A DELUGE OF EMOTIONS overwhelms me. I ease around the corner of the porch, not wanting to disrupt the sanctity of that earlier moment. The vision of my garden, that chickadee, and . . . Jack. I need no external medium to record those thoughts for personal posterity. They’re indelibly etched into my heart, an elemental beat to my soul’s pulse.
I drag the rocking chair around the corner and place it next to my swing on the front porch. What I would give for a visit from Hank and Lydia right now. My focus returns to the conversation with Russell. Things change so much, and in such a short time.
The herbs in my repurposed flower boxes continue to stretch skyward. They peek over the railing, as if to greet me with encouragement. Anything and everything can grow and bloom when provided with nurturing care.
I look back down, massaging my fingertips. Are my mannerisms born from nervousness? Or a reminiscence of that calming, velvety texture from earlier? The essential oils stay locked inside that lavender—until they’re released through a tender but deliberate touch. Rub too soft and the scent remains hidden. Too hard and you damage the buds. Finding the right pressure isn’t something you can teach or show. It’s intuitive. One needs to experience it to understand the necessary tactile persuasion.
“Excuse me.”
A smoothness exists between my fingers even though there’s nothing there. The words I hear have that same silky consistency. They must come from the same imaginary place where the plant I’m not holding exists. Some parallel universe where dreams aren’t only apparitions. They’re real and tangible things you touch and feel.
Is someone clearing his throat? It rattles my mind free from that surreal image. I look up, and there he is, standing at the base of my steps. He holds a paper bag with both hands. A corner of that phlox-colored sketchbook peeks out of a backpack lying on the ground. It’s a sign of Jack’s hurried attempt to flee the scene. Thoughts somersault in my head.
Why did he leave? Wait, if he left, that means he was there. The experience comes tumbling back into my memory with the force of an unexpected ocean wave. It creates a sense of imbalanced refreshment.
It was real. I didn’t imagine it.
What is he doing here now?
“This is my way of apologizing, for intruding on your privacy.” He tilts the bag so I can see the gold mine of lemons inside. He answers my question without a need for me to vocalize it. What if there is a parallel universe where people share thoughts differently?
I stop rocking in my chair. My hands become still. Everything stops to establish a balance. My heart’s movement counteracts the stillness, beating with anxiety. Jack places a tentative foot on the first step before moving it back onto the walkway. “I didn’t realize someone had moved in . . . I promise not to linger near your property anymore. Without your permission.” It sounds like a question.
How does he know I enjoy lemons, and where did he get all these? Did Hank receive a new shipment in the past two hours? “Mr. Charles said you’re always looking for more of these. I had a few extras from the ones I bought a couple days ago.” How does this keep happening? My silent thoughts reach him without a spoken syllable.
“Jack?” The only word I can summon comes out in something resembling a whisper. A shot of adrenaline courses through me as a faint grin emerges on his face. This wildly accelerated feeling makes me think I did have too many cups of coffee this morning. What causes this sensation? Is it his smile or the way those four letters spill from my lips into the space between us?
“And you must be . . . Claire.” The sound of his name alone stimulated something invigorating inside, but mixing mine with his in this same sphere creates a bubble of momentary euphoria. Suddenly the English language is foreign to me. I have no words. “The architecture of this farmhouse is alluring. It’s so beautiful. Drawing is a form of . . . emotional therapy for me.”
He pauses before sharing that final thought, as if unsure whether to divulge a small secret. But it’s the adjectives he uses that captivate me. Alluring and beautiful. Why does his use of them cause a fluttering inside? I feel as though a butterfly has alighted on a branch of my sentimental being.
It was so much easier to watch him from afar. I can’t look him in the eyes now, forcing me to focus on something else. The rough stubble on his cheeks shows the slightest hint of gray. Tanned hands suggest a desire to be outdoors. His light brown hair is somewhere between unruly and windblown. It wouldn’t work on everyone, but it suits him well.
“I’m sorry again, for disturbing you.” Jack sets the paper bag at the base of the steps and stoops down to grab his backpack.
“Can I see them?” The words emerge from an unknown place. He picks up the lemons to show me. “Not them. Your drawings.”
Any remnant of a grin fades from his face. Jack’s posture, once relaxed, becomes rigid. “They aren’t that good.” He stares at the fruit. I’m pretty sure he’s not talking about them. “And they’re a . . . private thing.”
