by Tia Louise
Going to her desk, she picks up a pen. “I’m sure I can come up with something. I know you as well as anyone.”
“Better.” Our eyes meet, and she blinks away fast.
Her cheeks turn the lightest shade of pink, and I’m encouraged I can still throw her off balance. I take it as a positive sign.
She moves her mouse back and forth quickly, waking her computer. “I’ll put you on my calendar and get a concept to you by the end of the week. Do you have an idea of what you want?”
Considering I just thought of it five minutes ago? “Not really… Maybe we could work on it together.”
Scooting back in her chair, she shakes her head quickly. “I meet with clients during the day. Then I work on concepts at night.”
Stepping back, I put my hand on the door. “I don’t mind working nights.”
“I work alone.” Her voice is firm, and she seems a bit flustered again.
It’s kind of a backfire, but at least I’ll see her more. “I’ll check in with you then.”
She looks around the room. “I’m not sure this is a good idea…”
“Sure it is. I’m your first hometown client.” My hand is on the door, and I push through it, not giving her a chance to back out on me. “I’ll let you know if I think of an idea.”
I wave through the glass, thinking how pretty she is owning her dream.
“I talked to Mindy about creating a logo and some branding for the orchard.” I’m in the kitchen with Noel after dinner, gazing out the window at our family’s estate.
“Sounds like a great idea.” Noel is at the table reading an article on her laptop. “What did you have in mind?”
“I don’t know.” I sit across from her. “What do you think?”
Noel leans back and blinks around. “It would need to be something that speaks to who we are…”
“The biggest orchard in north Louisiana?”
“Yeah, but something more personal.” She stands and walks to the sink, looking out the window. “Something about family… or tradition… or perseverance…”
“An anchor.” I can’t believe I didn’t think of it this afternoon.
Noel crosses her arms and tilts her head to the side. “That doesn’t really say peaches to me.”
“But it’s personal. We’re an anchor in the community. We provide security—”
“Hang on.” Noel returns to her laptop and types quickly, then she reads. “The anchor symbolizes security, stability, and being grounded. It’s a symbol of hope.” Her eyes light as she looks up at me. “It’s perfect.”
Taking out my phone, I send a text to Mindy. How about an anchor for our logo?
The text sits on the screen a few minutes with delivered beneath it, and I look out the window again. It’s late, and the sky is a deep shade of purple. I can’t help the tightness I feel in my stomach. Is this a bigger backfire than I thought? Have I got her working late in that sketchy location all alone?
I’m on my feet before I even finish the thought. “I’ll be right back.”
Dashing out to my truck, I take it a little faster than usual as I drive up the dirt road in the direction of town. I’m halfway down the Interstate, headed to Mindy’s office when my phone buzzes. Ignoring it, I drive a little faster down the service road in the dark. A tinge of relief hits me when I see the empty parking lot. The tall poles shine white light on the vacant spaces. She’s not here.
Turning the wheel, I take it back towards downtown. About ten-minutes later, I’m passing the long block of shops, restaurants, and finally apartments. My gut completely unclenches when I see her gold Prius parallel parked outside her building. Only one thing would make me happier—going to her door and pulling her into my arms, holding her and telling her I love her.
I’ll have to wait for that outcome, and I have only myself to blame
At the four-way stop, I pick up my phone and read the text. It’s from Mindy. Sorry—just got home. I like it. I’ll start some sketches tonight.
I quickly text back. Can’t wait to see what you do.
She’s home. She’s safe, and I probably overreacted.
Still, I’d do it again.
29
Mindy
“I can hear it in your voice—you’re stronger now.” Mrs. Irene cups my face with her hands, lifting her chin.
I place my hands on top of hers. “I hope one day I’m just like you.”
She chuckles. “I hope you’re even better. Now tell me what happened.”
