“I’ve always had two left feet.” He grins with appreciation as our own friendly clichéd dance begins.

“It only takes putting one foot in front of the other.” I take hold of a mock partner and begin the first few steps of a waltz.

“Only time will tell, I suppose.” Back and forth, it’s a game of wits as he passes me the bag of fruit, an attempt to disrupt my concentration.

“Shouldn’t be too tough, you’re fit as a fiddle.” I have several more lined up and ready to go.

“All’s well that ends well.” He winks at me, and a chilling sensation crawls from my toes to the top of my head. The way he said it and the grin on his face? He knows something I don’t. It’s not a comfortable feeling. Especially for someone who needs to understand everything that’s happening around them.

It summons an image of him, the man with no name whom I somehow already know. “Have you seen this . . . man, hanging out on the sidewalk across the street from my place?” I try to suppress the enchanted tone in my voice. Thinking about that moment creates a wave of emotion, even though nothing happened. Hank moves from humming to whistling, a sign that our figurative dance was exactly what he needed.

“You must be talking about Jack.” For some strange reason, the sound of his name warms my heart. I don’t understand why this is, but I can’t deny it. “Seen him a few times. Only thing I know about him is that he moved to Pigeon Grove about a year ago. He asked my permission to use the house as a subject for his art. Said the structure spoke to him in some quiet but powerful way.”

There’s that sensation again, a connection with something intangible but undeniably real. As chatty as I was, I retreat into silence, trying to grab hold of that elusive emotion that has no name. “He’s not a talkative one, similar to you in the beginning.” Hank pulls me from the murky cloud of ambiguity. “You should mingle with some of the other folks around town.” He pauses, flashing me a confusing smile before continuing. “Stanley will have what you need for that repair. And if you’d like some help, you know where to find me.”

“Your last name is Charles, right?” I’m not sure how this sudden realization arrives in my mind.

“Indeed.”

“But the shop is named Peterson Produce.”

“You’re a perceptive one.” He grins at me, knowing that my statement doubles as a question. “It’s Lydia’s maiden name. When we first embarked upon this adventure together, her dad provided us with the money to help get us started.” His gaze wanders over the expanse of their shop with fond reminiscence. “It’s the least we could do to show our appreciation. And I’ve always admired alliteration.” He chuckles, sharing another wink and a warm smile. “If you’d like some help with that pesky plumbing problem, you know where to find me.”

“Thanks, Hank.” It’s fitting how his name is embedded in that word of gratitude. I push through the door with more enthusiasm than when entering earlier. There was something therapeutic about my visit. I’ve suddenly realized reaching out to someone is as important as being reached out to. Even in the microcosm of a ten-minute sojourn, my thoughts have traveled everywhere. From blissful to discomfort to the unknown. Each of them felt . . . valuable and precious in its own way.

My planned route goes right, but I turn left instead. I have a bag full of more peaches than I need and barely enough lemons for a pitcher of lemonade. But I should have room for a few plumbing supplies. I float down the street, humming to the music still playing in my mind. Even though I have no partner, it’s a beautiful waltz. I gaze through the windows of each storefront, surprised when I stop and look closer.

There’s a woman staring back at me. Through a reflection of the sunlight overhead, she has a genuine smile on her face I haven’t seen in years.

8

A comforting cushion of air ushers me up the front sidewalk and through my front door. Stanley Turner was as helpful as Hank said he’d be. Not only did he explain the exact steps to resolve my plumbing problem, I also learned a few new things from him about the tools and parts involved in the process. My thoughts wander all over the emotional map, but there’s a small part of me that believes I might actually be able to pull this off.

I set my bag of fruit on the counter and place the project supplies next to it. Without thinking, I separate the peaches and lemons into different piles. Each mound before me begs for attention. There’s a treasure hidden inside one of them, and I’m asked to choose the right one.

There’s the plumbing materials—what I need. On the other end are the lemons—what I want. Then, in the middle, there are those peaches. They don’t fall into either category. I neither need nor want them. Is there something else that inhabits the apparent void between those two words, need and want?

I choose the pile of want in this moment and head toward the front porch. The lavender is overflowing and branching out to fill all available space in the planter. After I moved it from the spot in the side yard where it was struggling, it has flourished with new vigor. As I snip a few sprigs, I wonder whether there are parallels between flowers and life. Does transporting and trimming certain parts make a difference? Does it allow what’s left to return stronger and more vibrant than ever?

