Find Wonder In All Things

by Karen M Cox

  “That’s one of the reasons I’m working this summer. I figure by the time I go back to school, I’ll have enough for a decent, used pick-up with great gas mileage and a reliable engine.”

  “I’ll be without a car at school this fall, but Benton’s a pretty small campus, so I’ll just take my bike.”

  There was a lull in the conversation as they approached the truck. He followed her to the driver’s side and reached around her to open the door. She got in and turned to him in surprise.

  He shrugged. “Just because I’m not driving doesn’t mean I’ve lost my manners. Ladies first.”

  She smiled and shook her head as she put the key in the ignition. He jogged around to the passenger side and hopped in.

  “Ready?” she asked, starting up the engine and giving it some gas.

  “I’m at your mercy,” he teased.

  “I’m a good driver.”

  He leaned back and put his arm on the back of the seat, behind her shoulders. “I’m not the least bit worried.”

  * * *

  “Why do you want to study art?” James asked as he slid across the truck’s bench seat and reached over to grab a nacho from the paper plate. The movie was spectacularly bad, so they’d spent the time after the first fifteen minutes talking.

  “I guess I don’t know what else I’d do with my life. My father is really happy about my choice of major, and I’m good at art. I enjoy drawing, painting, but what I like the most is sculpting, making something and feeling it take form under my hands. How I’ll shape that into something that buys groceries, I’m not sure. Dad says not to worry about it. If I’m true to myself, the rest will work out.”

  He looked at her, his expression full of doubt, and she laughed.

  “I know, I know. It sounds a little hippie-trippy hokey to me too, but . . . Why do you want to study business?”

  “I don’t particularly. My dad said I had to pick a major that would be worth something, so that’s what I picked.” He looked at her sideways. “I’m as bad as you are: choosing my major to suit my father.”

  “I can’t deny that Daddy’s pleased about the art thing, but I did it for myself too. I’m just not sure how to work out all the logistics of real life to go along with it, but hey, I’ve got four years to figure it out, right?”

  “Four years that fly by,” he said sagely.

  “So serious,” she teased.

  “Realistic,” he countered.

  She rolled her eyes. “Nuff about school. Tell me about something else.”

  “What would you like to know?”

  “What’s your dad like? I mean, you know mine already; I don’t need to tell you about him.”

  James sobered a little. “He’s an average dad, I guess. He goes to work; he comes home and eats dinner. He watches TV, then he goes to bed. On the weekends, he argues with my mother for fun.”

  “Oh, I’m sorry — bad subject.”

  “It’s okay.”

  “Is it rough between them?”

  He paused. “Yeah . . . it’s bad. I honestly don’t know how the two of them ever stood each other long enough to conceive two children.”

  “Maybe it was different for them back then. Sometimes people change.” She took a sip of her drink. “What about your sister?”

  “She got married last summer.”

  “Oh, really?”

  “Yeah, he’s a good guy — Navy officer. She’ll be living all over the world.”

  “Sounds exciting. What does she do — she’s older than you, right?”

  “She’s an accountant like Dad. She works for one of those big firms in Cincinnati.”

  He paused, fiddling with the lid on his soda cup. “Let me ask you a question.”

  “Shoot.”

  “What do you think about the idea of blending business with music somehow?”

  “I think it sounds like a great idea. People don’t usually think about those two fields going together, but music is a business as well as an art. It makes sense to me.”

  “I’m not sure how all the details would work, but that’s what I would like to do — if I had a chance.”

  “You’ll find a way.”

  “You sound pretty sure of that.”

  “I call ’em like I see ’em. I think you could do anything you set your mind to.”

  He leaned across her to put the nacho plate on the tray hanging from her window, but as he drew back, he felt her hand caress his face and turn it toward her. He stared at her a long moment, and slowly she brought her lips to his in a soft, gentle kiss. He pulled back, resting his arm against her car door to hold himself up.

  “Very nice,” he crooned in a low, husky voice. “What was that for?”

