As the couple strolls down the sidewalk together, I’m not sure what I’m feeling. I find this charming couple endearing, but there’s still a big part of me that wants to pull back, inside the house and inside myself. I’m caught in a state of confusion, just like those pigeons. But it’s clear I’m not destined to find my way back home.

A thought slips in through one of these secret back doors that life tries to hide from us. Maybe I’m still only a chick, waiting to become a proper grown bird ready to fly. Hard as I try, it’s impossible to relinquish that sliver of hope, however tiny it might be.

5

It might be some weird synchronicity that exists between owners of the same house, but I somehow doubt it. I’m halfway through my glass of lemonade when they stroll down the sidewalk together. At the same time each day. Lydia is always on the inside while Hank embraces his role as the chivalrous knight. He serves as a human shield against wayward splashes from puddles in the street.

“Good afternoon, Claire.” I hear Lydia’s greeting and recognize the implied question hiding behind it: How are you? I suppose it’s a natural byproduct of small-town life. Everyone knows everything. Or wants to, at least. She waves with one hand while the other remains interlocked with her partner’s.

“Hi, Lydia. Beautiful weather for a walk, isn’t it?”

“With a companion like this, every opportunity is a perfect one.” She wraps her fingers around Hank’s arm and squeezes with tenderness. He smiles and tips his hat toward me.

Each afternoon, he offers an interesting tidbit of trivia in his signature fashion. “What’s my thought for today, Hank?” I call from the porch as I swing gently. The space between my toes and the wooden railing is the perfect distance. Each push creates a tranquil rocking motion.

“That’s some mighty weak tea you have there.” He squints toward the half-empty glass of lemonade—fresh squeezed, of course. Is there any other kind?

One summer, years ago, I opened a lemonade stand outside the public library and netted almost five dollars. And I’m sure it was Ms. Pickett’s advertising, or cajoling of patrons, that allowed me to make even that much. It wasn’t the money that motivated me. Rather, it was the surprised smile when those unsuspecting customers tasted it. The tiniest hint of lavender in my recipe made all the difference.

“That’s because it’s not tea,” I tell Hank. “It’s lemonade. With a twist.” I’ve always kept the presence of that secret ingredient to myself. Have I stumbled upon another example of small-town persuasion? Some people can extract thoughts that might otherwise have stayed hidden.

“Did you know the -ade in lemonade means it doesn’t contain 100 percent juice?” He glances up at me, slowing his shuffle down the sidewalk, awaiting my response.

“No, I did not.” He seems proud to share these obscure facts with me each day. And to be honest, I enjoy it. As much for seeing how it changes his mood as for the knowledge. He lights up. It’s like I’m helping him, even though it makes little sense. “So why then isn’t it called ‘iced tea-ade’? I guess that doesn’t exactly roll off the tongue, does it?”

“Ah, and there you stumble upon a peculiar conundrum.” He pauses and looks at me quizzically. “There’s no juice in tea, but I suppose it is interesting they chose not to call it ‘helio-tea,’ since helio- means ‘from the sun.’ It’s the only way to make it, you know. The Georgia sunshine has magical powers.”

I offer a kind smile as the couple continues down the walkway without another word. We’ve become familiar with this routine. They return down the other side of the street a few minutes later. Their final wave and wish for a pleasant evening occur as I take the last sip of my lemonade.

I’ve invited them onto the porch many times over the past several weeks. I only do it on good days, though, ones when I’m able to push those unpleasant memories into the safe recesses of my mind. Two things continue battling for my attention: the safety of ignorance and a risky acceptance of hope for something so beautiful. How do I choose? Hank and Lydia are the epitome of a perfect couple. Seeing them treat each other with so much love? On those more difficult days, it’s painful.

Why do I shy away from tea? Everyone else seems to love it. Am I destined to be eccentric in everything I do? A few granules of sugar cling to lemon pulp at the bottom of my empty glass. It reminds me why I prefer lemonade. I appreciate the delicate balance of sweet and sour. How two different things combine to create something delicious is a refreshing realization.

