Fly Away Home - - (tharntype novel english TXT) 📗

Bribery is still an effective tactic when attempting to persuade a teenager. The promise of a fully caffeinated beverage from the coffee shop on Main Street awaits my niece. The only condition is for her to help me with the plumbing repair. Lizzie ups the ante as only a determined young woman can, negotiating a visit to the bridge this afternoon. She insists it will be her next masterpiece. I can’t deny her an opportunity to pursue something she’s so passionate about.

Usually an early riser, I’m surprised by what I see after stumbling into the kitchen midmorning. Lizzie is sitting at the table, drawing a carefully assembled pyramid of lemons in her sketchbook.

“Hey, kiddo. How did you sleep?”

“Good.” Her response emerges unconsciously as she focuses on the texture of the zesty skin.

My automatic tendencies kick into gear too. Without looking, I grab the carafe to fill it with water. It feels heavy. It’s then I notice a fresh pot of morning inspiration has already been brewed. My favorite mug sits empty next to it, waiting for a pour. Is it the promise of coffee or a visit to the bridge that motivates Lizzie? Based on the cooling cup beside her, I know which one holds the mightier power of persuasion.

She looks toward me as I take a seat at the table. “Are you ready to get started? I have the tools already pulled out on the porch.” She gathers up her art supplies and slides the sketchbook with its drying pages alongside the pile of fruit.

“I need my daily cup of liquid enthusiasm first, but I promise we’ll visit the bridge later.” I guess at the reason for Lizzie’s excitement. The spontaneous grin on her face proves my assumption right. “I’m impressed how you’re able to capture the texture of those lemons so beautifully. And with only a single color and some water. How do you do that?”

“I don’t know. It just happens. I used to spend a lot of time trying to find the perfect mixture for each shade. I took so long that I never finished painting anything. So I started going with the flow and letting things happen. It’s more fun that way.”

I grin and bite my tongue, not wanting to spoil the innocence of youth. Allowing the currents of life to guide you is okay at certain times. But it’s also important to understand with clarity where you’re headed. That’s what I’m in the middle of trying to figure out. Even if it was an impulsive decision, my presence here in Pigeon Grove is a perfect example. Things have changed since I’ve arrived, but my new life is a delicate balance of order and spontaneity. “Do you have a favorite color?”

“Orange.” She responds without a moment of hesitation.

“Does that have anything to do with the number of oranges you’ve painted?” It’s my attempt at a playful joke, but Lizzie appears contemplative, as if she’s never thought about it.

“I don’t think so. I’ve always wanted to paint a sunset. With all those different shades of orange. I’m pretty sure that’s where it comes from.” She pulls her tray of paints back toward her, studying the mixture of red and yellow hues.

I remember trying to decide on a color for the walls in my bedroom. I never would have chosen the pumpkin-curry shade, but its symbolism tempted me. It represents new ideas, a release of limitations, and the freedom to be yourself. I’m probably overthinking things, but I can see why Lizzie is drawn toward that color.

After sipping the last few drops of coffee, I place my mug on the counter. I slyly retrieve my cheat sheet stowed in the drawer.

“What’s that?”

“They’re steps that Mr. Turner shared with me. So we know what to do. And in what order we should do them. I’ve never undertaken anything this ambitious before. So it’s a good idea to understand what’s supposed to happen before plowing headlong into it.” I’m speaking in an adult language that younger ones often tune out.

“My dad says that sometimes it’s best to learn how to do something as you’re doing it. He might have said it while I was trying to create those perfect shades of paint.” I’m surprised by her insightful response. “Maybe this is like that. We’ll figure it out. It can’t be that tough, right?”

While her exuberance is admirable, I smile and review the directions one last time. “Okay then. Let’s get to it.” I don’t want to spoil her enthusiasm, so I keep repeating the steps in my mind. Committing them to memory, I slip the paper into my pocket. I can take a quick peek, as necessary, when she’s not looking. But maybe Lizzie’s right, this shouldn’t be that tough.