  Her smile was shy but eager. “I’ve never been kissed before — not like that.”

  “What a tragedy.”

  “I wanted to know what it was like.”

  “And the verdict is . . . ?”

  She grinned. “Very nice — although I think it has more to do with the person than with the kissing itself.” She kissed him again, and he sat back up straight, returning to the passenger’s side and bringing her over next to him.

  “Mmm . . . ” he murmured. “Sweet, pretty Mountain Laurel — is the flower as sweet as you are?

  She smiled against his mouth. “I wouldn’t try it if I were you.”

  “Why not?” he asked numbly, diving in for another kiss.

  “It’s poisonous, goof ball.”

  He stopped with a sheepish laugh. “So much for my romantic, sweet nothings.”

  She sat back and looked at him. Even in the dim light from the movie screen, he could see her flushed face and sparkling eyes. He brought his hand up to push a strand of hair behind her ear.

  “You don’t need sweet nothings if you can kiss like that,” she whispered.

  He felt his ego soar. He’d never had any complaints in that department, but then, he’d never had any particular praise either. Of course, he reminded himself, it was her first real kiss. She had nothing to compare it to. That, in and of itself, was exciting. He put his arm around her and drew her head down to his shoulder, planting a reverent kiss on the top of her head as he leaned back against the seat.

  “What’s this movie about again?” he asked.

  “I have no idea.” She let out a soft sigh. “James?”

  “Yes?”

  “Kiss me again.”

  A shudder of excitement ripped through him. This could be dangerous. She was too eager, too pretty, and she felt too good. He had been in a months-long, dry spell that left him champing at the bit, but Laurel was still innocent. He tilted her face up and fulfilled her request, keeping the kisses purposefully shallow and sweet. When she began to shift toward his lap, he stopped her.

  “I think that’s enough for tonight.”

  She looked confused and perhaps a little disappointed. “Oh, okay.”

  He tilted her chin up and saw the sadness and insecurity in her eyes. “It’s not you. You didn’t do anything wrong. It’s tempting, but I don’t want things to get out of hand.” He looked in her eyes. “You’re incredibly beautiful, and you don’t even know it. And it makes you that much more stunning.”

  “I think you just redeemed yourself in the romantic, sweet nothings department.”

  He grinned. “Thank you. Now let’s get you home on time so we can do this again real soon — and I can keep my job.”

  She pushed herself up off his chest and sighed, combing her hands through her hair to right it. He made himself turn away from her.

  “You’re the boss, Jim Dandy.”

  He smiled weakly. If only that were true.

  Chapter 5

  The sun beat down on the young couple holding hands as they picked their way through the cornflowers and Queen Anne’s lace that adorned the sides of the path leading to the little clapboard house.

  James looked up and squinted in the sun. A faded turquoise pickup, balanced on cement blocks, stuck out
above the timothy and crabgrass to the right and behind the house. The truck appeared to be as old as his father.

  Laurel followed his gaze and answered his unspoken question. “That was Grandpa’s. Daddy never would sell the old thing.”

  “Does it run?”

  She shrugged. “I’m not sure. Why? You want it?”

  He laughed. “No, I think I’ll choose something from this half of the century if you don’t mind.”

  Laurel slowed her pace, looking up ahead at the simple house sitting all alone in the middle of a field. “I remember when Grandma and Grandpa were living; we’d come up here on Sundays for dinner. My grandma made the best green beans you’ve ever tasted: home-canned and flavored with ham hocks and onion.”

  James shuddered. “I like mine fresh or frozen please.”

  “Buckeye,” she teased.

  “Hillbilly,” he teased back.

  “Anyway,” she went on, “after Grandma passed away and Grandpa went to live at the rest home, the old place just kind of shriveled up. We could never get my mom out here to go through any of their things.”

  “Why not?”

  “Mama is . . . well, it’s hard for her to leave the house sometimes. She’s a real homebody.”

