She’s already grabbed a shovel and started digging in the marked spot. Jumping on the spade like a pogo stick, she works her way around the area in a circle. I’m thankful for her youthful energy. My arms and shoulders ache just watching her.

She moves so fast. Distracted by her accelerated pace, I try to catch up mentally, thinking about what we need to do next. Was it loosening the coupling? But there was something else before that, I’m almost positive. Should I check my list? Lizzie’s looking right at me, wearing a proud smile. I don’t want to dispirit her desire for exploration and discovery in the moment.

I dig through my mental catalog of directions while Lizzie burrows in the dirt. We’re both searching for an elusive long-lost treasure. “I found it!” She’s as excited to find the copper pipe as a dog is to uncover his buried bone. The wrench is already in her hand and wrapped around the joint, too tightly.

“Here, a little looser than that. If you hold it too tight, you’ll crush it. Too light, and it’ll spin in place.” My thoughts wander toward a similar balance of extremes while rubbing those lavender buds. We’re both immersed in the moment, learning together. Our hands work in unison to find the perfect pressure. A steady counterclockwise motion begins.

Glancing up at each other, we both smile with a shared appreciation for figuring things out as a team, and on our own. A slow trickle of water from the joint causes a similar drip of information into my mind. Something isn’t right. I don’t know what it is. “Hold on a second.”

“We’re almost there. I can feel it.” Lizzie continues to twist the wrench with more excitement. That forgotten step floods my memory. The same thing is about to happen in my side yard.

“The main water valve. Stop. Tighten, tighten!” Short abbreviated commands burst from my mouth. I try to convey an immediate need to change course. She stops for a moment, processes my instructions, and repositions the wrench, but it’s too late.

The dribble has now become a steady stream. The pressure builds and finds its desired escape route in the crack we’ve created. A wild and erratic spray of water shoots in every direction. Aquatic fireworks explode in the yard. I look left and right, trying to remember where I saw the main shutoff valve. We’re both completely soaked as Lizzie tries her best to tighten the loosened joint. She’s fighting a losing battle, realizes it, and gives in, allowing the unruly waterworks to batter her. Small giggles turn to belly-rupturing laughter.

I glance at her but still feel like a deer caught in the headlights. I’m trying to figure out what to do when the spray spontaneously changes directions. Intent on joining the festivities, dirt mingles with the water, coating us in mud. A small chuckle escapes my lungs when I notice Lizzie shift her gaze to someone behind me.

Jack drops his backpack and notices the pipe wrench in Lizzie’s hand. She passes it to him instinctively, with no request to do so. He moves into the watery mix, trying to keep the flooding waters from drenching the yard any further. Then, I remember. I dart toward the back corner of the house, closing the valve as fast as I can turn it.

I’ve stopped laughing. But more of that belly-rupturing laughter continues around the corner. It’s louder now that the sound of gushing water doesn’t drown it out. The male counterpart added to the mix troubles me. I need to return to the site, but I don’t want to. I’m caught in that familiar void once again.

When I sidle back toward my unintended and temporary swimming pool, the hole in the ground has grown wider. Jack’s backpack is sitting on the edge of a large puddle. With all the other things needing my attention, this is the one that feels most immediate. It’s as if it contains something of critical importance to me. The small gap between the zipper and its full-stop position causes my heart to skip a beat. Swallowed up by worry and guilt, I place it in a dry spot on the side porch.

Glancing back in their direction, I see the water has soaked through Jack’s white shirt and jeans. He isn’t one of those chiseled specimens I’ve encountered in unrealistic romance novels. Still, there’s a certainty and physical stability about him. It’s authentic, even if my apprehensive self says otherwise.

“Hi, I’m Jack.” He reaches out his dirty hand to greet Lizzie.

“I’m Lizzie. Thanks for, um, helping. I guess we needed it.”

“Actually, it looked like you had pretty much everything under control.” He grins and hands the wrench back to her.

“Thank you, Jack.” He turns toward me. The sound of his name, even in a simple expression of gratitude, is enchanting in ways it shouldn’t be.

“It’s no problem. I’m always happy to help a neighbor.” There’s an unspoken tension between us. Our words trip over each other. We’re like clumsy toddlers trying to find our way around an unfamiliar space. Water continues to drip down his forehead, tracing a path down his cheek. It distracts me from what we should be doing.

“Be right back. I’m going to get something to dry off with.” I don’t even consider the fact I’m leaving Lizzie with someone I’ve only known for a short period. But Jack feels like the furthest thing from a stranger. By the time I return with three towels, the two of them are grinning at me.

“All done.” Jack hands me the wrench, suggesting the repair is complete.

“See, I told you it wouldn’t be that tough.” Lizzie giggles in jest as I toss a towel at her with mock aggression. She catches it before it hits her. I’m more careful with the one I hand to Jack.

I dry my face, watching the deluge of water drain into the yard. It’s making a path away from the house and back toward the garden. It knows where and how to channel itself in a direction that nurtures growth. Jack keeps glancing around as he continues drying himself. I know what he’s looking for.

“I put it on the porch. Would you like something to drink? It’s the least I can do to thank you for your help. And to apologize for ruining your clothes.” Please let that be the only thing I ruined.

“That would be nice. I’ve heard about your famous lemonade.” Word travels so much faster in a small town. Things draw toward each other in a compelling and invisible way. “Hank hinted at your peculiar preference for lemonade over sweet tea. And your niece told me I need to try it.” That hidden thread seems to connect our thoughts.