I HAVE BEEN SPENDING more time walking up and down Main Street. Slowly, I’m expanding my acceptance of Pigeon Grove. I have Hank to thank for that. There’s a part of me that longs for more of his peculiar insights. I buy fruits and vegetables from him I don’t need. I could choose to stop in for a chat only, but I’m not ready for that level of geniality yet.

Something is different about Hank when I visit his shop. He’s less analytical and distracted than he is on those afternoon walks with Lydia. He becomes softhearted and emotional in his store. Can being around produce have that effect on someone? If anyone knows, he would be the person to ask. I’ll do that someday, when I have more gumption. For now, I stroll back down the street with another paper bag full of peaches and lemons. More of the former as the latter always seems in short supply.

I push open my front door and instinctively move toward the kitchen. I pull Lydia’s cookbook from my shelf and thumb to the page with her peach tart recipe. It was nice of her to lend it to me. I’m slowly filling my house with new things, while keeping a few of the old ones hidden away in a safe place.

Tracing my index finger down the ingredient list, I find mint and fresh orange juice. Of all the fruit on my counter, an orange is not one of them. I pull the carton of store-bought juice from the refrigerator. Close enough. Grabbing a pair of snipping scissors from the drawer, I meander toward the front porch. Those vacant flower boxes now overflow with green herbs. The varied scents and textures add something inviting to the farmhouse curb appeal. And it’s nice to be part of an organic and self-sustaining growth process.

I slip back inside and turn the knob on my radio, tuning to the local country station. I never listen to this music, but everyone else here does. I might as well give it an honest go. I grab the wooden spoon reserved for propping open the kitchen window. Once a willing partner, it now needs a bit more persuasion to cooperate with my desire for fresh air.

I glide around the room, from the counter to the refrigerator and back to the cupboard. There’s a natural flow to my movements. They’re somehow in sync with a combination of the music’s melody and the recipe ingredients. That thought about lemonade resurfaces. Sweet and sour. How two seemingly unrelated qualities can fit so well together. How is it that music and peaches blend with such harmony? I sprinkle mint into the bowl as my thoughts, baking and otherwise, merge as one. Is it possible to mix different things elsewhere in life to create something new and . . . ?

I can’t think the word that follows, let alone vocalize it. Best not allow my wishes to float too high. Hope is a dangerous tightrope to walk. Especially when there’s nothing to balance myself with, and no safety net below to catch me when I fall.

WITH MY PEACH TART baking in the oven, I lean against the counter. Closing my eyes, I inhale the complementary scents of fruit and jasmine. More yin and yang, the smells coming from inside and outside. But it’s the song on the radio that permeates the room and conjures a sense that has no name.

Love was always for someone else, but in a world of so few surprises, there’s still a few surprises left.

I think about my path through life so far. I’ve always known where I’m headed, even if it hasn’t been toward a place I dreamed of being. But now I don’t know. About anything. A foreboding thought creeps into my consciousness. I made a courageous choice to move here, but I feel more lost than ever. Still, I wonder, might this be the best thing that could have happened to me?

There’s something about the delicious combination of lyrics and melody. It creates a moment of internal radiance, coming from a place I never knew existed. I open my eyes to make sure I’m not dreaming. That’s when I see him.

Seated on the ground across the street, a man stares intently at my farmhouse. He tilts his head to the right, then the left, before pulling out a pencil and placing it in his mouth. Clenching his teeth, he reaches a hand into his bag. He retrieves a sketchbook, never taking eyes off his subject. He continues to study it with an intense interest.

I watch as his gaze darts back and forth between the house and his pad of paper. It’s mesmerizing. There’s an intimate connection between the physical world and his mind’s eye. I sense his imagination transforming an inanimate object into something full of emotion.

