’s certainly not little, it’s your talent.”

“Speaking of underutilized skills, do you have a shovel around these parts? I’m itching for some sacred time in the dirt.” My brother flexes his fingers as a writer would before picking up a pen and paper. He’s preparing to tell a story in his own unique way.

I glance at the sun. It has moved more than a few hours across the afternoon sky. “You have to leave in less than thirty minutes.”

“Make that twenty-four hours and thirty minutes. I pushed my meeting back.”

“But . . .” Does he feel obliged to stay? Did I cause that? It’s not the message I wanted to send, and I certainly don’t want him to risk losing the contract.

“It’s okay. I owe you, and as it turns out, the day after tomorrow works better for my potential client.” A mirror image of Lizzie’s infectious smile appears on my brother’s face. Now I see where she gets it from. “So, who’s up for a little time in Mother Nature’s sandbox with me?”

PRELIMINARY GRUNT WORK in the late-afternoon sun was surprisingly enjoyable. We cleared a large part of my newfound floral bed and prepped it for new plants. Staring at the ceiling while lying in bed, I’m overwhelmed with gratitude. Russell’s offer was so thoughtful, putting his professional opportunity at risk for me. My dreams wander as I drift in and out of a peaceful sleep. I stroll along that cobblestone pathway in the garden. Bees buzz from colorful phlox to the tall foxglove, spreading seeds of love.

AWAKE EARLY THE NEXT morning, I am eager for the feel of more soil beneath my fingernails. After a visit to a nursery in the neighboring town and hours of work, my vision is turning into reality.

Covered in dirt and joyful smiles, we’re now gathered around the kitchen table. Russell helped with things I never would have thought worthy of consideration. He planned for the proper spacing and an occasional spot of shade. And he helped place each plant to ensure it got the ideal amount of sun exposure.

His advice, my vision, and Lizzie’s determination mixed to create something amazing. It’s even better than my original idea. I pour three drinks and glance out the kitchen window. The wider vista is a visual evolution, spreading left and right from my jasmine in the center.

AFTER A QUICK SHOWER and a change of clothes, Russell is packed and ready to go. He’s said his good-byes to Lizzie and is standing at the front door, smiling. It’s a different smile from when he first arrived. It’s fuller and more genuine, coming from a deep well of happiness.

“Thank you. You have no idea how much your visit means to me. I only wish it could be longer.” There are no words to express my gratitude for all he’s said and done in the short span of a single day. It sounds like hyperbole, but my life has shifted. Again.

“Depending upon how things go, maybe I’ll have more time to spend with you and Lizzie on the way back through town.” He winks at me, but there’s still a hint of nervousness in his eyes.

“Good luck, even though I know you won’t need it. If you want any references, have them call me. I’ll send them a picture of what you accomplished out there, and you’ll be a shoo-in for the position.” I gesture toward the beginnings of my garden.

“No offense, but I’m not sure a recommendation from my little sister will help much.”

“None taken, but I don’t think I’m so little anymore.” I am finally growing up.

Russell pushes open the screen door and places his suitcase outside. He pauses, looks deep into my eyes, and embraces me in an enveloping hug. It’s bigger and fuller than any we’ve shared before. When he pulls back, I notice moisture in the corner of his eye. “Love you, Claire Bear.”

There’s that unsteady sensation again, now in a completely different time and place. “Love you too, Russell Stover.”

11

Bribery is still an effective tactic when attempting to persuade a teenager. The promise of a fully caffeinated beverage from the coffee shop on Main Street awaits my niece. The only condition is for her to help me with the plumbing repair. Lizzie ups the ante as only a determined young woman can, negotiating a visit to the bridge this afternoon. She insists it will be her next masterpiece. I can’t deny her an opportunity to pursue something she’s so passionate about.

Usually an early riser, I’m surprised by what I see after stumbling into the kitchen midmorning. Lizzie is sitting at the table, drawing a carefully assembled pyramid of lemons in her sketchbook.

“Hey, kiddo. How did you sleep?”

“Good.” Her response emerges unconsciously as she focuses on the texture of the zesty skin.

My automatic tendencies kick into gear too. Without looking, I grab the carafe to fill it with water. It feels heavy. It’s then I notice a fresh pot of morning inspiration has already been brewed. My favorite mug sits empty next to it, waiting for a pour. Is it the promise of coffee or a visit to the bridge that motivates Lizzie? Based on the cooling cup beside her, I know which one holds the mightier power of persuasion.

She looks toward me as I take a seat at the table. “Are you ready to get started? I have the tools already pulled out on the porch.” She gathers up her art supplies and slides the sketchbook with its drying pages alongside the pile of fruit.

“I need my daily cup of liquid enthusiasm first, but I promise we’ll visit the bridge later.” I guess at the reason for Lizzie’s excitement. The spontaneous grin on her face proves my assumption right. “I’m impressed how you’re able to capture the texture of those lemons so beautifully. And with only a single color and some water. How do you do that?”

“I don’t know. It just happens. I used to spend a lot of time trying to find the perfect mixture for each shade. I took so long that I never finished painting anything. So I started going with the flow and letting things happen. It’s more fun that way.”

I grin and bite my tongue, not wanting to spoil the innocence of youth. Allowing the currents of life to guide you is okay at certain times. But it’s also important to understand with clarity where you’re headed. That’s what I’m in the middle of trying to figure out. Even if it was an impulsive decision, my presence here in Pigeon Grove is a perfect example. Things have changed since I’ve arrived, but my new life is a delicate balance of order and spontaneity. “Do you have a favorite color?”

“Orange.” She responds without a moment of hesitation.

“Does that have anything to do with the number of oranges you’ve painted?” It’s my attempt at a playful joke, but Lizzie appears contemplative, as if she’s never thought about it.

“I don’t think so. I’ve always wanted to paint a sunset. With all those different shades of orange. I’m pretty sure that’s where it comes from.” She pulls her tray of paints back toward her, studying the mixture of red and yellow hues.

I remember trying to decide on a color for the walls in my bedroom. I never would have chosen the pumpkin-curry shade, but its symbolism tempted me. It represents new ideas, a release of limitations, and the freedom to be yourself. I’m probably overthinking things, but I can see why Lizzie is drawn toward that color.

After sipping the last few drops of coffee, I place my mug on the counter. I slyly retrieve my cheat sheet stowed in the drawer.

“What’s that?”

“They’re steps that Mr. Turner shared with me. So we know what to do. And in what order we should do them. I’ve never undertaken anything this ambitious before. So it’s a good idea to understand what’s supposed to happen before plowing headlong into it.” I’m speaking in an adult language that younger ones often tune out.

“My dad says that sometimes it’s best to learn how to do something as you’re doing it. He might have said it while I was trying to create those perfect shades of paint.” I’m surprised by her insightful response. “Maybe this is like that. We’ll figure it out. It can’t be that tough, right?”

While her exuberance is admirable, I smile and review the directions one last time. “Okay then. Let’s get to it.” I don’t want to spoil her enthusiasm, so I keep repeating the steps in my mind. Committing them to memory, I slip the paper into my pocket. I can take a quick peek, as necessary, when she’s not looking. But maybe Lizzie’s right, this shouldn’t be that tough.