I return to the side porch with three glasses. Lizzie sits in the rocking chair, and Jack leans against the railing. I take a seat on the table beside my niece. “So, we have something in common? You prefer lemonade too?”

“Actually, I usually drink tea. But I’ve been encouraged to try some new things lately.” My face flushes with embarrassment. My vulnerability has been exposed again after proposing we share a unique bond. “But that doesn’t mean we still don’t have something in common.” He takes a sip, grins, and runs a single finger through his damp hair. Jack’s eyes keep peeking toward his backpack on the ground.

“I’m afraid to look inside it. It was sitting in a puddle of water after you came to our rescue.”

“It’s okay. I’ve got lots of sketchbooks.” I know he’s bending the truth. He may have many, but this one holds a special importance to him. I lean over and hand the backpack to him. He pulls out the sketchbook. A small part along the corner is damp with moisture. Jack peeks at the page with my house sketched on it. It appears unblemished, but then I notice a wet spot has moved across the paper. As irony would have it, it’s located in the same place on the page where our yard disaster occurred. There’s a slight bleeding of the charcoal marks. The hard edges have become blurred. It smooths out the detail into something resembling an abstract painting.

“I’m so sorry.” He closes the cover.

“No worries. I was meaning to try a new approach anyway. Perhaps this is the universe’s way of telling me it’s time.” I look over at Lizzie, whose mouth is agape.

“Can I . . . see those? Please?” There’s a reverence in her voice. It’s another uncharacteristic quality for an adolescent. But my niece is anything but a typical teenager. Jack hands her the sketchbook, with less hesitation than when he first shared it with me. Is he more comfortable with the idea now? Does he think they’re ruined? Or is it something else?

Lizzie turns each page with care. She studies every sketch, genuinely admiring each of his artistic creations. “These are all . . . awesome.” She sounds awestruck and amazed, but I sense a hint of dejection. That she’s never created anything that good. Or worthy of praise. The customary upturn to her lips has straightened with seriousness.

“That one there is something I drew while sitting atop a mountain in North Carolina. You see that path winding through it?” Jack moves beside her and traces his finger over the meandering line. Lizzie nods. “I imagined all the people on various parts of that trail. I thought about how they might feel.”

“Did it help you? To draw it?”

“Sure did. I noticed how the ones halfway through are closer to the finish line. I bet they looked at things differently because of where they were on their path. It reminded me not to compare my middle with someone else’s end.”

Lizzie closes his sketchbook with tenderness as a small grin returns to her face. Jack flashes a quick glance in my direction, and I offer him a warm smile. It’s an unspoken thank-you for his gentle encouragement of a young artist.

“Can we go to that bridge, Aunt Claire?” Wise beyond her years, she picked up on his message. Her resurging enthusiasm warms my heart.

“Do you draw?” There’s a genuine interest layered inside Jack’s question.

“No, but I paint. Hold on a second.” She dashes from her seat, flinging mud everywhere. I say nothing about wiping her feet or keeping the dirt contained. Encouraging her passionate spirit is much more important.

She returns with her sketchbook, in cleaner hands, and shares it with Jack. “Let me wash up first.” He makes his way toward the hose, not remembering the water is still turned off.

“No, it’s okay. Here.” She blocks him and places the paintings before him with a wide smile on her face.

He thumbs through them with care, studying each picture with the same intensity as Lizzie. I’m watching two peers, separated by several decades, establish some deep connection. Art is magic. “This is truly amazing.”

“Maybe Jack can come with us, Aunt Claire? To the bridge? He could give me some great pointers.” Remaining silent, I’m captivated by the grin on her face. I might be ready to roam around town with my niece, but not with Jack. There are too many unresolved emotions to decipher.

“I should be getting home. I have a bit of laundry to do.” He saves me from having to say the inevitable.

“Thank you again, Jack. Anytime you want to draw the house, you’re welcome to camp out across the street.” What was that about unresolved emotions to sort out? I’m surprised by my offer, but I guess it’s the least I can do. Especially since I’m ultimately the one responsible for damaging his sketchbook. “I’ll even have some tea for you, if you’ll share your progress with . . .” What am I doing? It’s time for a full stop on any more words coming from my mouth.

“I’d like to see it too, if you don’t mind.” Lizzie saves me now, her request soft. Jack smiles, picks up his backpack, and reaches out to shake Lizzie’s hand.

“It was a pleasure meeting you, Lizzie. And I’d be happy to share my drawings if you promise to do the same.” He turns toward me and offers his palm, slightly open, fingers spread apart. An accelerated heartbeat thumps against my chest.

My arm stretches out to Jack’s without thought. His smooth and tender touch causes a hiccup in my breath. It’s like he’s drawn out some new emotion from somewhere deep inside me.

“And the same goes for you, Claire.” He winks before offering a small smile. “A pleasant afternoon and evening to you, ladies.” He tips an imaginary cap, walks around the corner of the porch, and disappears. The dizzying hum of life begins to subside. Jack’s words echo in my mind. And the same goes for you, Claire. What did he mean? I don’t draw or paint. If he shares his drawings with me, what am I to share with him? And that wink. It was more intense than some kisses I’ve experienced.

“Best. Day. Ever.” Lizzie’s teenage wisdom pulls me back to the side porch.