Jack gathers his supplies, tucks them in his backpack, and makes his way toward me on the front porch. The afternoon cumulus clouds roll in from the west. They provide a softer backdrop for the space surrounding us. I have a peach tart and two glasses of lavender lemonade waiting when he arrives beside me.

My pulse quickens as I prepare to do the most courageous and vulnerable thing I’ve ever done. I am about to risk losing everything that is good in my life at this moment. He sits down on the porch swing next to me. “A penny for your thoughts?”

His penetrating gaze sees through me. I should know he already senses my emotional unrest. “It might be closer to a dime.”

“I’m right here.” Yes, he is. And that’s how I would like it to stay. Still, I push forward, relying on that elusive and invisible thing called trust.

“My mother abused me.” It slips out in slurred speech. If I don’t say it quickly, it will never come out. “I’ve never dealt with it well, and it’s kept me from . . .”

Jack places a hand on my thigh, with a most reassuring touch. I feel his thoughts. It’s okay. Everything will be okay. I want to share that I fear losing someone again, like I did Dillon, but that would be presumptuous.

His thumb makes tiny circles on my jean shorts as visions of that copper pipe return to my mind. Those same random words alight on my heart. Infinite. Whole. Timeless. Another one is about to emerge, its warmth spreading, when Jack stops and looks directly at me. “Everyone has a troubled past to deal with. It’s not what happened, but how we respond to it that defines us.” I study Jack’s eyes and feel his anguish. Layers of trauma are trapped between his words. “Her name was Teresa.”

He stares at the ground and exhales, lost in a tangle of painful memories. “I was married to my work instead of the woman I was supposed to wed. We got into an argument one evening, and she left the house. Upset and angry.”

He takes a deep breath, removes his hand from my thigh, and interlocks it with the other in his lap. I set the swing in motion, ever so gently. It’s my way of communicating the same message. It’s okay. I’m right here. “Instead of going after her, I continued focusing on my work. A stupid painting.”

I sense the emotional instability in his quivering voice. “She didn’t come back. I assumed she wanted some space. Police found her car in a ditch two towns away the next morning. There was a suitcase in the trunk. Not that it matters, and it’s selfish, but I’ll never know if she needed time to herself or was leaving me for good.”

I want to pull him toward me, but I’m not sure where we are right now. I have no words, so I borrow his. “It’s not what happened, but how we respond to it that defines us.”

He pauses for a moment, catches an unsteady breath, and reaches for his backpack lying on the ground. He pulls out the completed sketch of my house and hands it to me.

“Jack, this is breathtakingly exquisite.” It escapes from my lungs, soft and tender. They’re the same words Russell used to describe Lizzie’s painting. I can’t help but feel there’s a connection between the two.

“Since my fiancée died, I’ve felt compelled to work in black and white. My life has become nothing more than varied shades of gray.” He reaches back into his backpack and pulls out a small canvas, placing it cautiously in my hands.

I begin to sob uncontrollably, overwhelmed by the likeness of my garden in its full splendor. Everything I’ve ever dreamed it could be is captured by Jack’s delicate brushstrokes. The colors and textures of the oil painting touch something at my core.

“Claire, you are the first person who has brought color back into my life.”

I’m home. Right here, right now. In this moment, I am home.

18

Without thinking or deciding, our hands find each other. There’s a natural chemistry between Jack and me that the rest of the world has yet to discover. Seated on the porch swing, we sway gently, moving in unison like two planets with a shared orbit. The force and attraction are unmistakable. Certain.

I never want the feeling in this singular moment to end, and I anticipate Jack feels the same thing.

I gaze at his creations beside each other. The charcoal sketch dwarfs the smaller canvas painting. But the intimate mood and depth in the latter sings poetry that only my soul understands. His too.

“They belong together.” I speak in veiled terms, even though I don’t need to. Everything about this afternoon should coexist in soulful harmony. Including us.

“You’re right.” Jack tilts sideways, viewing both works of art from a different perspective. His head is almost resting on my shoulder. His scent at this moment, after a full day in the sun, is rough and masculine. But it is more enticing than the coveted and delicate jasmine in my garden.

“Have you thought about a name for it?”

He studies the mixed-media pairing with a pensive gaze. The sleek sheen of oil paints complements the edgy shadows created by the charcoal lines. To others, they might appear too divergent. To me, they are exactly as they should be. Jack’s meditative study of his artistic creation sparks a growing smile on his face. “Fly Away Home.”

