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It was real. I didn’t imagine it.
What is he doing here now?
“This is my way of apologizing, for intruding on your privacy.” He tilts the bag so I can see the gold mine of lemons inside. He answers my question without a need for me to vocalize it. What if there is a parallel universe where people share thoughts differently?
I stop rocking in my chair. My hands become still. Everything stops to establish a balance. My heart’s movement counteracts the stillness, beating with anxiety. Jack places a tentative foot on the first step before moving it back onto the walkway. “I didn’t realize someone had moved in . . . I promise not to linger near your property anymore. Without your permission.” It sounds like a question.
How does he know I enjoy lemons, and where did he get all these? Did Hank receive a new shipment in the past two hours? “Mr. Charles said you’re always looking for more of these. I had a few extras from the ones I bought a couple days ago.” How does this keep happening? My silent thoughts reach him without a spoken syllable.
“Jack?” The only word I can summon comes out in something resembling a whisper. A shot of adrenaline courses through me as a faint grin emerges on his face. This wildly accelerated feeling makes me think I did have too many cups of coffee this morning. What causes this sensation? Is it his smile or the way those four letters spill from my lips into the space between us?
“And you must be . . . Claire.” The sound of his name alone stimulated something invigorating inside, but mixing mine with his in this same sphere creates a bubble of momentary euphoria. Suddenly the English language is foreign to me. I have no words. “The architecture of this farmhouse is alluring. It’s so beautiful. Drawing is a form of . . . emotional therapy for me.”
He pauses before sharing that final thought, as if unsure whether to divulge a small secret. But it’s the adjectives he uses that captivate me. Alluring and beautiful. Why does his use of them cause a fluttering inside? I feel as though a butterfly has alighted on a branch of my sentimental being.
It was so much easier to watch him from afar. I can’t look him in the eyes now, forcing me to focus on something else. The rough stubble on his cheeks shows the slightest hint of gray. Tanned hands suggest a desire to be outdoors. His light brown hair is somewhere between unruly and windblown. It wouldn’t work on everyone, but it suits him well.
“I’m sorry again, for disturbing you.” Jack sets the paper bag at the base of the steps and stoops down to grab his backpack.
“Can I see them?” The words emerge from an unknown place. He picks up the lemons to show me. “Not them. Your drawings.”
Any remnant of a grin fades from his face. Jack’s posture, once relaxed, becomes rigid. “They aren’t that good.” He stares at the fruit. I’m pretty sure he’s not talking about them. “And they’re a . . . private thing.”
Why am I crushed? I shouldn’t want to see his sketches that bad. The sound of an opening zipper doesn’t mesh with my focus on the yellow citrus.
“I should become more comfortable sharing.” My gaze traces back toward Jack. He retrieves his sketchbook and studies it. Why is it that everything he says sounds veiled? And accompanied by that same unsteady sensation?
Jack hands me his sketchbook without climbing the steps. He somehow knows there’s a need to respect the space between us.
I study the black pencil marks. There are hard angles and edges to denote the gable on my roof. I look closer. There are subtle curls at the end of each stroke that remain hidden to all but the most discerning eye. I trace my fingers over the drawing, sensing a deep story and emotion. Both in the history of this farmhouse and the man sketching it.
Looking down, I realize I’m on the first step. It’s like his artistic creation has drawn me closer to him without my permission. I’m so close I can smell his sandalwood aftershave. It doesn’t match his rough exterior, but the fragrance melds with the warmth in his eyes. Even if there is something resembling pain hiding behind them.
The situation is becoming unsettling. I’ve let my defenses down, and my vulnerability is on full display. Retreating to the top step, I reach out and hand Jack’s sketchbook back to him. I’m careful to grip it by the edge. I fear what might happen if I establish any manner of physical contact with him. “Thanks again, for the lemons.” And everything else.
“Have a pleasant afternoon, Claire.” A small smile returns to his face before he leans over to pick up his backpack on the ground. As he moves down the walkway, I’m pulled down the steps after him, a safe distance behind. There’s something in that parallel universe tethering us together.
After he’s gone, I wander back to the lavender plant. I pull off a few more sprigs and gather the bag of fruit in my left arm. With my right hand, I caress the familiar flowers. It causes images of that garden, the chickadee, and now Jack’s sketches to reappear.
A picture is worth a thousand words. At least that many. In this case, it might be more like a million. If only I could rearrange all those words into some meaningful message.
The knocks reverberate through the house, startling me. It’s only the second time someone has approached my front door since I moved to Pigeon Grove. Everyone has respected my unspoken desire for privacy, save for Hank and Lydia. In hindsight, I’m thankful for their gracious welcome to the neighborhood on that first visit. It has led to a delightful friendship.