  “A homebody?” His voice was incredulous. “Laurel, I never see her — not since I was a kid, and not at all this summer.” He paused and his tone softened. “Is she sick? You can tell me, you know. I won’t say anything if you don’t want me to. Is that why you had to cancel our dates a couple of times?”

  Laurel’s voice was quiet and small. “She’s not sick physically, but I’m starting to think there’s something else wrong. She’s never liked to go out much. She was always fine just tending her garden and raising us and doing her sewing, but now it’s like she’s afraid to go anywhere.”

  He pulled her close and put an arm around her shoulder, continuing their meandering pace toward the little house.

  “I don’t understand her at all.”

  “What does your father say?”

  She snorted. “He’s blind to it — like he can’t bear to think about her having any problems. But this isolating herself . . . The more I think about it, the more I realize it can’t be right. Some days she doesn’t even leave her bed. She just sits there with the shades drawn all day. It can’t be good for the boys to see her like that, or for Spring.”

  “Who takes care of them? You?”

  “I do as much as I can. Daddy does sometimes, and Ginny. When she’s home, she helps a little, but she’s hardly ever home these days. They help me do what Mama can’t — or won’t. There are days when I get so angry at her. I wish she’d just snap out of it and get back to being the mom I remember.”

  He squeezed her shoulders in a comforting embrace, unsure how to console her. They ascended the steps and walked across the porch to the front door, hanging loose on its hinges.

  “Daddy’s started working on this place a little bit.” Laurel turned the glass doorknob and pushed the front door open. “He’s checked the wiring, the foundation, things like that. Ginny and I talked about staying here when we’re home from college. My parents’ place is kind of crowded for seven of us now that we’re older.” She led him by the hand through the house to the back porch. It had been built in as a sitting room, and a line of windows framed a view of the foothills behind. Over to the right, the plateau dropped off, revealing a glimpse of the lake in the distance.

  “Isn’t it beautiful?” she breathed. “I would love to have a studio here. It would be an incredible place to paint and sculpt, and . . . well, anything.”

  Her enthusiasm was catching. “I could help you too,” he ventured. “We could come out and paint and fix it up on our days off.”

  “You would do that?”

  “In order to spend more time with you? Yeah, I’d do that.”

  She ran up to him and threw her arms around his neck, kissing his cheek as he clasped her to him. “I think that sounds like a great idea!”

  They stood there for a long moment with their arms around each other, and she leaned back to look at him. “Come on! Let’s go ask Dad what needs to be done next.”

  “Now?”

  “Yes, we’re both off day after tomorrow. We can get started on something if we know what to do.”

  “Yes, ma’am,” he laughed, then sobered. “It’s after six; your dad won’t be at the marina now. I think Phil’s covering the evening shift.”

  “I know. He’ll be at home though.”

  “I don’t want to barge in on your mom at dinnertime.” He hesitated.

  Laurel pursed her lips and huffed. “I don’t care what she thinks. I’m tired of pussyfooting around her silly moods. You’re my guest, and it’s my home too. If she acts ugly, we’ll just leave.”

  James was skeptical. “Okay, if you say so.”

  She stopped and searched his expression. “I don’t want to make you uncomfortable, James. If you don’t want to go . . . ”

  “No, it’s fine. I’d love to go.”

  “I know she can be difficult, but you’re important to me.”

  He pushed a strand of hair behind her ear and kissed her mouth. He knew the inner sanctum of the Elliot house was a place few dared to tread. She wouldn’t have invited just anyone. It was a sign of her willingness to trust him that she had offered. How could he refuse her?

  “Let’s go then.”

  * * *

  The drive from the old house to the Elliot’s log cabin took about ten minutes, during which James fiddled with the radio, complaining about the lack of radio stations and, after giving up on that, started to tell Laurel all about Dayton and Cincinnati.

  “There’s so much to do. You’d love it — museums and bands and concerts and Reds baseball. You’ll have to come up some weekend this fall, and I’ll show you around. Maybe Labor Day we can go to the WEBN fireworks.”

