āClaire? I wasnāt expecting to reach you. I figured Iād leave another message.ā So I didnāt imagine it all.
āHi, Russell. I was outside, doingĀ .Ā .Ā .ā How do I explain what just happened? It might be impossible. āHow long ago did you call?ā
āFive minutes, ten at the most.ā It felt so much longer. Time distorts certain moments. It stretches and morphs into something infinite. Like a circle. āYouāre in the foothills, right? Not at some insanely high altitude?ā
āWhat? Why?ā
āYou seemĀ .Ā .Ā . quiet. And different. Not in a bad way. Itās just, you sound both anxious and calm. I know, it doesnāt make any sense.ā We can agree on that final part. Whatever happened over the past couple minutes runs deeper than the surface. āAre you still doing okay?ā
Iām not sure how to respond since I donāt have a clue whatās happening around me. āI didnāt sleep well last nightĀ .Ā .Ā . and I might have had a bit too much coffee this morning.ā Thatās what it feels like. I suppose itās not a complete lie. I was restless lying in bed. And based upon my present thoughts, I suspect that will be the case this evening too.
āSo, you can ignore the message I left earlier. I called to let you know weāll be arriving sometime tomorrow afternoon.ā I hear my niece pleading for a chance to speak in the background. āAnd Lizzie would like for you to make some of that famous lavender lemonade for her. Do you believe she still remembers drinking that in her sippy cup as a toddler when you visited the house?ā That was such a long time ago. Things were so different. Russell was happily married. I was gainfully employed. The world was spinning on its axis predictably. Without my ever noticing it, subtle and imperceptible shifts have given rise to a new reality.
āI will be sure to have some waiting for her.ā With my supply of lemons waning, Iāll save whatās left in the refrigerator for Lizzie.
āThanks again, Claire Bear. I owe you.ā
āItās no problem. Iām happy to help.ā I could use some help too, but I leave that silent plea in a private place.
A DELUGE OF EMOTIONS overwhelms me. I ease around the corner of the porch, not wanting to disrupt the sanctity of that earlier moment. The vision of my garden, that chickadee, andĀ .Ā .Ā . Jack. I need no external medium to record those thoughts for personal posterity. Theyāre indelibly etched into my heart, an elemental beat to my soulās pulse.
I drag the rocking chair around the corner and place it next to my swing on the front porch. What I would give for a visit from Hank and Lydia right now. My focus returns to the conversation with Russell. Things change so much, and in such a short time.
The herbs in my repurposed flower boxes continue to stretch skyward. They peek over the railing, as if to greet me with encouragement. Anything and everything can grow and bloom when provided with nurturing care.
I look back down, massaging my fingertips. Are my mannerisms born from nervousness? Or a reminiscence of that calming, velvety texture from earlier? The essential oils stay locked inside that lavenderāuntil theyāre released through a tender but deliberate touch. Rub too soft and the scent remains hidden. Too hard and you damage the buds. Finding the right pressure isnāt something you can teach or show. Itās intuitive. One needs to experience it to understand the necessary tactile persuasion.
āExcuse me.ā
A smoothness exists between my fingers even though thereās nothing there. The words I hear have that same silky consistency. They must come from the same imaginary place where the plant Iām not holding exists. Some parallel universe where dreams arenāt only apparitions. Theyāre real and tangible things you touch and feel.
Is someone clearing his throat? It rattles my mind free from that surreal image. I look up, and there he is, standing at the base of my steps. He holds a paper bag with both hands. A corner of that phlox-colored sketchbook peeks out of a backpack lying on the ground. Itās a sign of Jackās hurried attempt to flee the scene. Thoughts somersault in my head.
Why did he leave? Wait, if he left, that means he was there. The experience comes tumbling back into my memory with the force of an unexpected ocean wave. It creates a sense of imbalanced refreshment.
It was real. I didnāt imagine it.
What is he doing here now?
āThis is my way of apologizing, for intruding on your privacy.ā He tilts the bag so I can see the gold mine of lemons inside. He answers my question without a need for me to vocalize it. What if there is a parallel universe where people share thoughts differently?
I stop rocking in my chair. My hands become still. Everything stops to establish a balance. My heartās movement counteracts the stillness, beating with anxiety. Jack places a tentative foot on the first step before moving it back onto the walkway. āI didnāt realize someone had moved inĀ .Ā .Ā . I promise not to linger near your property anymore. Without your permission.ā It sounds like a question.
How does he know I enjoy lemons, and where did he get all these? Did Hank receive a new shipment in the past two hours? āMr. Charles said youāre always looking for more of these. I had a few extras from the ones I bought a couple days ago.ā How does this keep happening? My silent thoughts reach him without a spoken syllable.
āJack?ā The only word I can summon comes out in something resembling a whisper. A shot of adrenaline courses through me as a faint grin emerges on his face. This wildly accelerated feeling makes me think I did have too many cups of coffee this morning. What causes this sensation? Is it his smile or the way those four letters spill from my lips into the space between us?
āAnd you must beĀ .Ā .Ā . Claire.ā The sound of his name alone stimulated something invigorating inside, but mixing mine with his in this same sphere creates a bubble of momentary euphoria. Suddenly the English language is foreign to me. I have no words. āThe architecture of this farmhouse is alluring. Itās so beautiful. Drawing is a form ofĀ .Ā .Ā . emotional therapy for me.ā
He pauses before sharing that final thought, as if unsure whether to divulge a small secret. But itās the adjectives he uses that captivate me. Alluring and beautiful. Why does his use of them cause a fluttering inside? I feel as though a butterfly has alighted on a branch of my sentimental being.
