I liked to think he felt safe when I held him, enjoyed when I gave him a ride on my finger, the air gliding past his wings in the only way it ever would.
The back door finally remained silent. I moved to the foyer and listened near the front door. Much as I hated the noise, I wanted to hear the motorcycle roar away so I could finally relax.
My doorbell trilled, startling me.
I stepped back, then paced, worried. Should I open it?
No, I’d said all I needed to. And what if Harvey tried to come inside? The mere thought overwhelmed me. He seemed harmless enough, but one couldn’t be too careful.
He knocked a few times. “Are you at least going to give me an answer about selling some butterflies?”
I lifted Wingly to eye level and whispered with a slight smile, “I do believe your brain is bigger than his.” Wingly bobbed his thready black antennae in what I chose to think was agreement.
A few quiet seconds ticked by.
“Right.” Harvey rapped the door with one quick staccato beat. “Okay then. No problem, you think on it and let me know.”
I made a pfft noise through my lips, unintentionally releasing a puff of air onto Wingly. He fluttered his wings as if perturbed.
Sorry, buddy.
Silence finally met me. No more knocking, no more doorbell, no more loud man-voice. Good. Harvey must finally be leaving.
But I still hadn’t heard the motorcycle. My ears prickled, waiting. What was taking so long?
I stepped to the edge of the closest window. Discreet as possible, I shifted a slat of blinds and peeked out in time to see him stroll to his shiny, obviously expensive motorcycle.
Even from a distance, I couldn’t help noticing the strong tilt of his chin and the confidence in his step. He pulled a helmet over his messy crop of hair, then straddled his motorcycle. The bike looked as if it was made for him, as if money was no object.
Hopefully his Sally would appreciate the effort he’d put into trying to line up a butterfly release for her, even if he hadn’t succeeded. Not like a little thing like butterflies would make or break their wedding.
His posture radiated determination, and I was sure he’d figure something else out.
As he roared away, I had no regrets about turning him down.
And I was very relieved to see the motorcycle go.
~
After opening the drapes and returning daylight to the sunroom, I watered flowers, pinched off dead blooms, and discarded withered leaves.
I paced restlessly until dropping into my seat at the computer and proceeding to upload my latest batch of photos.
I cropped, retouched, and, most of all, returned again and again to the picture of Harvey in my backyard, because . . . well, there he was: a man. In my backyard. Surely my life couldn’t get any stranger than that.
Tilting my head, I examined the photo from every angle. No matter how critical I tried to be, I couldn’t deny that it was a good picture. Something about it was hilarious, yet endearing.
Harvey looked strong, yet gentle—not so much as if he was battling the butterflies as playing with them.
I decided not to post this image for sale with my others on the stock-photo website where I earned royalties. After all, I didn’t have his permission—but even if I did, I didn’t think I’d post it. It didn’t really fit with my typical work.
My fingers fidgeted with the computer mouse, and I heard a ding as a message popped up on-screen.
Hey girl, wrote my friend Jess. What’s happening?
I typed rapidly. Just uploading some new pics.
Yeah? Cool. So what’re you waiting for? Send them my way!
I smiled. I’d met Jess, my overly enthusiastic friend, on a homeschool forum over five years ago, and we’d hit it off from the start.
And when my family was no longer there for me, she still was, even if only through Wi-Fi and a keyboard.
While I also kept in occasional touch with a few childhood friends who’d moved away, Jess, the friend I’d never even met in person, was the one I’d grown closest to.
With a few taps, I now sent her my entire batch of pictures, even the Harvey ones. For some reason, my stomach flipped at the realization.
Seconds plodded by, and though I wanted to grab a glass of water, I remained stuck to my seat, my gaze glued to the screen.
Jess’s opinion was the only one that mattered.
Whoa, Lila. An eye-popping emoticon appeared. Great work, as always, but—sound an alarm—there’s a person in one of those pics! And not just any person—a guy! You holding out on me? What’s that all about? Hurry up and answer. None of your long, thoughtful pauses while you think up the perfect response. Just type! Times like this I really wish I had your number. Hint, hint.
Nice try. She could hint all she wanted, but she knew I wouldn’t give it. She knew I was comfortable with a set level of friendship, one that was relatively anonymous, with no pressure, controlled on my terms within the obscurity of cyberspace.
I detested phone calls. Ever since getting that one . . .
I shook the memory from my mind.
Jess understood.
One of these days we’d get around to meeting in person, I supposed, but we lived two states apart and just hadn’t found the right time yet.
Sucking in a breath, I typed, Just a guy trying to buy some of my butterflies. Can you believe that?
Is he good-looking?
Trust her to ask that.
Hard to tell from the pics, she continued, but I’m betting that’s a big fat yes.
I glanced up at the ticking clock above my computer. How to answer that?
Hello??? appeared on my screen. Does your slowness give you away?
Springing to action, I made my fingers fly over the keys. Stop it! You’d probably think he’s good-looking. Me, I don’t see how that’s relevant to anything.
Oh yeah? I’ve known you over five years, and I still don’t even get to visit.
He didn’t get to, he just showed up uninvited, all pushy and loud and—
You’re interested in him? And he’s interested in you? Is he visiting again?