My fingers massage the velvety texture as I meander into the kitchen. Instinctively, I pull back the curtains, grab my trusty wooden spoon, and prop open the window. I juice the lemons into the pitcher. An occasional seed falls into the mix, requiring retrieval every few twists.

The process is calming. Becoming immersed in something routine distracts my analytic mind. In these moments, I find it easier to contemplate life on a different level. Things get tossed into our path without permission. Fragmented pieces of cork in a glass of wine. Fruit seeds in lemonade. A mother who broke me, in every conceivable definition of the word. Some experiences are simpler to push aside and ignore than others. It doesn’t mean they can’t all be stowed away in the past where they belong.

But there are some things we desperately wish to bring back into the present. Life is cruel that way, choosing what we’re allowed to keep and forced to let go.

I crush the violet herb, rub it between my fingertips, and sprinkle it in the pitcher. Remnants of the essential oils drift through the air with a soothing influence. The sugar and water go in next. I inhale with deliberate intentions and embrace the emotional cleansing process. The citrusy lemon, calming lavender, and intoxicating jasmine permeate my pores. It’s akin to a luxurious spa treatment for my delicate heart.

The wriggling stream from the faucet interrupts my blissful moment. It mixes with thoughts of the white flower, so close I can reach out and touch it. An unpleasant thought stirs inside. I open this window each time I enter the room to greet the fragrant trellis outside like an old friend. Now that trusty floral companion hinders me from completing the plumbing repair. It looks as though I’ll be able to test my theory again. Will transplanting and trimming back something have the effect I hope for?

Placing the pitcher in the refrigerator to chill, I ease through the front door. I pull my rocking chair to the far end of the porch. It’s a small section that wraps around the side. I don’t sit here often since it overlooks that field of overgrown weeds. I study the landscape with intensity. Different sizes and shapes mix. It creates something disorganized and . . .

The early-afternoon sunlight dances alongside a tiny chickadee. Mother Nature crafts a small shadowy refuge for him. He alights on the long stem of a weed swaying in the breeze. It’s chaotic . . . and beautiful.

I blink once, then twice. Is this real? The visual sensation before my eyes explodes with texture and color. It reaches out and wraps its arms around me in a comforting embrace. Catmint and hollyhocks fill the flowing vision of an English countryside. Sprigs of sage, dill, and thyme line the winding cobblestone pathways. There’s an arbor with climbing roses, framed by foxglove and phlox on either side. It’s the entrance to a haven of hope. I allow my lingering gaze to drift back toward the centerpiece of it all. A jasmine plant blooms freely and wildly in this surreal garden of love.

I must act now, lest this idyllic image flee my ephemeral memory. Rising from my seat with a sense of purpose, I keep my eyes locked on that expanse of land. My fingers grope for the door handle. When they find it, I dash into the kitchen. I look for anything to capture this vision. I grab the paper bag that once held my fruit, noting that the crease marks from Hank’s fierce grip are still present. But they seem to fall in all the right places, where each plant should go. Were these plans predestined, waiting for this moment to bestow themselves upon me? Thoughts of a childhood visit to the library and Ms. Pickett’s words echo in my mind: The universe provides what you need most, but only when you’re ready to receive it.

THE SHOVEL BLADE WAS dull and a few tines were missing on the rake, but persistence proved successful. After tilling a small part of the land, I transplanted the jasmine to its new home. I’m dirt-laden on the outside but somehow cleaner on the inside. Acting upon this impromptu visual sensation has caused something to shift at my core. It’s tipped my life in a direction and to an extreme I’ve never experienced before.

My elevated mood weakens when I return to the kitchen sink. Scrubbing my hands to remove the layers of fertile soil, I look out the window, forlorn. The space before me is devoid of that immediate presence and intoxicating scent. Only a spirited breeze will carry that distant memory to me now. My thoughts drift upstairs to my bedroom.

Dillon’s book remains buried at the bottom of my bureau drawer. I never once thought about him while embarking upon my fulfillment of this vision. Is my remembrance of him already beginning to slip away? It consumes me with guilt and worry. My all-too-human heart tugs at me for attention. Will I be nothing but a fading memory to someone? To anyone?

