Fly Away Home, - [reading tree .TXT] 📗

unspoken tension between us. Our words trip over each other. We’re like clumsy toddlers trying to find our way around an unfamiliar space. Water continues to drip down his forehead, tracing a path down his cheek. It distracts me from what we should be doing.

“Be right back. I’m going to get something to dry off with.” I don’t even consider the fact I’m leaving Lizzie with someone I’ve only known for a short period. But Jack feels like the furthest thing from a stranger. By the time I return with three towels, the two of them are grinning at me.

“All done.” Jack hands me the wrench, suggesting the repair is complete.

“See, I told you it wouldn’t be that tough.” Lizzie giggles in jest as I toss a towel at her with mock aggression. She catches it before it hits her. I’m more careful with the one I hand to Jack.

I dry my face, watching the deluge of water drain into the yard. It’s making a path away from the house and back toward the garden. It knows where and how to channel itself in a direction that nurtures growth. Jack keeps glancing around as he continues drying himself. I know what he’s looking for.

“I put it on the porch. Would you like something to drink? It’s the least I can do to thank you for your help. And to apologize for ruining your clothes.” Please let that be the only thing I ruined.

“That would be nice. I’ve heard about your famous lemonade.” Word travels so much faster in a small town. Things draw toward each other in a compelling and invisible way. “Hank hinted at your peculiar preference for lemonade over sweet tea. And your niece told me I need to try it.” That hidden thread seems to connect our thoughts.

I return to the side porch with three glasses. Lizzie sits in the rocking chair, and Jack leans against the railing. I take a seat on the table beside my niece. “So, we have something in common? You prefer lemonade too?”

“Actually, I usually drink tea. But I’ve been encouraged to try some new things lately.” My face flushes with embarrassment. My vulnerability has been exposed again after proposing we share a unique bond. “But that doesn’t mean we still don’t have something in common.” He takes a sip, grins, and runs a single finger through his damp hair. Jack’s eyes keep peeking toward his backpack on the ground.

“I’m afraid to look inside it. It was sitting in a puddle of water after you came to our rescue.”

“It’s okay. I’ve got lots of sketchbooks.” I know he’s bending the truth. He may have many, but this one holds a special importance to him. I lean over and hand the backpack to him. He pulls out the sketchbook. A small part along the corner is damp with moisture. Jack peeks at the page with my house sketched on it. It appears unblemished, but then I notice a wet spot has moved across the paper. As irony would have it, it’s located in the same place on the page where our yard disaster occurred. There’s a slight bleeding of the charcoal marks. The hard edges have become blurred. It smooths out the detail into something resembling an abstract painting.

“I’m so sorry.” He closes the cover.

“No worries. I was meaning to try a new approach anyway. Perhaps this is the universe’s way of telling me it’s time.” I look over at Lizzie, whose mouth is agape.

“Can I . . . see those? Please?” There’s a reverence in her voice. It’s another uncharacteristic quality for an adolescent. But my niece is anything but a typical teenager. Jack hands her the sketchbook, with less hesitation than when he first shared it with me. Is he more comfortable with the idea now? Does he think they’re ruined? Or is it something else?

Lizzie turns each page with care. She studies every sketch, genuinely admiring each of his artistic creations. “These are all . . . awesome.” She sounds awestruck and amazed, but I sense a hint of dejection. That she’s never created anything that good. Or worthy of praise. The customary upturn to her lips has straightened with seriousness.

“That one there is something I drew while sitting atop a mountain in North Carolina. You see that path winding through it?” Jack moves beside her and traces his finger over the meandering line. Lizzie nods. “I imagined all the people on various parts of that trail. I thought about how they might feel.”

“Did it help you? To draw it?”

“Sure did. I noticed how the ones halfway through are closer to the finish line. I bet they looked at things differently because of where they were on their path. It reminded me not to compare my middle with someone else’s end.”

Lizzie closes his sketchbook with tenderness as a small grin returns to her face. Jack flashes a quick glance in my direction, and I offer him a warm smile. It’s an unspoken thank-you for his gentle encouragement of a young artist.