Why am I crushed? I shouldn’t want to see his sketches that bad. The sound of an opening zipper doesn’t mesh with my focus on the yellow citrus.
“I should become more comfortable sharing.” My gaze traces back toward Jack. He retrieves his sketchbook and studies it. Why is it that everything he says sounds veiled? And accompanied by that same unsteady sensation?
Jack hands me his sketchbook without climbing the steps. He somehow knows there’s a need to respect the space between us.
I study the black pencil marks. There are hard angles and edges to denote the gable on my roof. I look closer. There are subtle curls at the end of each stroke that remain hidden to all but the most discerning eye. I trace my fingers over the drawing, sensing a deep story and emotion. Both in the history of this farmhouse and the man sketching it.
Looking down, I realize I’m on the first step. It’s like his artistic creation has drawn me closer to him without my permission. I’m so close I can smell his sandalwood aftershave. It doesn’t match his rough exterior, but the fragrance melds with the warmth in his eyes. Even if there is something resembling pain hiding behind them.
The situation is becoming unsettling. I’ve let my defenses down, and my vulnerability is on full display. Retreating to the top step, I reach out and hand Jack’s sketchbook back to him. I’m careful to grip it by the edge. I fear what might happen if I establish any manner of physical contact with him. “Thanks again, for the lemons.” And everything else.
“Have a pleasant afternoon, Claire.” A small smile returns to his face before he leans over to pick up his backpack on the ground. As he moves down the walkway, I’m pulled down the steps after him, a safe distance behind. There’s something in that parallel universe tethering us together.
After he’s gone, I wander back to the lavender plant. I pull off a few more sprigs and gather the bag of fruit in my left arm. With my right hand, I caress the familiar flowers. It causes images of that garden, the chickadee, and now Jack’s sketches to reappear.
A picture is worth a thousand words. At least that many. In this case, it might be more like a million. If only I could rearrange all those words into some meaningful message.
10
The knocks reverberate through the house, startling me. It’s only the second time someone has approached my front door since I moved to Pigeon Grove. Everyone has respected my unspoken desire for privacy, save for Hank and Lydia. In hindsight, I’m thankful for their gracious welcome to the neighborhood on that first visit. It has led to a delightful friendship.
“Aunt Claire!” The sound of a little girl turned young woman pulls me from the couch with an eager grin and hastened pace. As I approach the door, my smile widens as Lizzie’s twinkling eyes shine through the mesh screen.
Russell holds a pink suitcase in his right hand. “Hey, Claire Bear. Great to see you, sis.” I greet both on the porch and offer my brother a quick but heartfelt hug. It’s been a long time since I’ve shared a genuine embrace with someone. It feels good.
Lizzie shadows her dad with an even stronger squeeze for me. Her arms used to wrap around my waist. Now they almost reach my shoulders. She latches onto me with affection that’s surprising for a teenager. Bending over to place a kiss on the top of her head is a thing of the past as I rise on my tiptoes. “What a beautiful young woman you’ve become.” I run the palm of my hand over her long dirty-blonde hair before offering them a tour of the house.
“Can we visit that coffee shop on Main Street? They have all these different roast types.” The excitement in her voice supports my presumption that caffeine is a part of her daily routine. “And that bridge coming into town? It looks like it’d be the perfect subject for my next painting. Could we go later?” Her youthful energy is infectious, and I can’t help but feel my mood elevate in Lizzie’s presence. “And oh, I almost forgot, wait here.” She darts back to the car and returns with a cloth bag full of that elusive yellow fruit. “Will you share your secret recipe with me?”
It’s ironic that, just twenty-four hours ago, I barely had enough lemons for a single pitcher. Now, between Jack’s gift and Lizzie’s stash, I might have an ample supply to start my own farm. With the sack thrust into my arms, her smile begs for an answer to the flurry of questions I’ve already forgotten.
“Maybe we should give your aunt a chance to catch her breath. And remind me to introduce you to the wonders of decaf.” Russell winks at me before I open the screen door again and lead them through the living room area.
“Claire, this is . . . beautiful.” He takes in the view surrounding him with genuine appreciation. I’m glad others also recognize the beauty I saw when first visiting this place. Even before I set foot inside, it spoke to something in my soul.
“Things aren’t quite where I want them to be yet, but it’s coming together.”
