“You’re not looking at me.”
“Huh?”
“You have to know what I look like to be able to draw me.”
“Right.” I inhaled and focused on his eyes. They were deep blue and kind of squinty at the edges. “This is awkward.” He wagged his eyebrows and I laughed.
Though it took him only minutes to complete my sketch, it took me much longer. While I drew—or tried to—he talked. About the horse farm his dad owned. About his pesky younger brothers. How he wanted to be an astronaut when he was little.
“I gave up that idea when I found out you have to be really good at math to be an astronaut. But I still love the idea of space. I have a telescope out in the top of our barn. Sometimes I’ll see dozens of shooting stars in one night. Satellites moving around. It’s crazy what you can see in the dark.”
I hadn’t realized it, but as he spoke, I’d stopped drawing. I was pulled into his voice, his stories. He talked a lot—more than most guys—but instead of being weird, it was mesmerizing. I wanted him to keep talking so I could keep listening.
“Anyway.” He sat straighter in his seat. “Won’t be an astronaut, probably won’t do anything with art other than draw pretty girls in class. I’ll most likely take over my dad’s farm one day. And I’m okay with that. Although a part-time job right now would be nice. I’ll be sixteen next summer and I have to pay for my own car.”
“You talk a lot.”
He grinned. “You’re not the first person to say that.”
When the bell rang, Ms. Landry held out a file folder for our drawings. “If you’re not finished, you can work on them in our next class. Where you sat today will be your seats for the rest of the semester. Better get used to each other.” I slid my drawing into the folder, but Jack held on to his. Outside, in the bright sunshine, he handed his to me.
“You were supposed to turn that in.”
He shrugged. “I can do another one tomorrow. I want you to have that one.”
“Thanks.” I brushed my thumb over the edge of the drawing. It was a little strange to have a drawing of myself, but I was touched that he’d given it to me.
“What class do you have next?”
“Precal. That way.” I gestured back toward the main building. “You?”
“Lunch.” He turned toward the cafeteria but paused. “I saw you at the party Friday.”
“What? You were there?”
He nodded. “I saw you . . . dancing.” His cheeks colored again, and he shoved a hand into his pocket.
“I don’t . . . I’m not . . .” I raked my fingers through my hair. “I’m not really like that. I’d never been to a party like that before. I don’t dance or drink. Or anything, really. It was just a onetime thing.” I didn’t know why it felt so important for me to explain myself to him, but I wanted him to know the truth.
“That guy you were dancing with lives out near me. I don’t know what he was doing at a high school party—he graduated last year.” His eyebrows bunched together. “I don’t like him at all. I was trying to push toward you to get you away from him, but then your boyfriend pulled you away.” He kicked at a rock on the ground. “I was glad someone did.”
I was silent a moment, digesting what he’d said. “He’s not my boyfriend.”
“He’s not?”
I shook my head. “Just . . . just a friend.”
“That’s . . . Okay. I’m glad.” He hitched his backpack up on his shoulder. “So, I’ll see you tomorrow? You have a portrait to finish.”
I laughed. “‘Portrait’ is taking it a little far. I’ll do what I can.”
He gave me a little salute and headed for the cafeteria. I took a deep breath and let it out slowly, then closed my eyes and felt the sun’s rays dance on my eyelids, my cheeks, my arms. I opened them when kids began to stream past me on the sidewalk, everyone in a hurry to get to their next class. Instead of hurrying to mine, I watched Jack walk away. I felt good; he felt lucky. Not a bad way to start off the year.
CHAPTER 33
A rich and fascinating relationship exists between flowers and bees. Bees need the blooms for sustenance, and flowers need the bees for pollination. Consider planting bee balm, butterfly bush, black-eyed Susans, or other bee-friendly flowers in your garden.
—LEIGH T. JACOB, HARMONY IN THE GARDEN
JESSIE
I was out in the orchard when Evan called to me from the back porch steps, holding some kind of slim package in her hand. Even from the far distance, I could make out the orange-and-white FedEx logo, which was strange because FedEx had already come today.