“Where do I begin?” I’ve visited her every time I came home over the last six months, but so many times, I was stuck in my own head, feeling like I’d never get over Sawyer, feeling like I’d never get my design business profitable.
Then everything happened so fast.
“Start with the part where Sawyer got home.” Her voice is knowing, and I grin.
“You knew about that?”
“Ramona tells me everything.”
“Uhh…” I sigh, feeling that familiar clench in my chest when I think of his gorgeous face. “He’s changed a lot. He actually told me how he was feeling… He’s different.”
“So are you.” She smiles. “Now tell me the good part. Did he ask you out?”
“He did. He said he wants us to try again for real.”
“I knew it!” She cries, like she made a goal in soccer. “What did you say?”
“I said no.”
The room falls silent. The sound of Bing Crosby singing Christmas carols drifts to us from somewhere down the hall.
Mrs. Irene presses her lips together and nods slowly. “Good. You are strong, and you are valuable. Don’t let him just waltz right in and snap his fingers. Make him earn it.”
Dropping into the chair beside her bed, I put my face in my hands whining. “But I don’t want to say no… at least my heart doesn’t. I want to be with him.”
Her fingers are in my hair, threading it away from my face. “I know, honey.” She chuckles. “If you didn’t love him so much, he wouldn’t drive you crazy.”
Sitting up slowly, I know she can’t see me, but I gaze into her eyes pleading. “Tell me what to do. How do I stop feeling this way?”
A smile softens her features, and she pats my shoulder. “You have to figure it out for yourself.”
“But what if I make the wrong decision?”
Leaning forward, she nods her head. “Trust yourself. You won’t.”
All night I sit up in bed with my iPad pro and stylus, sketching out variations of an anchor garlanded with peaches, sketching out images of hands holding, hearts entwining.
Sawyer’s suggestion touched something deep inside of me. It opened the doors I’ve been holding shut on all of our most sacred memories. He wants me to incorporate our story into the symbol of his business he’ll present to the world. Only it’s not just his business, it’s his family’s land, his heritage, his livelihood.
It’s like saying to the world I’m a part of this. It’s coming full-circle… Except no one will know the significance but us.
My heart seems to open as I move the stylus over the screen. As I draw, I see everything we’ve been through since the day his father died. Currents of emotion flood my veins, lifting me up and taking me down. I see us as teenagers, me so awkward, frizzy hair, him always calm and mature, perfectly gorgeous and perfectly controlled. I remember sneaking into his bedroom window those nights in May, and him wrapping his arms around me.
Closing my eyes, I remember the flood of comfort he’d give me. I also remember coming alive with desire.
I remember being so in love with him it ached in my bones. I remember longing for him with my first mature feelings of love, wanting to give him everything, wanting him to be the one to hold my hand through those experiences, show me the way.
My soul remembers the first time we made love. Ghost memories of my skin awakening, blooming like a rose when he touched me for the first time. I remember the zip of electricity in my most private parts wh
en his body approached mine… I feel the toe-curling rush of pleasure when his mouth covered me, his tongue caressing me, the scruff of his beard against my skin when he tasted me. I hear his groans when he filled me, thrusting so deep, so big it seemed impossible.
Tears fill my eyes when I recall the hard parts—the separation of him being deployed, lying in my bed at night, dreaming of him coming home and taking me in his arms, loving me and announcing to the world I’m his.
I remember the most recent parts, covering him in mud with the three-wheeler, swimming in the lake, taking pictures in the orchard, drinking tequila by the lake and dancing in the moonlight. Making love and sleeping in the bed of his truck.
And of course, the dark part, when he was so broken, when he wouldn’t let me help him. When he sent me away…
Creating this campaign feels like attempting to illustrate the blossoming and maturing of a great love that unfolded with the passage of life. It was so private. It was sacred, our secret. Now he wants to make my dreams come true by sharing it with the world, and I’m the one hesitating… wondering if this is the right time, if this is a good idea. If I’m strong enough to let him in again.