No, no, and NO! And for your information, he’s getting married soon—which is why he wanted my butterflies. For a release, for his bride on their wedding day . . .
And I rambled on and on in an attempt to bore her into signing off. But she never lost interest in fishing for what she called “all the juicy details.”
I finally told her I had to go because my butterflies were calling me.
Chapter 3
Late the next morning, I stood in my backyard hanging wet laundry on my clothesline when I heard Harvey’s voice behind me.
“Hello again.”
With my hands frozen on a lace undergarment, my head whipped around. “You!”
How unexpected. How—I turned back to my clothesline—embarrassing.
Damp underwear danced in the breeze—unmentionables that should also remain unseen by anyone but me.
My hands began yanking, almost ripping, clothes from the line in a frantic effort to make them vanish. What were the chances Harvey hadn’t noticed them yet?
“Need any help?”
“No!” I pummeled the clothes into a hopefully indistinguishable mass in my basket. Wooden clothespins punctuated the clothesline above me like a row of miniature fenceposts.
“Okay.” He scratched his neck. “It’s just . . . you seem awful desperate to get your laundry down.” He glanced at the blue sky. “Doesn’t look like rain to me, so if you’re worried about things getting wet—” He squinted. “But hey, they don’t even look dry yet.”
As in, he was looking at them? Oh, I was mortified.
“And weren’t you actually hanging stuff up, not taking it down?”
“Forget the laundry.” Please. “Why did you come back?” I stood in front of the basket and crossed my arms. “I told you yesterday that I’m not selling you any butterflies.”
My m
other would have been appalled at my lack of manners and hospitality, my father would have been proud of my boldness, and my little brother and sister would have been stunned.
Would have.
Would have.
I swallowed hard and pushed my lips together.
“I know, and I’m sorry if I caught you at a bad time.” His gaze strayed to the laundry basket.
I used my foot to shove it behind a bush, relieved I didn’t make things worse by dumping it over in the process. “How did you sneak up on me? Why didn’t I hear your motorcycle?”
“I cut the engine early and walked up the drive, but I wasn’t trying to sneak up. I was just afraid that if you heard me, you’d hide inside again and—”
“I wasn’t hiding. I was—” I searched for the right word. The sun blazed on my skin, heating my entire body. “I was just—done. Tired of telling you no over and over. You really should take a hint.”
“Noted. Or maybe”—hope sparked in Harvey’s eyes—“you could tell me yes?”
Exasperated, I leveled a sharp gaze at him.
“Okay, okay. Taking the hint.” He cleared his throat. “I really only came to tell you I’m sorry for yesterday.” Hesitating, he brought his right hand into view. “And give you this.”
He held a small flowering bush in a little black pot. “I know it doesn’t make up for the butterflies I let out, but—”
“I don’t keep butterflies prisoners, if that’s what you think.” My face flamed. I had to set him straight. “I raise them, to help increase and revive the butterfly population—especially the monarchs—but I release them when they’re strong and their wings are ready. I would have released all those ones yesterday anyway.”
The relief that came over his face was so genuine, my annoyance fizzled. “I do keep a few that can’t fly properly or that wouldn’t survive on their own, but I don’t hoard butterflies like . . . like some people do cats. I don’t like cats. They chase butterflies and play with them before they kill them.” Get to the point, Lila. “I also don’t sell butterflies.” My words and reasoning began to feel fumbly in my mouth.
He still held the plant out like a peace offering, and I blinked at it.
“It’s a butterfly bush,” he said.
Yes, I recognized the tiny star-shaped pink flowers. It was beautiful, but . . . “You didn’t have to do that.”
He shrugged. “I know, but I thought it’d make a good addition to your garden. If you’ve got a shovel, I can plant it for you right now.”
I twisted my fingers together and struggled for words. “You don’t have to, really.”
“Come on, I want to.” He hefted the dirty roots from the thin plastic pot. “Besides, it needs a home. You don’t want it to die, do you?” He gave me a “gotcha” grin.
“Fine, okay.” A little thrill ran through me at the thought of keeping the bush.
“Great.” He glanced around. “Where do you want it? And I’ll still need a shovel.”
“You mean you didn’t haul one of those over here, too?” I pictured him riding his motorcycle one-handed, butterfly bush gripped in the other hand, wind tearing at the leaves and flowers. The bush should be bare by now.
“Nah. The plant fit in my saddlebag just fine, but I figured a gardener like you would have a shovel handy.”
“Maybe. Then again . . . ” I tapped a finger against my chin. “A gardener who specializes in growing weeds may not.” It was my turn to flash a “gotcha” grin. I wasn’t quite sure if I managed it, but I enjoyed trying.
He chuckled, and I headed to my shed to grab the tool, still feeling a bit blindsided by his appearance, the gift, and, most of all, the conversation.
I didn’t have conversations. Not with people, and certainly not face-to-face, with spoken words. Why was I letting him linger?
It’s for the butterflies, I reasoned as I fished a large shovel from the shed. I glanced over my shoulder and saw him stride across the lawn as if assessing a spot for planting. My eyes narrowed. He’d better steer clear of my laundry basket.