I pour a glass of lemonade and catch sight of the crumpled paper bag. I’m not an artist, nowhere close to it. But there is inspiration wrapped up in those scribbles of that ethereal dream. It’s like they came from something inside and outside me at the same time. As if some creative genius intervened to beget a work of art I never would have been able to construct on my own. I was the channel for some form of beautiful and divine intervention.

The peaches and plumbing supplies still rest on the counter. That void between need and want resurfaces. Maybe there is something between them. Or perhaps it’s a mix of the two. Those peaches. The image of Hank and Lydia walking together hand-in-hand. The conversations I’ve shared with both of them. These thoughts illuminate a path like fleeting firefly flashes on a summer evening. They lead me to discover a place in the shadows I didn’t know was there. We each have a need to be wanted and a want to be needed.

I TAKE A SEAT ON THE same rocking chair, staring across at the jasmine plant. It waves back at me in the freshening breeze. A faint trace of its fragrant aroma reminds me it’s not that far away. I place my glass of lemonade on the side table and exchange it for the plumbing coupler I brought outside with me. I’m trying my best to understand all the details of this unfamiliar task before I begin it. I’ve undertaken nothing this ambitious before. But my self-confidence has rebounded some. Will it be enough?

I trace my finger over the circular opening of the coupler. It’s a form of yogic meditation for me. Random words filter through my consciousness. Infinite. Whole. Timeless.

Gazing back across the yard, I smile. I’ve been greeted and helped by a piece of my divine existence to conjure up this joint floral creation. Fixated on it, I notice in my peripheral vision something stirring to my left. Allowing my eyes to relax and accept a wider view, I see a sketchbook. It’s the same color as the phlox in my future garden. A hand moves across its pages with crisp strokes of delicate artistry.

I watch Jack work in silence, willingly captive to each of his movements. All his focus is on the front porch. But a sideways glance shifts his gaze every few moments. To the solitary jasmine plant nestled among the overgrown weeds surrounding it. Does it distract him, or is he drawn toward it?

He doesn’t notice me. I stay as still as possible so as not to disrupt his concentration. At first I’m hesitant to engage emotionally, but an insatiable sense of curiosity tempts me. Even from this distance, he communicates so much through his eyes. I long to see how he conveys his thoughts and vision through charcoal and lead onto a piece of paper.

Another chickadee lands on the jasmine. Could it be the same one from earlier? Jack’s attention is instinctively pulled toward it. His pencil movements stop midstroke. I watch him watching it before I shift my gaze to the small bird. We share the same delightful vision for a moment. Does he see the same things I do? Are the colors and textures as vivid for him as they are for me?

An alarm blares in the way of a ringing phone from inside the house. It pierces the tranquil melody of our afternoon song. The chickadee flies, crossing the direct path between Jack and me. We each follow its flight until our eyes find each other. They lock for what seems like forever. Being seen doesn’t bother me, although I suppose it should. I only hope to escape this dizzying whirlwind of spiritual adrenaline. My mind begs me to look away, but I can’t.

It’s Jack who does so first. He gathers his supplies and flees down the street in a rush. I want to chase after him. I need to stay put. Caught in that void between those two words again, I drift through an emotional wormhole.

I stare into my lap. My finger traces circles around the opening of the copper pipe. I gaze back toward the garden and watch it blossom in my mind’s eye again. The vivid color of that phlox matches the cover of Jack’s sketchbook. Complementary but disjoint thoughts filter through my mind. One from the present and another from the past.

The coupler in my hands helps facilitate a transition. Between two things that don’t naturally fit together. And the name of that vibrant pink flower derives from the Latin word meaning “flame.” Something about this fire burning inside me certainly doesn’t fit, but I can’t make any sense of it.

9

I stare at the copper circle in my hands, continuing to trace my finger around the edge. The shape is both mesmerizing and maddening. No matter where I find myself along its path, everything looks the same. Is this nothing but a hallucination? I’ve had vivid dreams before, but none so alive as this one. If this experience was only a product of my overactive imagination, does that make it any less real?

I sit there for ten minutes, or hours. I’m not sure which it is. A weird sense of déjà vu draws me back into the present. I glance to the left, but a vacant space on that empty sidewalk taunts me. There’s no evidence of anyone having sat there. And no proof that a single penetrating gaze has turned my world upside down.

Upon recognizing the familiar ringing from inside, I jump from my seat and fly into the kitchen. “Hello?”