Fly Away Home by - (uplifting book club books txt) 📕
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If only she could understand the truth. Life is hard and confusing. Is this what it means to be strong? To do what you know in your heart is true, even when it goes against what everyone else believes is the right thing to do?
It would be hypocritical to tell Lizzie otherwise. I would have made the exact same choice. It’s also what Hank, and even Jack, has done. Nurturing a young artist who needs to prove something to herself. Even when it goes against what I believe. Or might believe.
Their choice still borders on misguided. But I can see where their hearts and intentions pointed. And that look in Jack’s eyes? How he stayed locked with my emotional glare, even through the gut-wrenching turmoil of it? Even now, part of me wants to hope there is something there.
“He shared other things with me too. It’s why I had that talk with you out in the garden the other day.” I glance over at Lizzie as she allows a feeble smile to spread across her face. “Jack told me that as important as art might be to my life, connections with other people are even more important.”
Carried through the voice of my teenage niece, his words still cause a tingling sensation. Through every part of my being. The physical, emotional, and spiritual. There’s definitely something there. For me. I just don’t know whether my words do the same thing for him. But I must find out, and soon.
I can’t rightfully take credit for the brilliance of her idea.
Such is the innocent beauty of a young mind, encouraging risk in the face of fear. Even when the likelihood of a disappointing failure is high.
Lizzie helped me gather all the ingredients from local sources. The eggs originated from Feldman’s Farm on the outskirts of Pigeon Grove. Princess Lay-ah is the hen extraordinaire. She earned the name thanks to her fancy-pants gait unlike any other in the brood. But with the quality of each egg she produces, I can’t fault her pretentious nature. They are that good. Knowing and sharing little tidbits like this? It transforms a small town into a close-knit community.
All the vegetables came from Hank and Lydia. I insisted on paying for them, but neither one would take my money. They said it was their contribution to the neighborhood brunch. It’s another perfect example of simple kindness leading to bountiful warmth. I got fresh coffee beans from Caldwell’s, even though I no longer have a need for its caffeinating effects.
This is the first time I have allowed people other than family into my home. It is scary, but it feels right. I’m appreciating how those two conflicting emotions nurture each other. Those things that frighten you the most are often the ones you’re meant to pursue. Chatty neighbors and hearty laughter replace the silent echoes of creaking floorboards. Yes, this is right.
There are tomatoes, onions, and spinach in the omelets. The smell of sautéed vegetables mixes with fluffy eggs and cheerful conversation. It delivers a moment of sensory bliss. I glance around at everyone mingling and breathe in the ambiance.
Jack holds a glass of lemonade while sharing some flowing hand gestures with Hank. I understand why his art is so compelling. There is a magnetic quality to his every movement, even when he’s doing nothing more than engaging in a casual chat. I chastised myself for falling victim to his charm, but my opinion on that matter has changed. Life is short, and experiences like this don’t arrive often. It’s our duty as human beings to recognize and live those special moments to the fullest.
My talk with Lizzie encouraged a different vegetable on today’s menu. An intangible one. The olive branch extended to Hank, Lydia, and Jack offers my heartfelt apology. For being far too judgmental.
Speaking of my niece, it’s her final day in Pigeon Grove. Despite all the joy and happiness surrounding me, I’m saddened by her imminent departure. This has been an extraordinary and sensational week. One that never would have come to pass in this remarkable way without her presence.
The knock on my front door, once intimidating and frightful, is welcome music to my ears. Especially when I see who’s standing on the other side of the mesh screen. “Russell Stover. How’s the sweetest brother in the world?”
“Hey, Claire Bear.” I can tell he notices the new glow surrounding me. A meandering and cathartic path has led me to this moment, but I’m a different person than I was one short week ago.
“So?” I need not say any more. We have a sibling bond that never disappears, no matter what. A beaming smile stretches wide across his face. I know the answer to my question before he shares another word.
“I got it.” Relief, exhaustion, and exhilaration seep between his words. There it is again. Conflicting emotions come together with amazing cohesion when we allow them to.
“I’m so proud of you.” To see someone work so hard toward a dream and have it fulfilled is inspiring and motivating. To have it be your own brother makes it that much better.
“The same goes for you.” He wasn’t here, but I can tell Russell understands the depth of what transpired over the past seven days. There’s that unspoken sibling connection again.
“Dad!” Bouncing into the room, Lizzie jumps into her dad’s open arms. Their hug communicates more emotion than any words could ever summon, even if it’s short-lived. “Wait here.” She bolts up the stairs and back down again a moment later, before I can share a single word with Russell. “I made it for you.” She hands him her sketchbook.
He glances at his budding artistic prodigy and smiles before opening the front cover. The bridge is complete. Both the painting and that invisible connection between father and daughter. It’s amazing how art connects people in ways that nothing else can. Personal experience has taught me that, and now I am witnessing it firsthand.