He says it with such certainty, as if there is no other name. Jack squeezes my hand and begins those tender circular motions with his thumb. His touch is soothing electricity. “I fled what I thought would be my home, looking to run away from the past. But it was only when I decided to do so that I found my home.” He stops and looks into my eyes. “Not in a place, but a community . . . and perhaps a single person.”

His other hand caresses my cheek. With the gentlest pressure, Jack tilts my face. I’m off-kilter and balanced at the same time. He pulls my lips toward his with an emotional certainty that no force of nature can stop. It’s the most tender, compassionate, and loving connection I’ve ever known.

The same word keeps alighting on my malleable heart. Home.

“I want you to have these.” He places the sketch and canvas before me, placing my hand on top of them. Jack wraps his fingers around mine. Our interlocked hands create the consummate work of art. One that has nothing to do with paint colors, pencil marks, or brushstrokes. It has a texture unto itself.

I hoped for this offer, but I never expected it. These breathing creations are part of his heart and soul. “When I asked you to share them with me, I just meant . . .”

“I know. But they belong here.” So many things do. I understand what he’s saying. There are layers to his message, like those paint colors on his splendid depiction of my garden. I start crying, reminding myself that tears can also be joyful. It’s been so long.

Jack smooths away my teardrops with his soft touch. The pitter-patter of raindrops from above join us in our emotional exchange. Our foreheads come together, and we rest there, eyes closed. The number of ways to connect with him might be infinite, but it still wouldn’t be enough. I slide the bare toe in my sandals so it gently brushes against Jack’s leg.

Never disconnecting, I part my lips to speak and feel his breath mingle with mine. “There should be some sort of payment involved. For the paintings.”

“What were you thinking?”

I know he’ll refuse any monetary offer, but I have another idea. “A daily lemonade date on the front porch?”

“That sounds fair.” Jack grins, and I return a smile with knowing appreciation. We’re able to connect without the need for words.

My eyes drift back toward the sketch and painting, still resting beside each other in my lap. They’re completely different but exactly the same. Those things you’d never expect go together? They turn out to be a perfect pair once you give them a chance and trust the process.

Sour lemons and sweet sugar. Charcoal sketches and colorful paintings. Two people with troubled pasts who, when they lean on each other, find a way home.

IT’S THE GOLDEN HOUR and I’m alone in my garden. Daylight is softer as the sun bows toward the horizon. My emotions feel the same, smooth and velvety, with no hard edges. Thoughts of those peaches shared by Hank and Lydia on their first visit return to me. And the wisdom accompanying them: They’re a symbol of good luck, protection, and longevity. Indeed.

I stroll among the wild flowers growing taller with each passing day. My garden, in both a literal and a metaphorical sense, continues to flourish with love. The scent of jasmine mixing with the other blooms creates a beautiful bouquet for all the senses. I hold the sketchbook and the canvas near to my heart, cherishing everything about this moment and place.

I am floating on an imaginary cloud, each step softer than the next. As I make my way up the wooden stairs inside, there’s a cushiony sensation. I’m guided by something otherworldly. I find the perfect space, on the wall in my bedroom, to hang both works of art. They’re what I want to see each morning when I wake up, a reminder of what home truly means.

I pause for a moment, contemplating what to do next. There is some hesitancy in my choice, but I know it’s time.

Digging through the top drawer of my bureau, I push aside the assortment of socks. The item I’m searching for has been buried far too long. Dillon’s book. I run my fingertips over the cover and place it on the bookshelf with my other novels.

I no longer feel the need to hide from my past. It doesn’t control my present, or future.

An invisible force guides me as I visit each bedroom. I have a purpose, a broom, and majestic inspiration to pursue my vision. I name each room: bluebird, meadowlark, cardinal, grosbeak. But the one overlooking my garden is special, reserved for special guests. It will forever hold the dearest and most precious place in my heart. The chickadee suite will be a symbol of positivity, good luck, beauty, and love. At the first bed-and-breakfast in Pigeon Grove.

I smile and offer a small nod of gratitude to that first chickadee in my garden. The most innocent and unknowing things, in a single moment, connect you to the past, present, and future. And maybe even your soul mate.

A list of tasks grows in my mind, but I know the first thing I need and want to do. There’s no longer that void between the two. I walk downstairs and out the front door, closing it gently behind me. Down the porch steps and beyond the flowering lavender, I arrive at the lamppost. It was nothing more than an afterthought when I arrived here on that rainy morning. But it’s been waiting for me with everlasting patience. Those blurry things before us become lucid when viewed through a lens of acceptance and love.

I hang my homemade sign from the horizontal post. It will have to do for now. I’m sure Jack won’t mind sharing the name of his artistic creation with me. It just feels right.

Fly Away Home . . . Your home away from home since 1968.