Guilty thoughts for spying on him creep in, but I can’t look away. Besides, he’s drawing my home. Home. It’s the first time I’ve referred to this place by that name. What is happening? Things are becoming hazy and distorted. Should I embrace this unknown feeling or push it aside?

He glances up at the roofline. As if reading my thoughts, he slides his eyes toward the kitchen window. And finds me. In a panic, I pull back, hiding behind the thin fabric of the curtain. My heart pounds in my chest, perfectly in sync with the rhythm of that song.

I tug the curtains closed and stare at my trembling hands. Even if this reaction resembles those of my childhood, it doesn’t feel like the same thing. It’s not fear but something else. I recall that pilled blanket. It did little to protect me from the harsh reality waiting outside its permeable border.

It creates doubt that a tattered strip of plaid cloth will do any better. A freshening breeze blows through the open window, revealing a glimpse of him. Still looking right at me. Or through me. Nothing can keep him from seeing deep into my soul. Especially at a moment when I’m this vulnerable.

6

The charred scent of peaches invades my conscience like smelling salts. A coffee jingle about filling your cup to the brim every day replaces soothing music on the radio. I peel back the curtain nervously. It’s all gone, the calming influence of that song and the presence of that mystifying man. My heartbeat is out of sync with everything surrounding me. How long have I been adrift in this unfamiliar state?

I recognize the shrill coming from my phone only after the third ring. I should thank the person on the other end. Without it, I might have noticed the smoke seeping through the oven door a little too late.

“Hello?” I am out of breath, though I haven’t undertaken any physical exertion to warrant it.

“Claire Bear?” I haven’t heard that name in years. Why does this ride through life feel like a sadistic combination of roller coaster and funhouse? The monotonous climb followed by a breathless fall is nauseating enough. But the assortment of trick mirrors and shifting floors only adds to the confusion. Are there any straight-and-level pieces on this journey? The dizzying effects keep me from reorienting myself when I need it the most.

“Hello, Russell.” I don’t use his childhood nickname, Stover. He was the sweetest big brother a sister could dream of while growing up. We never talked about what happened behind closed doors with our abusive mother. But he was always there to refocus my attention on something more positive.

I turn off the oven, retrieve my baking disaster from inside, and slide the window open further. A faint drift of smoke dissipates through the wider gap. The pane of glass stays in place without the need for an even larger wooden spoon that I don’t have. The house seems to know there’s too much to handle in this moment, and it has little to do with the mess in the kitchen.

I might as well take another look. Craning my neck both ways, I hope to catch a final glimpse of that mysterious artist on the sidewalk. Nothing. The phone cord wraps around me like a lasso, pulling me back into the present.

“Claire? Are you okay?” Am I okay? Why didn’t he call to ask that while I was forced to sift through piles of boxes with bad memories by myself? Cynical thoughts bubble to the surface, but my softhearted center prevails. Could he be calling to apologize?

“I’m all right. Getting by.” The internal walls rise, a self-defense mechanism in the form of short answers. It’s easier to leave that extra space, where words normally go, to assess the situation. I did it with Hank and Lydia in the beginning. Trust is a difficult thing to grant when the rug has been pulled out from beneath you so often in the past.

“Donna gave me this number, but she didn’t say much. Just that you were off on a quest to find yourself or something. Was there any damage back home? I saw that a wicked storm passed through Virginia earlier in the week.”

Tumultuous weather manifests itself in many ways. I’ve been so consumed with establishing my new life in Georgia. I haven’t shared my decision to move with anyone but those directly affected. My former boss and my roommate. Am I a hypocrite? I hold it against Russell for not staying in touch with me, but I’m doing the exact same thing.

“I’m not in Virginia.” He already knows this, but how do I divulge the details of my choice? It still doesn’t make complete sense to me.

“Have you finally embraced the merits of a vacation, an escape from the daily monotony of your routine?”