I put my hand up to my mouth and called, “Five minutes!” That’s about all I had anyway before dusk swallowed the last of the day’s light.
I’d been in the orchard since closing time, tending to the crabapple trees I’d recently discovered were covered in cedar rust. Mama was convinced a poultice of coconut oil and cardamom would take care of it just as well as a fungicide, but I had my doubts. Then again, she’d been right about kitchen cures before, and I was willing to try anything. The trees were so pretty in the spring when the pink and white blossoms bloomed. Even in the winter, their bare branches were like dark, lacy fingers spread out against the pale sky.
After rubbing the last of the oil mixture onto the leaves I could reach, I took off my gloves—they smelled like Vicks VapoRub and a little like the sandy bottom of Evan’s beach bag—and made my way back to the house.
Evan was at the kitchen table with notebooks and loose paper spread all over the surface, leaving her own marks on the already heavily imprinted table.
“We saved dinner for you,” Mama said. “Plate’s in the oven.” She barely looked up from her crossword puzzle book.
“Thank you.” I glanced at Evan. Raised my eyebrows. She nodded back to me and gave a quick thumbs-up. We’d developed a sort of private language of small movements and gestures over the last several weeks. It was my way of checking on Mama without her being aware of it. A silent question, an equally silent response, and we both knew whether Mama’d had another episode or if her day had been good, which these days meant uneventful.
Evan gestured to the envelope on the counter. “It must be something important. I had to sign for it and everything.”
I pulled the tear tab at the top and out slid a small envelope. The paper was thick and creamy, and my name was printed on the front in elegant calligraphy. Inside was a business card bearing the name Bliss Day Spa. The words Two o’clock Friday were printed in gold letters.
Friday. The day before the wedding. My first reaction was hesitation. Surely I couldn’t put aside my preparations—twining flowers through the grapevine chandelier, attaching the hanging jars, putting together the simple yet classy arrangements that would adorn the porch and yard of Oak House—just to be primped and pampered at a spa. That was for the bride, not the florist.
I planned to say as much to Sumner when I retreated to my bedroom to call him, leaving Mama and Evan sputtering with unanswered questions.
“I assume this is your doing?” I asked when he answered.
He cleared his throat. “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”
I laughed. “The spa? The appointment Friday afternoon?”
“Ah, yes. That. I took it upon myself to force a little relaxation on you. Pardon me for saying this, but you don’t strike me as the kind of woman who’d book your own spa appointment. Even if you do have a wedding to attend Saturday night.”
“You want me to go to the wedding? As a guest?”
“I assumed . . . Well, obviously, I wrongly assumed it went without saying that I wanted you to be there. So, yes, I would be honored to have you by my side for the wedding. And to treat you to the spa on Friday.”
“That’s very sweet of you and I’m sure it’d be . . . amazing. But I can’t possibly . . . It’s the day before the wedding.”
“I know that, but I also know most of the work will be the day of the wedding, right?”
I hesitated, mentally estimating the time it would take to complete all the necessary tasks before the seven o’clock ceremony Saturday. Earlier, even, if I wanted time to get myself out of my work clothes and into something appropriate for an evening wedding.
“Come on,” he said. “Olivia will be there with her bridesmaids too. She’s already told me she’s bringing in champagne, so I apologize for them in advance, but take it as a chance to unwind a bit. Consider it my thanks for doing all this for Olivia. And for me.”
“What’d I do for you?”
He laughed, low and deep. “Well, let’s see. You’ve made me feel young again, like a teenager who can’t stop thinking about the girl he has a crush on.”
“Wh-what?” He’d been so lighthearted only moments before, and the seriousness took me by surprise.
“I can’t stop thinking about you.” He emphasized each word. “On the days we don’t talk, I spend all my time anticipating when I’ll next see you or hear your voice.” He paused. “You’ve made me realize there might still be . . . love . . . for me. I wasn’t sure I’d ever feel that way again.”
