Fly Away Home

Chapter 18

Without thinking or deciding, our hands find each other. There's a natural chemistry between Jack and me that the rest of the world has yet to discover. Seated on the porch swing, we sway gently, moving in unison like two planets with a shared gravity. The force and attraction are unmistakable. Certain.

I never want the feeling in this singular moment to end, and I anticipate Jack feels the same thing.

I gaze at his creations beside each other. The charcoal sketch dwarfs the smaller canvas painting. But the intimate mood and depth in the latter sings poetry that only my soul understands. His too.

"They belong together." I speak in veiled terms, even though I don't need to. Everything about this afternoon should coexist in soulful harmony. Including us.

"You're right." Jack tilts sideways, viewing both works of art from a different perspective. His head is almost resting on my shoulder. His scent at this moment, after a full day in the sun, is rough and masculine. But it is more enticing than the coveted and delicate jasmine in my garden.

"Have you thought about a name for it?" He studies the mixed media creation with a pensive gaze.

The sleek sheen of oil paints complements edgy shadows created by the charcoal lines. To others, it might appear too divergent. To me, I know it's exactly as it should be. Jack's meditative study of his artistic creation sparks a growing smile on his face. "Fly Away Home."

He says it with such certainty, as if there is no other name. Jack squeezes my hand and begins those tender circular motions with his thumb. His touch is soothing electricity. "I fled what I thought would be my home, looking to run away from the past. But it was only when I decided to do so, that I found my home." He stops and looks into my eyes. "Not in a place, but a community... and perhaps a single person."

His other hand caresses my cheek. With the gentlest pressure, Jack tilts my face. I'm off-kilter and balanced at the same time. He pulls my lips toward his with an emotional certainty that no force of nature can stop. It's the most tender, compassionate, and loving connection I've ever known.

The same word keeps alighting on my malleable heart. Home.

"I want you to have these." He places the sketch and canvas before me, placing my hand on top of them. Jack wraps his fingers around mine. Our interlocked hands create the consummate work of art. One that has nothing to do with paint colors, pencil marks, or brushstrokes. It has a texture unto itself.

I hoped for this offer, but I never expected it. These breathing creations are part of his heart and soul. "When I asked you to share them with me, I just meant..."

"I know. But they belong here." So many things do. I understand what he's saying. There are layers to his message, like those paint colors on his splendid depiction of my garden. I start crying, reminding myself that tears can also be joyful. It's been so long.

Jack smooths away my teardrops with his soft touch. The pitter-patter of raindrops from above join us in our emotional exchange. Our foreheads come together, and we rest there, eyes closed. The number of ways to connect with him might be infinite, but it still wouldn't be enough. I slide the bare toe in my sandals so it gently brushes against Jack's leg.

Never disconnecting, I part my lips to speak and feel his breath mingle with mine. "There should be some sort of payment involved. For the paintings."

"What were you thinking?"

I know he'll refuse any monetary offer, but I have another idea. "A daily lemonade date on the front porch?"

"That sounds fair." Jack smirks, and I return a smile with knowing appreciation. We're able to connect without the need for words.

My eyes drift back toward the sketch and painting, still resting beside each other in my lap. They're completely different but exactly the same. Those things you'd never expect go together? They turn out to be a perfect pair once you give them a chance and trust the process.

Sour lemons and sweet sugar. Charcoal sketches and colorful paintings. Two people with troubled pasts, who when they lean on each other, find a way home.

***

It's the golden hour and I'm alone in my garden. Daylight is softer as the sun bows toward the horizon. My emotions feel the same, smooth and velvety, with no hard edges. Thoughts of those peaches shared by Hank and Lydia on their first visit return to me. And the wisdom accompanying them: they're a symbol of good luck, protection, and longevity. Indeed.

I stroll among the wild flowers growing taller with each passing day. My garden, in a literal and metaphorical sense, continues to flourish with love. The scent of jasmine mixing with the other blooms creates a beautiful bouquet for all the senses. I hold the sketchbook and canvas near to my heart, cherishing everything about this moment and place.

Floating on an imaginary cloud, each step is softer than the next. As I make my way up the wooden stairs inside, there's a cushiony sensation. I'm guided by something otherworldly. I find the perfect space, on the wall in my bedroom, to hang both works of art. They're what I want to see each morning when I wake up, a reminder of what home truly means.

I pause for a moment, contemplating what to do next. There is some hesitancy in my choice, but I know it's time.

Digging through the top drawer of my bureau, I push aside the assortment of socks. The item I'm searching for has been buried far too long. Dillon's book. I run my fingertips over the cover and place it on the bookshelf with my other novels.

I no longer feel the need to hide from my past. It doesn't control my present, or future.

An invisible force guides me as I visit each bedroom. I have a purpose, a broom, and majestic inspiration to pursue my vision. I name each room: bluebird, meadowlark, grosbeak. But the one overlooking my garden is special, reserved for special guests. It will forever hold the dearest and most precious place in my heart. The chickadee suite will be a symbol of positivity, good luck, beauty, and love. At the first bed-and-breakfast in Pigeon Grove.

I smile and offer a small nod of gratitude to that first chickadee in my garden. The most innocent and unknowing things, in a single moment, connect you to the past, present, and future. And maybe even your soulmate.

A list of tasks grows in my mind, but I know the first thing I need and want to do. There's no longer that void between the two. I walk downstairs and out the front door, closing it gently behind me. Down the porch steps and beyond the flowering lavender, I arrive at the lamppost. It was nothing more than an afterthought when I arrived here on that rainy morning. But it's been waiting for me with everlasting patience. Those blurry things before us become lucid when viewed through a lens of acceptance and love.

I hang my homemade sign from the horizontal post. It will have to do for now. I'm sure Jack won't mind sharing the name of his artistic creation with me. It just feels right.

Fly Away Home... You're home away from home since 1968.

It's only proper to include Hank and Lydia's time in this home as well. The past, in all its forms, has helped me get to where I am today. It's a beautiful place, and it keeps encouraging me to take that next step forward.

No matter how unsettled the past may be, this town and its people remind me with unwavering certainty. It's never too late to come home.