He glances at his budding artistic prodigy and smiles before opening the front cover. The bridge is complete. Both the painting and that invisible connection between father and daughter. It’s amazing how art connects people in ways that nothing else can. Personal experience has taught me that, and now I am witnessing it firsthand.

“Lizzie, this is breathtakingly exquisite.” He gazes back and forth between her and the luminous watercolors. His proud smile widens with each glance.

“I know you said you’d like to see it as an oil painting, but . . .”

“No, this is better. Perfect.” As Lizzie’s glow radiates from the deepest part of herself, this is perfect. Thank you, Hank. And Jack.

I usher them toward the dining room table. “Let’s head inside, you must be famished. And even if you’re not, I’d love for you to meet some of my friends.”

With warmth, Pigeon Grove welcomes Russell as an extended member of the community. There’s an enchantment to the moment when he takes his seat among everyone else. I stand at the entrance to the kitchen, slightly removed from the center of it all, and smile. Human connections occur across the table in every direction. It warms my heart.

That sparkle of an idea from earlier in the week returns with intense clarity. The vision of people seated around a large dining room table takes on a more visceral quality. Small pockets of emptiness surrounding me fill with something resembling a golden touch. The beauty spreads in a wave of vibrant color.

Bubbly conversation mixes with inspired musings. How might I use the five bedrooms upstairs? I flutter my eyelashes twice, to make sure what I’m seeing is real. The painting on the wall, of a colorful sky along the shoreline, transfixes me. After a third blink, it disappears. But nothing can convince me it wasn’t there a moment ago.

The conversations around me nurture my thoughts. A stunningly beautiful and therapeutic garden. Delicious culinary creations. My warm and inviting hospitality. It all propels me toward an adventurous idea. It’s the furthest thing I could have imagined when first arriving in Pigeon Grove on that rainy morning.

But that’s how the best things come about, when they’re least expected.

There’s an open spot for me at the table, but I’m not hungry. My appetite has been satisfied by something else. The need and want to start anew. Again.

16

The crowd thins as our neighborhood gathering draws to an unwanted end. While some guests arrived with a handshake, none leave without a hug. Warmth spreads as everyone moves through the front door and back toward their own home. People are moving apart in a literal sense. But there’s a sense of coming together that is undeniably stronger.

Russell and Lizzie are upstairs packing up the last of her things. Jack is the only visitor remaining. He stands outside on the porch, hands crossed and hanging below his waist. Although there’s no discernable noise in the house, it is far from silent.

“Would you mind if I sit down? I’d like to say good-bye before Lizzie leaves.” My sixth or seventh sense speaks to me. These two artistic souls have nurtured each other in a symbiotic way. Like bumblebees and flowering plants, they work together in harmony. It is extraordinary, the inspiration and enchantment created in the process. Not only for them, but for every life they touch.

“Sure.” I feel we could somehow keep this conversation going without another spoken syllable. But there are three words I need to say. “I’m sorry, Jack.”

The look of surprise on his face stuns me. “Claire, those are words I should be saying, not you.”

Perhaps we both own rights to them in this case. But I don’t want to get pulled under the influence of trivialities that steal from the silent magic of this moment. “I know you were only trying to do the right thing, for Lizzie.” He remains quiet, allowing a closed-lip smile to emerge. Tension releases from his shoulders, and it’s all the encouragement I need. “I’d like for you to finish that sketch of the house.” I have both oars in the water, battling the emotional waves that try to catapult me from the boat I’m paddling. “Please. For me.”

I don’t want it to come across sounding too desperate. Gosh, I hope it isn’t. Even if nothing ever comes of whatever this is between Jack and me, I need this. To see his visual inspiration and lock it in my memory forever more.

He rises to his feet, and I feel Jack’s desire to reach out and . . . what? Shake my hand? Caress my cheek? Hold me? “That would make me happier than you know.” Like tango dancers, we’re moving in unison to the beat of music only we hear.

The trundle of footsteps down the stairs is slow and deliberate. My niece slides through the front door, a disappointed look etched on her furrowed brow. Her eyes brighten at the sight of Jack, who focuses all his attention on the budding artist. “Hey, Lizzie. I just wanted to say good-bye. Or, hopefully, see you later.”

She wraps her arms around him in a full hug, surprising everyone. “Thank you, for everything.”

“And the same goes for you, young lady. You’re truly an inspiration. Keep painting, okay?”