She’s already grabbed a shovel and started digging in the marked spot. Jumping on the spade like a pogo stick, she works her way around the area in a circle. I’m thankful for her youthful energy. My arms and shoulders ache just watching her.

She moves so fast. Distracted by her accelerated pace, I try to catch up mentally, thinking about what we need to do next. Was it loosening the coupling? But there was something else before that, I’m almost positive. Should I check my list? Lizzie’s looking right at me, wearing a proud smile. I don’t want to dispirit her desire for exploration and discovery in the moment.

I dig through my mental catalog of directions while Lizzie burrows in the dirt. We’re both searching for an elusive long-lost treasure. “I found it!” She’s as excited to find the copper pipe as a dog is to uncover his buried bone. The wrench is already in her hand and wrapped around the joint, too tightly.

“Here, a little looser than that. If you hold it too tight, you’ll crush it. Too light, and it’ll spin in place.” My thoughts wander toward a similar balance of extremes while rubbing those lavender buds. We’re both immersed in the moment, learning together. Our hands work in unison to find the perfect pressure. A steady counterclockwise motion begins.

Glancing up at each other, we both smile with a shared appreciation for figuring things out as a team, and on our own. A slow trickle of water from the joint causes a similar drip of information into my mind. Something isn’t right. I don’t know what it is. “Hold on a second.”

“We’re almost there. I can feel it.” Lizzie continues to twist the wrench with more excitement. That forgotten step floods my memory. The same thing is about to happen in my side yard.

“The main water valve. Stop. Tighten, tighten!” Short abbreviated commands burst from my mouth. I try to convey an immediate need to change course. She stops for a moment, processes my instructions, and repositions the wrench, but it’s too late.

The dribble has now become a steady stream. The pressure builds and finds its desired escape route in the crack we’ve created. A wild and erratic spray of water shoots in every direction. Aquatic fireworks explode in the yard. I look left and right, trying to remember where I saw the main shutoff valve. We’re both completely soaked as Lizzie tries her best to tighten the loosened joint. She’s fighting a losing battle, realizes it, and gives in, allowing the unruly waterworks to batter her. Small giggles turn to belly-rupturing laughter.

I glance at her but still feel like a deer caught in the headlights. I’m trying to figure out what to do when the spray spontaneously changes directions. Intent on joining the festivities, dirt mingles with the water, coating us in mud. A small chuckle escapes my lungs when I notice Lizzie shift her gaze to someone behind me.

Jack drops his backpack and notices the pipe wrench in Lizzie’s hand. She passes it to him instinctively, with no request to do so. He moves into the watery mix, trying to keep the flooding waters from drenching the yard any further. Then, I remember. I dart toward the back corner of the house, closing the valve as fast as I can turn it.

I’ve stopped laughing. But more of that belly-rupturing laughter continues around the corner. It’s louder now that the sound of gushing water doesn’t drown it out. The male counterpart added to the mix troubles me. I need to return to the site, but I don’t want to. I’m caught in that familiar void once again.

When I sidle back toward my unintended and temporary swimming pool, the hole in the ground has grown wider. Jack’s backpack is sitting on the edge of a large puddle. With all the other things needing my attention, this is the one that feels most immediate. It’s as if it contains something of critical importance to me. The small gap between the zipper and its full-stop position causes my heart to skip a beat. Swallowed up by worry and guilt, I place it in a dry spot on the side porch.

Glancing back in their direction, I see the water has soaked through Jack’s white shirt and jeans. He isn’t one of those chiseled specimens I’ve encountered in unrealistic romance novels. Still, there’s a certainty and physical stability about him. It’s authentic, even if my apprehensive self says otherwise.

“Hi, I’m Jack.” He reaches out his dirty hand to greet Lizzie.

“I’m Lizzie. Thanks for, um, helping. I guess we needed it.”

“Actually, it looked like you had pretty much everything under control.” He grins and hands the wrench back to her.

“Thank you, Jack.” He turns toward me. The sound of his name, even in a simple expression of gratitude, is enchanting in ways it shouldn’t be.

“It’s no problem. I’m always happy to help a neighbor.” There’s an