“Can we go to that bridge, Aunt Claire?” Wise beyond her years, she picked up on his message. Her resurging enthusiasm warms my heart.

“Do you draw?” There’s a genuine interest layered inside Jack’s question.

“No, but I paint. Hold on a second.” She dashes from her seat, flinging mud everywhere. I say nothing about wiping her feet or keeping the dirt contained. Encouraging her passionate spirit is much more important.

She returns with her sketchbook, in cleaner hands, and shares it with Jack. “Let me wash up first.” He makes his way toward the hose, not remembering the water is still turned off.

“No, it’s okay. Here.” She blocks him and places the paintings before him with a wide smile on her face.

He thumbs through them with care, studying each picture with the same intensity as Lizzie. I’m watching two peers, separated by several decades, establish some deep connection. Art is magic. “This is truly amazing.”

“Maybe Jack can come with us, Aunt Claire? To the bridge? He could give me some great pointers.” Remaining silent, I’m captivated by the grin on her face. I might be ready to roam around town with my niece, but not with Jack. There are too many unresolved emotions to decipher.

“I should be getting home. I have a bit of laundry to do.” He saves me from having to say the inevitable.

“Thank you again, Jack. Anytime you want to draw the house, you’re welcome to camp out across the street.” What was that about unresolved emotions to sort out? I’m surprised by my offer, but I guess it’s the least I can do. Especially since I’m ultimately the one responsible for damaging his sketchbook. “I’ll even have some tea for you, if you’ll share your progress with . . .” What am I doing? It’s time for a full stop on any more words coming from my mouth.

“I’d like to see it too, if you don’t mind.” Lizzie saves me now, her request soft. Jack smiles, picks up his backpack, and reaches out to shake Lizzie’s hand.

“It was a pleasure meeting you, Lizzie. And I’d be happy to share my drawings if you promise to do the same.” He turns toward me and offers his palm, slightly open, fingers spread apart. An accelerated heartbeat thumps against my chest.

My arm stretches out to Jack’s without thought. His smooth and tender touch causes a hiccup in my breath. It’s like he’s drawn out some new emotion from somewhere deep inside me.

“And the same goes for you, Claire.” He winks before offering a small smile. “A pleasant afternoon and evening to you, ladies.” He tips an imaginary cap, walks around the corner of the porch, and disappears. The dizzying hum of life begins to subside. Jack’s words echo in my mind. And the same goes for you, Claire. What did he mean? I don’t draw or paint. If he shares his drawings with me, what am I to share with him? And that wink. It was more intense than some kisses I’ve experienced.

“Best. Day. Ever.” Lizzie’s teenage wisdom pulls me back to the side porch.

Time to make good on my promise for a visit to the bridge, but first we need to clean ourselves up. “Hey, how did you wash your hands earlier? The water’s not on yet.”

“I used some left over from my watercolors.”

I remember how quickly she passed the sketchbook to Jack. “You washed yours, but didn’t care if Jack’s were dirty?”

“It was okay with me if they got messed up. I can always paint new ones. I just wanted him to see them as they were when I created them.”

No matter the time or place, every one of us hopes to be seen in the most favorable light. “How about we get cleaned up and I take you to that bridge?”

“Actually, could we do that tomorrow? I want to work on that pile of lemons again.”

“Are you sure?”

“Yeah, Jack gave me some new ideas.”

He’s given me some too, none I should share with anyone. “Okay, well, how about that fully caffeinated beverage I promised you? I know they close early on some days, but we can take a short walk and find out.” It’s ironic. After wanting to stay sequestered in my house, I now have a desire to wander around Pigeon Grove. Its charm has seeped underneath my skin, like that water beneath the soil, helping me to grow.

“Are you kidding? What just happened is way better than any coffee I’ll ever drink.” Lizzie stares out at the afternoon sun casting a warm glow over our garden. “I guess winging it didn’t turn out so bad, huh?”

I hear no hint of sarcasm in Lizzie’s comment. It comes from a place of complete sincerity. The balance of my life has just tipped past the predictable norm and into a realm of welcome spontaneity. “I’m glad you’re here, Lizzie. And yes, I think today turned out okay.”

To be honest, it feels closer to perfect.