I opened my mouth to speak, but my brain wouldn’t catch up. I had no words.
He exhaled a small breath. “I did it, didn’t I? I completely scared you off.”
“No, I . . .”
I couldn’t help it—I thought of Ben. The juxtaposition between the two men was stark. Black on white. Where Ben was familiar, even after all these years, Sumner was intriguing and new. Ben had the benefit of history, of shared innocence, but Sumner was like a fresh, clean canvas, ready to be filled with life and adventure.
To him, I wasn’t the girl who’d broken his heart, who’d married someone else. The girl who’d been broken herself. To him, I was new too.
“Jessie?”
“Okay.”
“Okay—does that mean yes to the spa or coming as my date?”
“Yes. It means yes to all of it.”
CHAPTER 34
When planning a garden, it’s easy to become discouraged if what you plant doesn’t live up to your expectations. Maybe the soil wasn’t amended properly. Maybe the season was hotter or dryer or wetter than usual. Maybe everything you touch seems to wilt. Remember, there’s beauty in those outcomes too. Gardening is about much more than just growing pretty flowers. It’s also about cultivating your own heart.
—SALLY JO MCINTYRE, CONTEMPLATIVE GARDENING
GUS
I woke with a start, rising from the wrought iron chair like someone had goosed me. It was late afternoon, usually the hottest part of the day, though clouds had crept in while I’d been napping.
Napping, I thought with a snort.
I was usually too busy for naps. It was just this newfangled drug the young doctor had me taking twice a day. It wasn’t even FDA approved yet—just something they were trying out. Jessie seemed optimistic about it though, and why not? She wasn’t the one who had to take it. I told the doctor I’d be calling him personally if all of a sudden I sprouted green hair on my chin or started quacking like a duck.
Something had woken me up, I was sure of it, but all around me was still. My backyard was almost completely shaded, hemmed in as it was by big, bushy oaks and a thick canopy of loblolly pines. Only in the back corner did the trees spread apart and leave space for the sun to push through. And that’s where Tom had staked his sundial all those years ago.
It was our fifth anniversary and he made me close my eyes before guiding me through the yard to this very spot. “What do you think?” he’d asked, his voice full of pride and excitement.
I read the words etched into the plaque on the front. “It’s beautiful, Tom. Thank you.”
The real truth was that sundials always felt a little macabre to me—hostile even—standing there counting down the hours of a life without a care. I couldn’t say that to Tom though.
There it was again—the sound I now recognized as the one that had ended my catnap.
Chug-chug-chug.
Harvis’s truck clanged up my driveway. It stopped under the sweetgum tree—I could hear the balls crunching under the tires—and his door creaked open. The polite thing would have been to turn around with a smile and offer him a seat, but I didn’t. An empty chair sat next to me and he’d sit in it if he wanted to.
And he did. “Beautiful day.”
I glanced up at the clouds skirting past the sun. I shrugged. A funny sound came from his throat and I realized it was a laugh. I stared at him. “What is it?”
His gaze strayed to my hair, and he reached out a hand toward my right ear.
“Well, what is it, Harvis?” I wished I had a mirror to check myself in, but I tamped down the urge to give myself a quick pat down to see what was out of place. I’d never been fluttery in front of a man, and I wasn’t about to start now.
“Your hair is a little . . .” He reached out again, but I swatted his hand away. When I reached up myself, I felt my hair plastered to my head, damp with perspiration from my nap. I must’ve had my head turned to the side, ruining all that hard work with my curlers this morning.
I tried to fluff my hair with my fingers, but it was pointless. “Looks like my hair is a lost cause. Just like my mind.”
I knew what his next words would be. Something soothing, coddling, something along the lines of “Don’t say such a thing. It’ll all be just fine.” But he surprised me.
“Good thing I don’t love you for your mind.”
I turned to him and cocked one eyebrow.
“I love you for those blue jeans you like to wear with the rhinestones stuck on the back.”