  She smiled. “It sounds big.”

  “And interesting, right?”

  “Yeah, I guess it sounds interesting. But how am I supposed to get there without my own wheels?”

  “I’ll come get you in a pickup truck to be named later.”

  “And whisk me away to parts unknown? You’ll take the country mouse to the big city?” she teased.

  He obeyed an impulse and trailed a finger down the slope of her neck and down her arm. “I’d love to take you there,” he said softly.

  She shivered. “I’m driving here. You’ll make me wreck.”

  “Are you distracted?” He tugged her hand off the steering wheel, and clasped it in his.

  “Yeah, a little.”

  “How about now?” He grinned, placed a hot, soft kiss in the palm of her hand and then blew on it.

  “Stop it!” she squirmed, but she was laughing.

  “Sorry, can’t keep my lips off you.” He nibbled on the inside of her wrist.

  “Here,” she said, exasperated as she yanked her hand away. “Try to find another radio station.”

  He sighed in exaggerated disappointment and turned back to the dial. “Still nothing.”

  Laurel eased up the drive, crunching the gravel under her tires as the cabin came into view.

  It looked like something out of some kind of Popular Organics or Hippie House Beautiful magazine. There was a front porch, but no real yard to speak of as it was surrounded by trees on all sides. A detached woodshed stood in the side yard, and there was a makeshift tree house in the back. Bikes and outdoor toys — bats, baseballs, and the occasional doll or action figure — littered the rest of the landscape. Mr. Elliot sat in a homemade rocking chair, a pipe in his teeth and a whittling knife and chunk of wood in his hands. He raised his head at the sound of the truck door slam.

  Laurel bounded up the steps to the porch. “Hey, Daddy.”

  “Hey, Punkin. What are you two up to?”

  “We’ve been up at Grandpa’s. James says he’ll help work on the cabin.”

  Mr. Elliot gazed beyond his daughter to the lank
y boy she had in tow and spoke around his pipe. “He does, eh?”

  “Yep. What should we do next? He and I are both off work day after tomorrow.”

  “Don’t know yet, but I’m sure we’ll figure something out.” He squinted up at James. “Would you care to stay to dinner tonight, son, and discuss it?”

  “I wouldn’t want to impose, sir.” Uneasy, James shifted his weight from one foot to the other.

  Mr. Elliot eyed him up and down. “It’s no trouble. Go tell your mother, Mountain Laurel.”

  Laurel smiled up at James in an I-told-you-so way and walked into the house, leaving him outside with his boss.

  “You’ve been spending a considerable amount of time with my daughter of late.”

  “Yessir.”

  Mr. Elliot turned back to his whittling.

  “What are you making?” James asked politely.

  “Walking stick. Made from hickory. You whittle?”

  “No sir.”

  “Like to hike?”

  “Maybe, a little.”

  “Fish?”

  “Um . . . not recently, no.”

  “No whittling, no hiking, no fishing. What’s your passion then?”

  James was taken aback. “What?”

  “What’s your passion? What do you love?”

  Is this a trick question? “I’m not quite sure what you . . . ”

  “To do? What do you want to do? What do you study?”

  “I’m a business major . . . ”

  “So you study the nickels and dimes. Yet it appears you have little interest in the natural world.” Mr. Elliot smiled wryly to himself and muttered, “An economist without knowledge of nature is like a physicist without knowledge of mathematics.”

  “Pardon?”

  “Just a little kernel of wisdom from Carl Linnaeus, the father of modern ecology.” He paused. “A business major . . . ” Mr. Elliot was unimpressed. “So you love money then?”

  “Who doesn’t?” James joked, but then he realized Mr. Elliot wasn’t amused.

  Laurel came out onto the porch, the screen door banging behind her. “Mama says dinner’s ready.”

  Mr. Elliot rose from his chair, folded up his pocketknife and laid the half-finished walking stick against the arm of his rocker.