I already had the perfect spot in mind, a location in full sun and in direct sight of my kitchen window.
He accepted the shovel. “Much as you like butterflies, I’m surprised you don’t already have one of these bushes. You don’t, do you?”
“No.” It was on my list of things to buy in person, not online, but I rarely ventured out to shop in the real world.
“Okay, good. I wasn’t sure, but either way I figured someone like you couldn’t have too many.”
Someone like me. I wondered what he meant by that. Someone who liked butterflies? Someone who liked to garden? Someone who was known for being a recluse?
I nodded, then watched him stab the shovel into the ground with a deep sluicing sound.
He heaved out several loads of earth before setting the bush in the hole. Then he broke up the packed dirt clumps and covered the roots, filling the hole back in, turning his hands filthy.
I pulled a hose up from the side of the house. “It looks very nice, and I’m sure the butterflies will love it. Thank you.”
He propped the shovel in one grimy hand, then wiped sweat from his forehead with his bare arm. “You’re welcome.”
I aimed a steady stream of water at the base of the bush. “But this doesn’t mean I owe you.” My voice came out soft, and I tried to make it strong. “Or that I’ll reconsider selling you butterflies.”
“Maybe not, or maybe it does. Something tells me you will.” He gave me a smug grin. It felt like a taunt.
Without thinking, I reacted by turning the hose on him. Washed the grin right off.
“Hey!” He stumbled back in surprise at the cold blast. His hands shot forward to block the spray. “Okay, okay! I’m outta here!”
Something like disappointment twinged within me as he hurried away, following the snaking hose down the slope.
Funny or not, spraying him had been rather rude, especially after what he’d just done for me, even if he did have ulterior motives.
But it was a hot day, and he’d been covered with dirt. Truthfully, I’d done him a favor. In fact, I wouldn’t mind—
The hose popped from my grasp, and I turned just in time to register that Harvey had yanked it away. Now he stood aiming the nozzle at me, his “gotcha” grin in place.
The cold stream hit me full force. I shrieked, sputtered on a mouthful of water, and ran, but the chilly droplets found me, quickly covering me in a wet glaze. He laughed, a deep, hearty sound. My ears drank it in.
Though shocked by his actions, I was more alarmed to realize I was joining in his laughter, dodging the spray and running.
I hadn’t done anything this lighthearted in years and years, not since my little brother and sister . . .
My memories swirled. I remembered them, almost heard them giggling with me through the sparkling water. I remembered, and for once, I wasn’t sad.
I remembered, and I was happy.
I kept on running.
~
Winded, Harvey and I dropped onto the damp grass not far from the butterfly bush and tried to catch our breath. The scent of sweet blossoms and wet earth drifted by. I squeezed my hair, and he shoved a hand through his, spiking it like straw.
I wondered if he was as surprised as I was over what had just happened. Or was chasing someone with a garden hose normal behavior for him? Did he have brothers and sisters? Childhood friends?
He smiled sideways at me. “So in case you couldn’t tell, I’m kinda competitive. And I totally won that water battle.”
“Based on the fact that we’re both soaking wet, I beg to differ.” I glanced up at the sky. When had the sun climbed so high? “That was fun, but I should really get back to my studying.”
“Yeah?” Harvey sounded genuinely interested. “What are you studying?”
“Entomology,” I said, almost dreamily. I never tired of saying the word and picturing all it stood for. Maybe because I rarely had the opportunity to s
ay it out loud.
“The study of words and their origins?”
My mouth quirked into a grin. “No, that’s etymology. Entomology is the study of insects. Etymology would probably be fun, too, but I like insects more than words. I think it’s best to focus on earning one degree at a time.”
He whistled. “Ambitious. So you have a class to get to?”
I laughed at the thought. “No, even better, it’s right here, in my own home—or yard—depending where I bring my laptop. I’m studying online, learning at my own pace. I love it.”
“Wow, that’s cool.” He tilted his head. “So. . . if it’s at your own pace, you don’t really need to go right now.”
“Well, no, I don’t need to, but I should. I haven’t studied yet today, and I’m really looking forward to this next unit. It’s all about Hymenoptera, which includes wasps, bees, and ants. . .” I rambled on for a little bit, detailing interesting facts until I realized what I was doing. “I’m boring you, aren’t I?”
“Not at all. Who knew ants have two stomachs? Must come in mighty handy.”
“It’s not so they can eat like gluttons,” I clarified. “One of the stomachs is actually a place to store food to share with the other ants in the colony.”
“Nice. Glad I’m not an ant. Not that that’s the tipping point or anything. I wouldn’t want to be one for lots of reasons. Think about the chances of being stepped on. Not a great way to go.”
“Oh, that wouldn’t happen as easily as you think. You’d spend a lot of time underground.”
“Well”—Harvey smirked—“that makes it so much more appealing.”
“Ha-ha. Well I think ants are fascinating. I was interested in them even before butterflies.” I parted the grass and leaned close, searching for the busy little insects. “I used to spend hours just watching ants building their hills. Sometimes I’d feed them. I even had an ant farm once . . .”
The Butterfly Recluse Page 2