Time to make good on my promise for a visit to the bridge, but first we need to clean ourselves up. “Hey, how did you wash your hands earlier? The water’s not on yet.”

“I used some left over from my watercolors.”

I remember how quickly she passed the sketchbook to Jack. “You washed yours, but didn’t care if Jack’s were dirty?”

“It was okay with me if they got messed up. I can always paint new ones. I just wanted him to see them as they were when I created them.”

No matter the time or place, every one of us hopes to be seen in the most favorable light. “How about we get cleaned up and I take you to that bridge?”

“Actually, could we do that tomorrow? I want to work on that pile of lemons again.”

“Are you sure?”

“Yeah, Jack gave me some new ideas.”

He’s given me some too, none I should share with anyone. “Okay, well, how about that fully caffeinated beverage I promised you? I know they close early on some days, but we can take a short walk and find out.” It’s ironic. After wanting to stay sequestered in my house, I now have a desire to wander around Pigeon Grove. Its charm has seeped underneath my skin, like that water beneath the soil, helping me to grow.

“Are you kidding? What just happened is way better than any coffee I’ll ever drink.” Lizzie stares out at the afternoon sun casting a warm glow over our garden. “I guess winging it didn’t turn out so bad, huh?”

I hear no hint of sarcasm in Lizzie’s comment. It comes from a place of complete sincerity. The balance of my life has just tipped past the predictable norm and into a realm of welcome spontaneity. “I’m glad you’re here, Lizzie. And yes, I think today turned out okay.”

To be honest, it feels closer to perfect.

12

My small-town life in Pigeon Grove continues to unfold with tentative trust. Little lumps of restlessness and anxious energy subside with each passing day. I expect good, looking for and finding the divine magic of ordinary things hidden in plain sight.

My morning routine now includes a quick peek through the front screen door. I search that stretch of pavement across the street, hoping I’ll need to brew a pitcher of sweet tea I don’t drink. He hasn’t been around again since that unforgettable day in the side yard.

I drag my hand slowly over the wooden frame and return to the kitchen. Improved water pressure fills the coffee carafe quicker. It also causes that leak from my faucet to spray with more belligerence. With my recent track record, it might behoove me to call a professional plumber for any indoor work. I can’t afford a similar fiasco inside the house, even if I found a silver lining in that fortuitous experience.

My thoughts drift to the faintest gray streak racing through Jack’s hair. Does it signify a distinguished character? Or is it evidence of hardship endured throughout his life? There are still confusing pieces to my puzzle, parts that don’t belong anywhere. But I’m finally beginning to trust myself again. Maybe for the first time. And the belief that things are working out exactly as they should surrounds me with a glowing warmth.

I sit at the kitchen table with a full mug of hot coffee. Lizzie must still be asleep. The house is silent. Deafeningly so. I allow my mind to wander. It’s what I used to enjoy, silence and a few moments alone. Now I long for human interaction. How do things change so fast?

The trip through town with my energetic niece a few days ago continued that trustful shift in my life. It started with a safe visit to the produce shop. I used it as a social barometer for how difficult the expedition might be for me. Being pushed outside my comfort zone is something I’ve never willingly embraced. Hank, always the insightful one, sensed my anxiety. He provided just the encouragement I needed.

His wife pulled Lizzie aside to help pick out different fruit that would be the subject of her next watercolor creation. We came away with even more peaches. The deeper skin textures would provide her a fresh challenge, Lydia said. I’ve contemplated Lizzie’s paintings more closely with each new one she creates, becoming lost in my thoughts while doing so. It’s as if her artistic gift has helped me get to where I am today.

The visit to Caldwell’s Coffee supplied us both with a jolt of caffeine. Lizzie seemed to enjoy the fully caffeinated beverage I promised her. But she reminded me it still fell short of the stimulating effects from our experience with Jack. My need for espresso appears to be waning too, replaced by an increased desire to be around others.

Looking down at my mug of cooling coffee, I see I have yet to take a sip, proving my point. Small touches in the kitchen have begun to fill the empty space with a sense of warmth and belonging. Decorative towels drape over the sink. A ceramic bowl gathers my selection of fruit into a cohesive collection. Place mats with cloth tassels adorn the table. They’re all handmade and come from other folks in town.

How can I give back to the community? What could I offer that others would need or want?