“Lizzie, this is breathtakingly exquisite.” He gazes back and forth between her and the luminous watercolors. His proud smile widens with each glance.
“I know you said you’d like to see it as an oil painting, but . . .”
“No, this is better. Perfect.” As Lizzie’s glow radiates from the deepest part of herself, this is perfect. Thank you, Hank. And Jack.
I usher them toward the dining room table. “Let’s head inside, you must be famished. And even if you’re not, I’d love for you to meet some of my friends.”
With warmth, Pigeon Grove welcomes Russell as an extended member of the community. There’s an enchantment to the moment when he takes his seat among everyone else. I stand at the entrance to the kitchen, slightly removed from the center of it all, and smile. Human connections occur across the table in every direction. It warms my heart.
That sparkle of an idea from earlier in the week returns with intense clarity. The vision of people seated around a large dining room table takes on a more visceral quality. Small pockets of emptiness surrounding me fill with something resembling a golden touch. The beauty spreads in a wave of vibrant color.
Bubbly conversation mixes with inspired musings. How might I use the five bedrooms upstairs? I flutter my eyelashes twice, to make sure what I’m seeing is real. The painting on the wall, of a colorful sky along the shoreline, transfixes me. After a third blink, it disappears. But nothing can convince me it wasn’t there a moment ago.
The conversations around me nurture my thoughts. A stunningly beautiful and therapeutic garden. Delicious culinary creations. My warm and inviting hospitality. It all propels me toward an adventurous idea. It’s the furthest thing I could have imagined when first arriving in Pigeon Grove on that rainy morning.
But that’s how the best things come about, when they’re least expected.
There’s an open spot for me at the table, but I’m not hungry. My appetite has been satisfied by something else. The need and want to start anew. Again.
The crowd thins as our neighborhood gathering draws to an unwanted end. While some guests arrived with a handshake, none leave without a hug. Warmth spreads as everyone moves through the front door and back toward their own home. People are moving apart in a literal sense. But there’s a sense of coming together that is undeniably stronger.
Russell and Lizzie are upstairs packing up the last of her things. Jack is the only visitor remaining. He stands outside on the porch, hands crossed and hanging below his waist. Although there’s no discernable noise in the house, it is far from silent.
“Would you mind if I sit down? I’d like to say good-bye before Lizzie leaves.” My sixth or seventh sense speaks to me. These two artistic souls have nurtured each other in a symbiotic way. Like bumblebees and flowering plants, they work together in harmony. It is extraordinary, the inspiration and enchantment created in the process. Not only for them, but for every life they touch.
“Sure.” I feel we could somehow keep this conversation going without another spoken syllable. But there are three words I need to say. “I’m sorry, Jack.”
The look of surprise on his face stuns me. “Claire, those are words I should be saying, not you.”
Perhaps we both own rights to them in this case. But I don’t want to get pulled under the influence of trivialities that steal from the silent magic of this moment. “I know you were only trying to do the right thing, for Lizzie.” He remains quiet, allowing a closed-lip smile to emerge. Tension releases from his shoulders, and it’s all the encouragement I need. “I’d like for you to finish that sketch of the house.” I have both oars in the water, battling the emotional waves that try to catapult me from the boat I’m paddling. “Please. For me.”
I don’t want it to come across sounding too desperate. Gosh, I hope it isn’t. Even if nothing ever comes of whatever this is between Jack and me, I need this. To see his visual inspiration and lock it in my memory forever more.
He rises to his feet, and I feel Jack’s desire to reach out and . . . what? Shake my hand? Caress my cheek? Hold me? “That would make me happier than you know.” Like tango dancers, we’re moving in unison to the beat of music only we hear.
The trundle of footsteps down the stairs is slow and deliberate. My niece slides through the front door, a disappointed look etched on her furrowed brow. Her eyes brighten at the sight of Jack, who focuses all his attention on the budding artist. “Hey, Lizzie. I just wanted to say good-bye. Or, hopefully, see you later.”
She wraps her arms around him in a full hug, surprising everyone. “Thank you, for everything.”
“And the same goes for you, young lady. You’re truly an inspiration. Keep painting, okay?”
She nods her head vigorously. The smile on her face grows wider and more colorful than the expanse of my blossoming garden.
Russell leans over and whispers in my ear. “We talked upstairs. Thank you, Claire.” He wraps me in a hug. That feeling of bringing two people back together again is beyond satisfying. It fills my cup and overflows it with blissful joy.
“I love you, Russell.”
“Love you too, Claire.”
There’s no need for childhood nicknames. Not now. Love like this is simple. And real. “Stay in touch. And visit more often. My door is always open.” The words coming from
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