Fly Away Home

Chapter 17

The next several days pass in a blur of beautiful serendipity.

The pitcher of brewed sweet tea remains chilled in the refrigerator. Jack prefers my lavender lemonade after giving his palette time to adjust. Unfamiliar but delightful experiences bloom everywhere around me. Afternoon rain showers have nourished the soil and flowers in my garden. They tangle with each other in an act of beautiful chaos. One entity becoming intertwined with the essence of another.

At the end of each day, we sit on the porch swing and watch raindrops tumble off the roof. They drop into the flower boxes waiting to soak up the natural nourishment. I offer Jack a taste of different baked goods I dreamed up in the kitchen. The peach tart holds a special place in my heart, and it came out perfect on my most recent attempt.

We exist in our own little cocoon, wrapping ourselves in the mystique of a splendid aura. It encompasses nothing in particular, and everything, at the same time. A graceful dance occurs between us as my metaphorical wings continue to unfold.

He sketches from across the street while I sit on the porch and watch him. Jack glances up every so often and smiles. I return one without realizing it. We're separated during these moments, but only in a spatial sense. Connection runs so much deeper than physical touch.

We haven't talked about the kiss, and that's okay. Some things don't need words to disturb what's already there.

The wild idea in my head gains momentum with each passing moment. And the afternoons spent with Jack? Watching those charcoal lines swirl into an emotional personification of my home? It nurtures deep-seated feelings I never thought I'd experience again.

***

I know he'll finish today, and that scares me. This inanimate object I live inside has nurtured our time together. An undeniable connection grows stronger with each passing moment. I'm convinced these walls are alive and breathe life into the space between us.

Our shared artistic journey has been dreamlike. I don't want it to end. He must have something else to draw or paint. Or at least pretend to, for the sake of continuing this magical fairy tale. These quiet moments on the porch, watching Jack, have guided me back toward a time long ago. To ponder and deal with my messy parts in a healthier way. He has no idea, that by just being there across the street, he's helping me.

How do I share that with him? Should I? There is so much that could go wrong if I divulge the details of my past. But the comment shared with Lizzie echoes in my mind. The foundation of every relationship, even with yourself, is trust.

Jack gathers his supplies, tucks them in his backpack, and makes his way toward me on the front porch. The afternoon cumulus clouds roll in from the west. It provides a softer backdrop for the space surrounding us. I have a peach tart and two glasses of lavender lemonade waiting when he arrives beside me.

My pulse quickens as I prepare to do the most courageous and vulnerable thing I've ever done. I am about to risk losing everything that is good in my life at this moment. He sits down on the porch swing next to me. "A penny for your thoughts?"

His penetrating gaze sees through me. I should know he already senses my emotional unrest. "It might be closer to a dime."

"I'm right here." Yes, he is. And that's how I would like it to stay. Still, I push forward, relying on that elusive and invisible thing called trust.

"My mother abused me." It slips out in slurred speech. If I don't say it quickly, it will never come out. "I've never dealt with it well, and it's kept me from..."

Jack places a hand on my thigh, with a most reassuring touch. I feel his thoughts. It's okay. Everything will be okay. I want to share that I fear losing someone again, like I did Dillon, but that would be presumptuous.

His thumb makes tiny circles on my jean shorts as visions of that copper pipe return to my mind. Those same random words alight on my heart. Infinite. Whole. Timelessness. Another one is about to emerge, its warmth spreading, when Jack stops and looks directly at me. "Everyone has a troubled past to deal with. It's not what happened, but how we respond to it that defines us." I study Jack's eyes and feel his anguish. Layers of trauma are trapped between every word he speaks. "Her name was Teresa."

He stares at the ground and exhales, lost in a tangle of painful memories. "I was married to my work instead of the woman I was supposed to wed. We got into an argument one evening, and she left the house. Upset and angry."

He takes a deep breath, removes his hand from my thigh, and interlocks it with the other in his lap. I set the swing in motion, ever so gently. It's my way of communicating the same message. It's okay. I'm right here. "Instead of going after her, I continued focusing on my work. A stupid painting."

I sense the emotional instability in his quivering voice. "She didn't come back. I assumed she wanted some space. Police found her car in a ditch two towns away the next morning. There was a suitcase in the trunk. Not that it matters, and it's selfish, but I'll never know if she needed time to herself or was leaving me for good."

I want to pull him toward me, but I'm not sure where we are right now. I have no words, so I borrow his. "It's not what happened, but how we respond to it that defines us."

He pauses for a moment, catches an unsteady breath, and reaches for his backpack laying on the ground. He pulls out the completed sketch of my house and hands it to me. "Jack, this is breathtakingly exquisite." It escapes from my lungs, soft and tender. They're the same words Russell used to describe Lizzie's painting. I can't help but feel there's a connection between the two.

"Since my fiancée died, I've felt compelled to work in black and white. My life has become nothing more than varied shades of gray." He reaches back into his backpack and pulls out a small canvas, placing it cautiously in my hands.

I sob uncontrollably, overwhelmed by the likeness of my garden in its full splendor. Everything I've ever dreamed it could be is captured by Jack's delicate brushstrokes. The colors and textures of the oil painting touch something at my core.

"Claire, you are the first person who has brought color back into my life."

I'm home. Right here, right now. In this moment, I am home.