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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 grins, 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.
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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 both a literal and a 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 the canvas near to my heart, cherishing everything about this moment and place.
I am floating on an imaginary cloud, each step 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, cardinal, 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 soul mate.
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 . . . Your 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.
I’ve been dreaming of this day, even before it was a figment of my imagination. The universe works in mysterious ways. It presents opportunities at your front door when you least expect it. But it only does so when you’re prepared to invite them inside for an extended visit. That’s where I am now, on my doorstep, ready to set forth on this grand new adventure.
Their sedan pulls up to the curb. Nervous anxiety consumes me as the young couple emerges from the car. They’re my first official guests.
The man keeps staring at the house while the woman’s gaze is drawn toward the garden beside it. He carries a suitcase while they walk up the pathway together, arms interlocked.
I greet them at the bottom of the steps. “Good afternoon.”
“This place is exquisite. Simply lovely.” Her words are airy and light, coming from the heart. Even before we are introduced, I know everything will be okay.
“I have the chickadee suite reserved for you. It’s our finest room available, with a full view of the garden. And you’re welcome to stroll through it anytime you’d like.” I extend my hand. “I’m Claire Perkins, owner of Fly Away Home.” Speaking those words aloud for the first time creates an involuntary smile. I’ll never grow tired of this wonderful feeling.
“Oh dear. Where are my manners? I suppose it’s easy to become distracted when you’re surrounded by something so beautiful.” I know what she means. We’re going to get along well.
“She speaks the truth.” The man leans over and places a tender kiss on his wife’s cheek. It’s inspiring to see love bloom in others like it has for Jack and me. He reaches his hand out to shake mine. “I’m Benjamin. Benjamin Shaw. And this is my beautiful bride, Virginia.”
“Call me Ginny.” She smiles wide and sweet, as if we’ve been lifelong friends.
“Ginny and Benjamin, it’s my sincere pleasure to be the host for your stay.”
“Well, with service like this and a property so charming, we may never leave.” A part of me believes he might not be joking. I can appreciate their attraction to this small town. There’s an unspoken magic in Pigeon Grove. It continues to spread through the kindness and generosity of its people.
Jack makes his way down the sidewalk toward me. He carries a paper bag I know is full of lemons in one hand, and a bunch of flowering lavender in the other. I wave to him as my smile grows ever wider. I might not have enough peach tart left for our daily porch date, but that’s okay. Everything is okay. Actually, it’s perfect.
I direct my focus back toward the newlyweds. They’re still smiling with pinkie fingers interlocked by their side. “Mr. and Mrs. Shaw, if there’s anything I can do for you, please let me know.” And finally, the words I’ve been waiting to say and feel forever:
“Welcome home.”
~ The End ~
Did you enjoy your visit to Pigeon Grove? Would you like to experience more of this small town’s magical charm? Your reservation for the chickadee suite at Claire’s B&B awaits. I invite you to extend your stay by reading the first full-length novel of my Pigeon Grove series.
Follow Mason Shaw & Sophie Holland on a shared romantic journey as each struggles to answer a difficult question. Is accepting a troubled past safer than embracing an uncertain future? A willingness to confide in each other may be just what both need, but the past doesn’t release its grip on either of them that easily. Trust hides in that fragile space between holding on and letting go.
Fly away home to Pigeon Grove, revisit with some old friends, and discover the small-town romance, Between the Lines.
Thank you, dear reader, for taking valuable time out of your day to walk alongside Claire and Jack on their journey together. Having the opportunity to share this story with each of you is something I cherish more than you know. In a serendipitous way, Fly Away Home has found its way home thanks to three people who were instrumental in bringing this story to your eyes.
Natalie, your everlasting encouragement and keen insights into the hearts of these characters helped me discover aspects of their personality that surprised me in the most delightful way. You’ve helped me lay down roots in Pigeon Grove as a place I’d love to remain as an author for years to come.
Rachael, your immersive writing coupled with the willingness to provide honest feedback helped me shape this story into one that has become everything I hoped it could be. The close-knit community portrayed in Pigeon Grove mirrors the one we share in the writing world, and I sincerely appreciate the opportunity to work with you as we continue honing our skills in this craft we love.
Mary Beth, your eye for detail and ability to make my words sparkle are both things I could never accomplish without your editorial expertise. Thank you for helping me bring the charm of Pigeon Grove to readers everywhere.
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HOME CAN BE AN ELUSIVE word to define.
To some, it’s a physical thing, a place that provides shelter from harsh elements threatening to disrupt our daily lives. It doesn’t matter whether it’s excessive heat, blistering cold, torrential rain, or icy accumulations. Those four walls and a roof keep each of these perceived risks at bay.
To others, home is an intangible entity. It’s a feeling of warmth, security, and knowing you belong, wherever and whenever you find yourself. It has less to do with a particular location, and more to do with who you share the space with.
There is no right or wrong answer. There are as many definitions of home as there are people in the world. Often, the thing we want competes with that which we need. And sometimes, like Claire, we get caught in the middle. That
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