It was so much easier to watch him from afar. I canāt look him in the eyes now, forcing me to focus on something else. The rough stubble on his cheeks shows the slightest hint of gray. Tanned hands suggest a desire to be outdoors. His light brown hair is somewhere between unruly and windblown. It wouldnāt work on everyone, but it suits him well.
āIām sorry again, for disturbing you.ā Jack sets the paper bag at the base of the steps and stoops down to grab his backpack.
āCan I see them?ā The words emerge from an unknown place. He picks up the lemons to show me. āNot them. Your drawings.ā
Any remnant of a grin fades from his face. Jackās posture, once relaxed, becomes rigid. āThey arenāt that good.ā He stares at the fruit. Iām pretty sure heās not talking about them. āAnd theyāre aĀ .Ā .Ā . private thing.ā
Why am I crushed? I shouldnāt want to see his sketches that bad. The sound of an opening zipper doesnāt mesh with my focus on the yellow citrus.
āI should become more comfortable sharing.ā My gaze traces back toward Jack. He retrieves his sketchbook and studies it. Why is it that everything he says sounds veiled? And accompanied by that same unsteady sensation?
Jack hands me his sketchbook without climbing the steps. He somehow knows thereās a need to respect the space between us.
I study the black pencil marks. There are hard angles and edges to denote the gable on my roof. I look closer. There are subtle curls at the end of each stroke that remain hidden to all but the most discerning eye. I trace my fingers over the drawing, sensing a deep story and emotion. Both in the history of this farmhouse and the man sketching it.
Looking down, I realize Iām on the first step. Itās like his artistic creation has drawn me closer to him without my permission. Iām so close I can smell his sandalwood aftershave. It doesnāt match his rough exterior, but the fragrance melds with the warmth in his eyes. Even if there is something resembling pain hiding behind them.
The situation is becoming unsettling. Iāve let my defenses down, and my vulnerability is on full display. Retreating to the top step, I reach out and hand Jackās sketchbook back to him. Iām careful to grip it by the edge. I fear what might happen if I establish any manner of physical contact with him. āThanks again, for the lemons.ā And everything else.
āHave a pleasant afternoon, Claire.ā A small smile returns to his face before he leans over to pick up his backpack on the ground. As he moves down the walkway, Iām pulled down the steps after him, a safe distance behind. Thereās something in that parallel universe tethering us together.
After heās gone, I wander back to the lavender plant. I pull off a few more sprigs and gather the bag of fruit in my left arm. With my right hand, I caress the familiar flowers. It causes images of that garden, the chickadee, and now Jackās sketches to reappear.
A picture is worth a thousand words. At least that many. In this case, it might be more like a million. If only I could rearrange all those words into some meaningful message.
10
The knocks reverberate through the house, startling me. Itās only the second time someone has approached my front door since I moved to Pigeon Grove. Everyone has respected my unspoken desire for privacy, save for Hank and Lydia. In hindsight, Iām thankful for their gracious welcome to the neighborhood on that first visit. It has led to a delightful friendship.
āAunt Claire!ā The sound of a little girl turned young woman pulls me from the couch with an eager grin and hastened pace. As I approach the door, my smile widens as Lizzieās twinkling eyes shine through the mesh screen.
Russell holds a pink suitcase in his right hand. āHey, Claire Bear. Great to see you, sis.ā I greet both on the porch and offer my brother a quick but heartfelt hug. Itās been a long time since Iāve shared a genuine embrace with someone. It feels good.
Lizzie shadows her dad with an even stronger squeeze for me. Her arms used to wrap around my waist. Now they almost reach my shoulders. She latches onto me with affection thatās surprising for a teenager. Bending over to place a kiss on the top of her head is a thing of the past as I rise on my tiptoes. āWhat a beautiful young woman youāve become.ā I run the palm of my hand over her long dirty-blonde hair before offering them a tour of the house.
āCan we visit that coffee shop on Main Street? They have all these different roast types.ā The excitement in her voice supports my presumption that caffeine is a part of her daily routine. āAnd that bridge coming into town? It looks like itād be the perfect subject for my next painting. Could we go later?ā Her youthful energy is infectious, and I canāt help but feel my mood elevate in Lizzieās presence. āAnd oh, I almost forgot, wait here.ā She darts back to the car and returns with a cloth bag full of that elusive yellow fruit. āWill you share your secret recipe with me?ā
Itās ironic that, just twenty-four hours ago, I barely had enough lemons for a single pitcher. Now, between Jackās gift and Lizzieās stash, I might have an ample supply to start my own farm. With the sack thrust into my arms, her smile begs for an answer to the flurry of questions Iāve already forgotten.
āMaybe we should give your aunt a chance to catch her breath. And remind me to introduce you to the wonders of decaf.ā Russell winks at me before I open the screen door again and lead them through the living room area.
āClaire, this isĀ .Ā .Ā . beautiful.ā He takes in the view surrounding him with genuine appreciation. Iām glad others also recognize the beauty I saw when first visiting this place. Even before I set foot inside, it spoke to something in my soul.
āThings arenāt quite where I want them to be yet, but itās coming together.ā