It’s as if the universe has received my thoughts and offers an idea. Or at least the glint of one. A snapshot in time greets me, like a single frame from a movie. I see people, lots of them, seated around a large dining room table. Cloth doilies rest beneath eclectic china patterns and mismatched flatware.

It mirrors that initial vision of my garden, chaotic . . . and beautiful.

Before I can latch onto the full expanse of what I’m seeing, my attention focuses on a different latch. The side door is unlocked. Have I been that careless to have forgotten about it last night? It’s one thing to be comfortable in a neighborhood and quite another to be irresponsible. As I get up to lock it, chastising myself, I see movement on the porch. Lizzie sits outside on the same rocking chair, a sketchbook in her hands.

“Hey, kiddo. Good morning. I thought you were still asleep. What are you up to?”

“I’ve been up a while. Just painting some.” There’s an uneasiness that leaks through her voice as she gazes out over the garden. The open page in her lap reveals a beautiful depiction of the bridge we visited several days ago. Her memory is impeccable to capture that much detail from a single visit.

“Would you like some breakfast? I can whip us up some pancakes.”

“No, thanks. I had some fruit earlier.” There’s a quiet struggle nestled between her words, as if she needs some encouragement.

“I’ll add blueberries.” It does the trick as Lizzie smiles wide.

“We’re running low. I’ll run into town later and get some more.”

I appreciate her offer, but she’s supposed to be on vacation. “You don’t need to. I can get them too.”

“No, I like going. And Mrs. Charles always helps me pick out the best fruit for painting.” I find it odd that I haven’t seen a single image of said produce in her sketchbook over the past several days. Only the bridge.

Lizzie inhales a stack of pancakes topped with fresh blueberries, then darts upstairs. She returns with the cloth bag we’ve been using for carrying our purchased fruit. Why it was upstairs, I have no idea. “Be back soon.” She pecks me on the cheek and rushes out the front door as if Hank and Lydia will close shop before she arrives.

After cleaning the kitchen, I’m drawn to my favorite outdoor spot. I sit on the side porch, glancing out over the garden. More birds have discovered it, but I still reserve a special place in my heart for that first chickadee. It’s only been a few days, but it feels as though this space has matured and grown. In ways that having nothing to do with water and sunlight.

Where do all these avian friends come from, and where do they disappear to at night? Do they have a home, or are they content to move from one place to another? In search of whatever might fulfill them in the moment?

I glance toward the sidewalk, hoping to see Jack. I must have imagined the connection between us. It’s a blessing and a curse of mine, seeing things that don’t exist. Sometimes it creates pure bliss, and at other times, unbearable agony. I was silly to entertain the thought of something beyond a casual friendship with him. Even if I never voiced that desire to myself, I knew it was there, imploring me to acknowledge it.

I’ve connected with many people in town, but none of them understand me with the same depth and intensity. Without ever needing to share a single word. Or so I thought that was the case with Jack.

It’s at least an hour later when the front screen door opens with a slow creak. “Lizzie? I’m out here.”

“Be out in a sec. Just emptying the bag.” Her words tumble out with nervous anxiety. I remember what it was like to be a teenager, even if she’s not going through the same things I had to endure at her age. Something is on her mind.

She arrives on the side porch, standing with attention as if waiting for me to speak. I tilt my head and tread with caution. “What’s up?”

“Nothing.” Her response, quick and forced, catches somewhere between discomfort and guilt.

“How are Hank and Lydia?”

“They’re good, said to say hi.” She bites the inside of her lip. “So, hi. From them.”

“You know, I was in your shoes once. Talk to me.” Lizzie’s shoulders release with resignation. I was never great at opening up either. I have an idea. “Do you want to help me add some plants to the garden?”

“Sure, okay.”

We’re removing the top layer of soil, clearing the new space in silence, when Lizzie suddenly asks, “Do you ever miss your mom?” A question emerging from a teenager’s mouth has never surprised me more. She doesn’t know much about my situation, only that there were undisclosed issues.

“Yes.” The word feels impossibly difficult to force from my lungs. It’s not the truth, really. I miss the idea of having a mom, but not the one assigned to me. Although those thoughts shared by Russell rattle inside my memory. There was a time . . . when it wasn’t so bad. “How about you?”

She slides the dirt around, as if trying to find a weed, or a seed, hidden in the cool soil. “I want to miss her, if that makes any sense. But I feel guilty. Like I shouldn’t care about someone who left me and my dad.”