flecks that would never come out.
‘Better,’ she said. The doorbell rang again and she was ridiculously pleased that she didn’t jump. She even had the calm head to call out, ‘Coming!’
‘Hey again,’ he said, passing over the mug. ‘Thanks for the coffee. The only thing left is topsoil and seed or something planted if you want. Any thoughts?’ He shoved his hands deep into his pockets.
August didn’t consider it; she just stepped back and said, ‘Come on in, Jack.’
He stepped through the doorway and his sheer bulk sucked all the air from her lungs. She pressed her fingers against her thighs until her breathing steadied. ‘I was looking at trees,’ she said.
‘Good, any grab you?’
When he said ‘grab you’ she had a vivid flash of those large hands closing over her wrists, trapping her pulse beneath his thick fingers. ‘The Walking Stick tree. I like it a lot.’
He grinned. ‘My favourite. Honestly, they look like something from Tolkien.’
A tiny stab of glee pierced her heart at the mention of Tolkien. ‘I agree. I think I’d like one of those. Is that doable?’ She stroked the end of her braid and forced herself to stop. It was a nervous habit and she truly didn’t want to feel nervous around him. Nervousness indicated discomfort and discomfort meant he was getting to her. But it wasn’t really him, she thought. It was her getting to herself. If anything, Jack inspired a calm in her. The fact that she took that calm and twisted it into anxiety was her own doing.
‘Totally doable. I’ll have to run up to the plant nursery and see what they have. With the weather shifting we want to get it in soon. While days still get warm on occasion and not every night is a guarantee of frost.’ He stepped past her to one of her paintings of a local lake. It was simple. Close up. Vibrant with colours and yet shaded with shadows. ‘Wow,’ he said. ‘You’re really good.’
Then he stooped and looked at a stack of hand-drawn stationery on the end table. ‘This you, too?’
She nodded. ‘I have a small online store. Hand-done stationery. Some of it one of a kind, some lines I do regularly that seem popular, and, if a person’s willing to pay, I personalise. Do requests.’
He reached as if to touch them, but pulled his hand back. ‘Oops. Dirty hands. My sister would love these. She believes in the power of the handwritten letter. Kelly says we’re all turning into heathens with texts and emails.’
August snorted and quickly covered her mouth, embarrassed. ‘I agree. Plus, I just like stationery, cards, anything made of paper. Tangible, you know?’
The heat kicked on and she wished it hadn’t. She found it entirely too warm in here as it was, with him standing so close to her.
‘So, can I get some? I’d love to buy some for her.’
August shook her head. ‘Nope.’
His face fell and she almost laughed. She hurried on to explain. ‘You fell into my yard –literally – the very first day, ripped your trousers, cut your leg and didn’t sue me. I think that earns you a free pack of my stationery. Come into the dining room. I have some packs that are ready to go you can choose from.’ Then she turned her back to him and took her first deep breath of the day.
She laid them out on the dining-room table for him. ‘Fairies, leaves, snow, landscapes, seascapes…I think I have some that look like card suits in here.’ It was easier to ramble to him while digging through the desk. Then she didn’t have to look at him. Didn’t have to mentally process what she felt when she looked at him.
‘Card suits, definitely. Any aces in that deck?’ Jack leaned his hip against her table and crossed his arms.
August pulled out two packs. One done in red and black on white stationery, one done in white on black. ‘You might want to go with the white paper unless you know she has a white gel pen. Believe it or not, they sell big, the black sets. People like writing in white ink, apparently.’
He snagged the black set. Ornate card suits curled along the upper edges of the paper. Every envelope was inscribed with one of the suits. ‘I’ll just buy her a white gel pen. She’ll love it. Sure I can’t pay you?’
August straightened and busied herself putting the packs of paper back in a neat pile. ‘I am absolutely sure. It’s the least I can do.’
He smiled at her, his warm brown eyes studying her intently. Before she realised she was going to do it she blurted, ‘And yes!’
‘Yes?’ He cocked his head. It was a boyish affectation and only made whatever mad emotion was beating in her chest that much stronger.
‘I’d love to go see your friend’s work. I keep to myself mostly but –’ She shrugged.
‘I can tell,’ he said. ‘Some might say a bit on the hermitish side. But I’ve only known you two days.’
Two days. That was all. Felt like longer, she realised.
‘Well, you’re pretty accurate. I’m self-sufficient and I’m OK with that.’
He smacked the paper against his palm and smiled once more. ‘Well, that’s great. We’ll go. I’ll get the details from her tomorrow and tell you when I bring the tree by.’
‘As friends,’ she said softly. ‘Right? As friends?’
His smile never wavered. ‘Sure thing, August. I’ll take what I can get. As friends it is.’ He winked at her before heading out of the door.
She dialled Carley’s number with shaking fingers. When her best friend answered, August promptly burst into tears. Carley managed to extract just enough information to understand the situation.
She sighed heavily into the phone and said, ‘Oh, August. Honey, when are you ever going to stop doing penance for something that wasn’t your sin?’
The talk with Carley had helped. She’d offered to pop in with bags of Chinese food and a box of wine, but August had begged off, claiming she had a lot of painting to do – which was true. But it really wasn’t the reason. She wandered into her walk-in closet and pulled down the box. That was how it always was in her mind. In italics, in neon, a box of brightly blazing reminders of what her life could have been once upon a time.
What it could have been, given time.
She popped the top off, sat on the bed and pulled out old love letters from high school, a promise ring, sticky notes with funny faces and ‘I Love You’s inscribed on them. She removed a packet of pictures from that fateful vacation to the Virgin Islands and almost couldn’t bring herself to open it. But she finally did. There he was, in all his eighteen-year-old glory, ready to take on the world. Aaron. Her Aaron. The pictures she’d taken on their pre-honeymoon were slick between her fingers as she shuffled through. Her in a bright turquoise bikini in front of equally stunning water. Him on his belly in the sand, arms splayed like a starfish, laughing at the camera. Them together, taken by another tourist, outside a charming restaurant. The final one was him on the wave runner.
Her throat closed with emotion, knowing that photo had been snapped mere minutes before he’d climbed onto that death trap and burst out of her life in a tower of flames and a deafening sound.
A sob ripped out of her and she put her head down. ‘I’m sorry,’ she said. She still told him she was sorry, even twelve years after the fact. Not as often as she once had – in the beginning she’d muttered it into thin air at least ten times a day. The thing was, no matter what Carley said, no matter what anyone said, she never ever thought she’d stop saying she was sorry.
Never thought she’d stop being sorry.
She