My alarm wakes me up in the middle of my bed, with my iPad on my face. I drag my ass to the shower and get cleaned up, get dressed, and head to work. The key Jeff gave me sticks in the lock, and I have to wiggle it to get the door open. Mental note: Call Jeff about getting a locksmith out here to fix this thing.
I finished unpacking the morning Sawyer showed up to help me. All that’s left is hanging the final posters and breaking down the boxes. Otherwise, I’m ready to get to work.
My phone vibrates with a text from Deacon. Sending you a referral. New fitness club in Plano. A forwarded contact appears on the screen.
I reply quickly. You’re the best, you know that?
Just sending names. You barely need me.
I needed the kick in the pants you gave me last summer.
Have you gotten everything on your list?
I know he’s referencing Sawyer. Not ready to go there.
What’s it going to take?
Not sure yet.
My heart is ready, but I don’t know what it’s going to take for my intellect to let go of the past.
What I have learned in six months is I’ve got time. I know who I am now. I’m confident I can take care of myself, and I’ll know when I’m ready.
30
Sawyer
Jimmy Hebert is a small man with bright blue eyes and no hair.
Black and white photographs of him playing football in high school are arranged in frames on the furniture in his room, and a larger portrait of him in his army uniform is on the wall.
He’s sitting in a leather recliner beside the window when I arrive, and I wait as he presses a button that causes the chair to slowly move forward and deposit him to standing in front of me.
“Nice to see you again, Sawyer.” He extends a hand, smiling up at me. “It’s been a while.”
Apprehension is heavy in my stomach, but I reach out to accept his greeting. “Yes, sir. I was in Nashville about six months.”
“That so?” He walks over to the mini fridge in his room. “What were you doing there? Want a coke?”
“No thanks. I, ah… I was doing some work.” On myself. This shouldn’t be so hard to say. “I was doing therapy.”
He nods, his expression turning serious. “That’s good. Back in my day, there was a real stigma about things like that. It could have helped a lot of guys.”
We’re quiet again, and I look up at the small tree on a shelf. It has tiny presents and lights that twinkle. Ancient Christmas music floats through the air, and I start to feel awkward.
He cracks open a Coke Zero and takes a long sip followed by a loud exhale. “So what can I do for you?”
“Well, sir, I wanted to come by and offer my apologies about what happened.” The back of my neck feels hot, and I rub my hand across it. “You know, in June. If there’s anything I can do or if you’re having any residual problems—”
He holds up both hands, frowning at me. “No apology necessary. It was an accident. I know that, and I’m fine.” Lowering his hands, he chuckles and gives me a wink. “I’m a lot tougher than I look, I’ll tell ya.”
“Anyway, I feel better saying it. I truly am sorry.”
“In that case, apology accepted.” Stepping forward he pats my shoulder. “You’re a good man, Sawyer, you always have been.”
“I appreciate that.” My chest is still heavy. “It doesn’t always feel like it.”
“You know, my daddy had a saying back when he was alive.” The old man furrows his brow. “Everyone deserves a second chance.”
Exhaling a laugh, the smallest trickle of relief starts in my heart. “My daddy used to say the same thing.”
“See there?” He pats me roughly. “Apply that same wisdom to yourself. Give yourself a second chance.”
“Thank you, sir.”
We stand facing each other a little longer. Mr. Hebert takes another sip of his coke, and the slow ancient Christmas song has turned into a fast ancient Christmas song.
“You know, my mamma had another saying.” He pokes me in the side. “It ain’t over til it’s over. I’ve got a dinner date with Rosemary Leblanc, so if we’re all done here…”
“Oh, wow, yes…” Glancing at the clock, I see it’s four-thirty. I’m not sure whether to laugh or apologize. “Sorry, I’ll take off now. Merry Christmas.”
“Merry Christmas, son.” He calls after me, and when we reach the hall he scuttles in the direction of the cafeteria, while I make my way to the exit.
