Fly Away Home

Chapter 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, but I 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.

"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 fresh-squeezed lemonade. Is there any other kind?

The stand I opened outside the public library one summer netted me 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 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% 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 the knowledge as seeing how it changes his mood. 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 unfavorable memories into the safe recesses of my mind. Two things continue battling for my attention. The safety of ignorance or 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. It's an appreciation for the delicate balance of sweet and sour. How two different things combine to create something delicious is a refreshing realization.