I laughed. My heart felt like a kite spinning at the end of a string. “Oh, for Pete’s sake.”
He rubbed his hand over the top of his head—no cap today—then he took my hand in his, and I didn’t pull away. He grew serious and looked out to the yard toward the sundial and beyond. A bumblebee buzzed next to me, pausing a moment to sniff us out, then continued on to a patch of zinnias next to the birdbath.
“The truth is,” he said, “I love everything about you, Augusta McBride, and that includes your mind. If you’ll have me, I’ll go anywhere and do anything necessary to take care of you. To make you happy. If that’s moving with you into some kind of assisted-living home—”
I sucked my breath in. A home? I tried to pull my hand away, but he held it tight.
“—or staying right here on Glory Road. Whatever you want.”
I shook my head. “Is that really what you want? Because we both know how this is going to go. My mind feels okay most days, but it’ll keep losing its grip until one day I won’t recognize you. Or Jessie . . .” My voice broke and I put my free hand to my mouth.
“Augusta,” he said gently. “Look at me.”
I did.
“I’m not scared. It’s a terrible disease and I hate it, but I’m not scared of it or you. And I’ll be right by your side through the whole thing.” He squeezed my hand and nodded toward the sundial. My eyes skimmed across the words for the thousandth time.
Take the gifts of this hour.
“You have a lot of gifts in your life and they’re not going anywhere. And I won’t either. If you’ll have me.”
He fell silent then, his gaze directed out to the yard. He was, I knew, giving me a moment of privacy—however long I needed—to make my decision.
But I’d already made it. “You’re the gift, Harvis.”
That evening I found Jessie in the middle of her living room floor surrounded by boxes of mason jars and a big ball of burlap twine. I settled down on the couch across from her. “Are those for the wedding?”
She nodded and reached for another jar, wrapping twine around the middle and tying it into a bow.
“For drinks?”
“I think drinking out of mason jars would be a little too country for Olivia. No, these are for candles. I’m going to line the dock with them and set them out on the railing of the boathouse.”
“T
hat’ll be beautiful. How many do you have?”
She glanced around. “About a hundred. Maybe a little more.”
“Better let me help then.” I reached for the scissors and began cutting lengths of twine. They slid into a pile at my feet.
“I need to talk to you, honey.”
Her hands stilled. I knew the “honey” would alert her that it was serious.
“Harvis came to see me today.” I took a deep breath. “Believe it or not, I think he intends to make me his wife.”
“What?” Jessie’s eyes were wide and she dropped the twine altogether.
“He wants to be the one to take care of me.” She opened her mouth, but I continued. “Now, don’t worry, I’m not going anywhere. But I’ve already told you I don’t want to be your responsibility. At least not totally yours. You have your own life. You and Evan. Who knows what will come for the two of you in the future? And Harvis . . . Well, it turns out he’s a good man. I think I’ve known that for a long time, but it took me a while to admit it. And he’s not scared off by me losing my mind. In fact, he doesn’t even love me for my mind.” I laughed. “He loves me in my rhinestone blue jeans. Can you believe that? Almost seventy and making a man lose his mind over my legs in a pair of jeans. And I’m not even offended!”
Jessie laughed and brushed a tear from the corner of her eye.
“Take that, Gloria Steinem,” I said.
We laughed and laughed, wiping happy and sad tears off our cheeks and chins, until it finally passed. I pressed a hand to my chest. “It feels good to open my heart up again.”
“It’s such a risk though. You’re not scared?” I knew she was talking about all of it. Every single bit.
“I am scared.” I lifted one corner of my mouth and nodded. “I admit it, I am. But if I’ve learned anything in my life, it’s that real love is always worth the risk.”
CHAPTER 35
Zinnias are traditionally a happy flower, and you can’t go wrong offering a loved one a bouquet of brightly colored zinnias. In particular, the scarlet zinnia signifies constancy or steadfastness. Blue hyacinths have a similar meaning, and the two flowers together would make a striking pair.
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