I’m feeling lighter than when I arrived, and I’m halfway out the door when I spot Mindy in the parking lot getting into her car.
“Hey, Mindy!” I call, jogging to where she stops.
She’s so pretty in dark jeans and a cream, fuzzy sweater. Her hair is in a low ponytail over one shoulder, and she seems startled. “Sawyer? What are you doing here?”
Stopping at her door, we’re both breathing a little fast. “Just finishing up some business. What are you doing?”
She glances at the building, confused. “I still visit pretty regularly. I brought Mrs. Irene a music box and Miss Jessica likes ornaments—”
“Have dinner with me.”
Her head pulls back, and I brace for another immediate no. Instead, she laughs. “It’s not even five o’clock yet!”
Looking around, I realize I’m not even hungry. I just want to be near her, follow Mr. Hebert’s advice.
“I guess you’re right.” Optimism won’t let me go, and I search for an alternative. “Want to go for a walk?”
Her answer is hesitant, but encouraging. “They opened this new coffee shop right down from my apartment.”
“I heard about that. Dewey Sanders opened it. He hired a bunch of high schoolers to run the place.”
She laughs. “So the service will probably suck, but it’s worth a try?”
“I’ll follow you.”
We park in front of her apartment downtown, and I wait as she leaves things at her place. The sun shines in a clear blue sky, making a chilly day warm. We’re walking side by side, and I want to take her hand. I want to pull her close and slide her hair off her cheek. I want to kiss her. She’s letting me in, but I’m not going to rush it.
The coffee place is decked out for the holidays, playing much more recent Christmas music. The kids behind the counter all wear antler headbands and blinking red noses, and the service actually is pretty good.
We’re out on the street sipping hot beverages and looking in the windows of the tiny downtown department stores. Everything is fake snow and Santa Claus, elves, sleds and reindeer.
“Mm…” Mindy sips her cinnamon cookie latte. “I think I’ve found my new addiction.”
“Good?” I just ordered a plain coffee. I’m not into the fancy stuff.
“It’s delicious.” She takes another sip and makes
a noise that has me missing her sexy body.
Reluctantly, I pull the reins on those thoughts. I have to take it slow. We stroll a little farther up the street, stopping in front of a window decorated with couples holding hands, ice skating on lakes.
“I thought of you every day I was in Nashville.” My chest aches as I remember lying in my bed at night, thinking of her, hearing Taron’s words, She’s your reason to fight. My longing for her then was as intense as it is now. “We never talked about what happened.”
“We never talked about anything you did.” I see her reflection in the glass, honest but open.
I hesitate a moment, then I just say it. “I want to.”
Turning, she looks up at me, her pretty green eyes glistening and warm. “Me too.”
Quickly tossing my coffee in the trash, I take her hand in mine, threading our fingers. Then I stop, worried. “Is this okay?”
She looks down at her hand in mine, palm against palm, a sensation I’ve missed so much. “Yes.”
The one word I’ve been waiting to hear. My shoulders relax and we start to walk again.
“We made this pact when we were kids that we’d always have each other.”
“It’s true.”
“I haven’t always lived up to it.” Looking down, I tighten my fingers around hers. “I’m sorry.”
She only nods, so I continue.
“When they sent me home, they said I’d always have PTSD, panic attacks… They said one day it would culminate in suicidal ideation.” The pain of that diagnosis still aches in my chest. “After what happened with my dad, I guess I believed them.”
We continue walking, her heels click on the pavement, but she doesn’t say anything. I feel the warmth radiating from her skin, but she’s letting me speak.
“The time I spent in Nashville was intense.” Filtering through the six months, I remember how hard I worked. “Dr. Curtis is the therapist who worked with Taron. She takes a very aggressive approach. She’s not afraid to try new techniques—brainspotting, TM, talk therapy. She knew what I wanted, and she was determined to help me.”