“Aunt Claire!” The sound of a little girl turned young woman pulls me from the couch with an eager grin and hastened pace. As I approach the door, my smile widens as Lizzie’s twinkling eyes shine through the mesh screen.
Russell holds a pink suitcase in his right hand. “Hey, Claire Bear. Great to see you, sis.” I greet both on the porch and offer my brother a quick but heartfelt hug. It’s been a long time since I’ve shared a genuine embrace with someone. It feels good.
Lizzie shadows her dad with an even stronger squeeze for me. Her arms used to wrap around my waist. Now they almost reach my shoulders. She latches onto me with affection that’s surprising for a teenager. Bending over to place a kiss on the top of her head is a thing of the past as I rise on my tiptoes. “What a beautiful young woman you’ve become.” I run the palm of my hand over her long dirty-blonde hair before offering them a tour of the house.
“Can we visit that coffee shop on Main Street? They have all these different roast types.” The excitement in her voice supports my presumption that caffeine is a part of her daily routine. “And that bridge coming into town? It looks like it’d be the perfect subject for my next painting. Could we go later?” Her youthful energy is infectious, and I can’t help but feel my mood elevate in Lizzie’s presence. “And oh, I almost forgot, wait here.” She darts back to the car and returns with a cloth bag full of that elusive yellow fruit. “Will you share your secret recipe with me?”
It’s ironic that, just twenty-four hours ago, I barely had enough lemons for a single pitcher. Now, between Jack’s gift and Lizzie’s stash, I might have an ample supply to start my own farm. With the sack thrust into my arms, her smile begs for an answer to the flurry of questions I’ve already forgotten.
“Maybe we should give your aunt a chance to catch her breath. And remind me to introduce you to the wonders of decaf.” Russell winks at me before I open the screen door again and lead them through the living room area.
“Claire, this is . . . beautiful.” He takes in the view surrounding him with genuine appreciation. I’m glad others also recognize the beauty I saw when first visiting this place. Even before I set foot inside, it spoke to something in my soul.
“Things aren’t quite where I want them to be yet, but it’s coming together.”
“There’s so much space. Do you have any idea how you will use it all?”
I haven’t considered that question. I only know this house was meant to be mine. The quiet undertone in my brother’s voice doesn’t go unnoticed. I pick up on his subtleties, and this one is well-founded. He’s wondering if and how I can afford it. Property is cheaper here, but still, I have no job. I’ve trimmed my expenses to the bare minimum, and I have a hefty savings account. Between that and the imminent sale of our childhood home, it’s not something I need to worry about yet.
“I haven’t thought about it much. But maybe this will encourage a few more visits from my favorite brother and niece.”
“Am I not your only niece?” With folded arms across her chest, she flashes me one of her signature teenage expressions. She makes it clear I won’t pull one like that over on her.
“Well, yes. But I reserve those adjectives for the truly special people in my life.” I wrap my arm around Lizzie and tug her toward me for a mini squeeze. My mind wanders to a different set of adjectives. Alluring and beautiful.
After a tour through the house, we’ve gathered in my favorite room. Standing at the kitchen table, Russell rests his hand on Lizzie’s shoulder. “Why don’t you go upstairs and unpack while your aunt and I talk?” As she leaves, bouncing around the corner and up the steps, I smile with gratitude. For this place. For these people. “You have no idea how talkative she was the entire drive. She couldn’t wait to get here and see you.”
“Wasn’t she disappointed about not being near the shore?” Mountain life and beach life each have their advantages. But I’ve always thought Lizzie leaned more toward the realm of sand and sun.
“She misses you. As do I.” Am I ready for a conversation this deep after being absent from their lives for so long? It’s been several years. My mind says no, but the heart pleads for permission.
“When do you need to leave?”
“In a few hours. I still have a drive ahead of me, and I should get a good night’s sleep before my meeting in the morning.” I’m not sure now is the best time to dive into these deep emotional topics.
“Would you like something to drink? Lemonade, water, or . . . lemonade?” My refrigerator is less than stocked. I live a simple life with simpler needs.
“I wouldn’t mind some of that world-famous lemonade, if you have any to spare with my little fruit camel upstairs. Maybe I can sneak a glass before she notices I’ve stolen some from her promised stash.” He grins as I grab the cold pitcher and a couple of glasses, and pour two servings. As I close the cupboard, my eyes fall upon the jasmine through the window. It’s waving lazily as if to wish me a good afternoon. I can’t help but whisper a greeting in return.
We move to the living room. I place a glass in front of Russell and take a seat across from him. He takes a sip, holds it up, and stares at it. “This brings back so many memories.”
Such a confusing word, memories. By itself, it’s
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