She nods her head vigorously. The smile on her face grows wider and more colorful than the expanse of my blossoming garden.

Russell leans over and whispers in my ear. “We talked upstairs. Thank you, Claire.” He wraps me in a hug. That feeling of bringing two people back together again is beyond satisfying. It fills my cup and overflows it with blissful joy.

“I love you, Russell.”

“Love you too, Claire.”

There’s no need for childhood nicknames. Not now. Love like this is simple. And real. “Stay in touch. And visit more often. My door is always open.” The words coming from my mouth might have surprised me in the past. Today, they flow with the same carefree assurance of that stream’s current.

“We will.” My brother chuckles. There’s a certainty in his response as he glances over at Lizzie. “I know this because she’s already picked out her next painting subject. Something having to do with a produce shop on Main Street.”

We separate and prepare for the inevitable departure that no one wants to happen. But it must. Russell has a new corporate landscape project to envision. And an artistic daughter to dote upon like I know he will.

Before I realize it, Russell’s car horn honks. The driver and passenger are both waving their hands outside the window. Calls of see you soon are no longer lip service. We mean them, and I already look forward to our next visit together.

I peek back toward the man still standing on my front porch. Jack holds a watercolor painting. It showcases a pyramid of lemons stacked with careful exactness. They’re situated on my kitchen table, which has been an important cog in my emotional transformation over the past week. The thoughts, conversations, and decisions made in that room? It only adds certainty to my belief. It’s my favorite place in the house. In my home.

“She gave you that?”

“She did.” His response rests somewhere between surprise and assertion. Why did Lizzie choose that one? “She said I should continue trying some new things.” I should’ve known he’d read my thoughts.

A warm smile spreads, inside and out, that speaks with more depth than any word or thought. I know what’s coming. My heartbeat skips, and my unsteady breathing quickens. It’s a spontaneous and instinctive response to keep my world from spinning out of control. But I want it to continue pirouetting as it is with a sense of reckless abandon.

I close my eyes and drown in the delicate pressure of his lips against mine. It’s strong and certain. But also tender and unsteady. I continue sinking into each emotion and every sensation that harmonizes with it.

When Jack steps back after a moment of pure bliss that I wish could go on forever, I want to scream, Please, don’t go.

But I have no words. He’s stolen my breath, and maybe more.

17

The next several days pass in a blur of beautiful serendipity.

The pitcher of brewed sweet tea remains chilled in the refrigerator. Jack prefers my lavender lemonade after giving his palate time to adjust. Unfamiliar but delightful experiences bloom everywhere around me. Afternoon rain showers have nourished the soil and flowers in my garden. They tangle with each other in an act of beautiful chaos. One entity becoming intertwined with the essence of another.

At the end of each day, we sit on the porch swing and watch raindrops tumble off the roof. They drop into the flower boxes waiting to soak up the natural nourishment. I offer Jack a taste of different baked goods I dreamed up in the kitchen. The peach tart holds a special place in my heart, and it came out perfectly on my most recent attempt.

We exist in our own little cocoon, wrapping ourselves in the mystique of a splendid aura. It encompasses nothing in particular, and everything at the same time. A graceful dance occurs between us as my metaphorical wings continue to unfold.

He sketches from across the street while I sit on the porch and watch him. Jack glances up every so often and offers me a smile. I return one without realizing it. We’re separated during these moments, but only in a spatial sense. Connection runs so much deeper than physical touch.

We haven’t talked about the kiss, and that’s okay. Some things don’t need words to disturb what’s already there.

The wild idea in my head gains momentum with each passing moment. And the afternoons spent with Jack? Watching those charcoal lines swirl into an emotional personification of my home? It nurtures deep-seated feelings I never thought I’d experience again.

I KNOW HE’LL FINISH today, and that scares me. This inanimate structure I live inside has nurtured our time together. An undeniable connection grows stronger with each passing moment. I’m convinced these walls are alive and breathe life into the space between us.

Our shared artistic journey has been dreamlike. I don’t want it to end. He must have something else to draw or paint. Or at least pretend to, for the sake of continuing this magical fairy tale. These quiet moments on the porch, watching Jack, have guided me back toward a time long ago. To ponder and deal with my messy parts in a healthier way. He has no idea that by just being there across the street, he’s helping me.

How do I share that with him? Should I? There is so much that could go wrong if I divulge the details of my past. But the comment shared with Lizzie echoes in my mind. The foundation of every relationship, even with yourself, is trust.