And as the “grown-ups” among them talked long into fireside tales of travel and home, Luke would watch his own young daughter slip away into the long grasses, chasing Jerry’s grandson, who always held a sparkle in his eye and a fire in his heart for their girl. He watched from afar as their feet flew beneath those branches, fireflies dancing to light the way, and the boy would set the girl to swinging high in that sky.
His heart, and Hannah’s, were full. Light dancing from above, roots plunging life through dark, and warmth all around.
Contents
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Dedication
Epigraph
1
2
3
4
5
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13
To all those who have lost someone precious and are brave enough to love again.
This story is for you.
The LORD is close to the brokenhearted;
he rescues those whose spirits are crushed.
Psalm 34:18
one
A tittering laugh sailed under the arch of the rose trellis and ribboned through twenty rows of alpine-white wedding chairs to where Abby Brookshire crouched in the west garden, tidying up from her meticulous pruning before guests arrived. With her hands full of trimmings, she glanced over her shoulder just in time to see today’s groom sweep his blushing bride into his arms and plant a flirtatious kiss on her mouth. It was a display she’d seen countless times over the years, and yet it never failed to press against an emotional bruise that refused to heal, no matter how much time had passed.
As the photographer rotated around the blissful couple like paparazzi, capturing every angle of their magazine-worthy poses, Abby focused once again on the azaleas she’d been tending to. She had no doubt that all the pictures taken today at the Kissing Tree Inn would be stunning. After all, she’d been told most of her life that this particular wedding destination had once been voted eighth on the coveted Top Ten Most Romantic Venues in Texas.
But Abby knew a secret even the most intuitive bridal magazine editor did not. The magic found in Oak Springs had less to do with a romantic inn and everything to do with the nature surrounding it.
She brushed the dirt off her knees and stretched the stiffness from her back. Having been raised on the inn’s twenty-six acres, her familiarity with each patch of grass and flowering plant was equal to that of the cozy two-bedroom groundskeeper’s cottage she’d grown up in with her father. Even now, as she gazed over the expanse of manicured lawns and groomed walking paths, her recollection of the hide-and-seek games played in the bushes after school, and creek frogs captured on scorching summer days with the Malone boys, and applesauce jars stuffed with seedlings and planting soil were as vivid as they were visceral. And it was those memories, those past heartbeats of happiness and stability, that would keep her here forever. No matter how tempting the offer. Or how tempting the man who had dared to make such an offer.
Gingerly, she bent to pluck a twig from between a row of yellow tulips and tossed it into her wheelbarrow. She traipsed along the stepping-stones her father had laid nearly two decades prior, her trusty rubber half boots leading the way. Unlike most females in their midtwenties, Abby’s shoe selection wouldn’t fit the majority of social occasions attended by her peers. No, her fashion choices followed one simple motto: If she couldn’t wear it in a garden, it didn’t belong in her closet.
Mindful of the pre-ceremony photography session taking place on the south side of the property, she worked her way east, past the river rock water feature, a row of juniper trees, and the flowering golden dewdrops dotting the path to the creek—all locations that ticked like clockwork in Abby’s mind: eight, nine, and ten. Her father had trained her to visualize the land like the numbers of an incongruent clock face: “If you follow the sequence of the clock, no flower, bush, or plant will ever be neglected.”
As she rounded the greenhouse and approached twelve o’clock on the property, her grip on the wheelbarrow handles tightened, as if by that action alone, she might prevent the one memory she wished she could forget more than all. But the ruggedly handsome face who appeared in her mind each and every time she reached the massive live oak near the front of the inn would be as impossible to erase as this century-old landmark would be to uproot.
The instant she stepped beneath the oak’s sprawling branches, she jerked the wheelbarrow to a stop, her eyes straining to make sense of the scene before her. Neon yellow caution tape wrapped the circumference of the oak’s thick trunk. A swaying branch overhead caused her attention to shift to the shadowy figure climbing high into the tree’s crown.
What in the world? Abandoning the wheelbarrow, Abby jogged toward the man standing on the opposite side of the oak, the one dressed in a sleek business suit and taking pictures of the area with his fancy new iPhone. Bradley, the eldest son of the Malone family line—and the inn’s newest owner—had become a daily test of patience for Abby.
“Bradley, what’s going on?” She didn’t bother with the formality he preferred while in earshot of their guests. He may be her direct boss now, but their childhood history made that easy to forget, especially when said history included him stranding her in this very tree without a ladder during the summer of her sixth-grade year. If not for Bradley’s slightly older, slightly more attractive cousin tackling him to the ground until he apologized and retrieved the ladder, she might never have found the boldness to stand up to him. But Griffin had always been the Malone to push her to be more. Because Griffin had always believed she could be more. “What’s with all this caution tape? And who’s that up in our tree?”
He released a weighty sigh, as if the very thought of having to interact with his head groundskeeper exhausted him. “As I’ve already told Annette, incident reports are time-sensitive. Insurance adjusters don’t wait on wedding ceremonies.”
Ah, Annette. So that’s why his mouth looked as if he’d been sucking on a sour candy for hours. Not only was Annette the best wedding coordinator in their town, she was also Bradley’s ex-wife, an unfortunate combination for everybody employed at the Kissing Tree Inn.
“Wait, does that incident report have anything to do with the teen who fell and broke his arm last weekend? Because that was clearly his fault; he was the one who ignored the No Climbing sign and—”
“Doesn’t matter,” Bradley said, as if he were chiseling the words out of granite. “The inn is still liable for his fall. At least, that’s what the stack of medical bills on my desk tells me.” With a frustration that seemed ever present these days, he glanced up at the climber, who was tying off on a higher branch.
Abby breathed through her nose and tried to tap into the diplomatic tone her father had mastered in tension-filled moments. “Okay, well, while I can understand your frustration over the unexpected medical bills, you still have a responsibility to follow protocol.” A conversation she’d had with him multiple times regarding the oak. “The county’s Live Oak Protection Act is very particular about requesting proper clearance for climbers, and it’s even more particular about hiring certified arborists only.”
“I’m aware of the protocol, Abby,” he said dryly.
“So then you’re also aware that the fines for noncompliance can be upwards of ten thousand dollars?”
Since Bradley’s parents had retired from the inn last year, there had been plenty of tighten-the-purse-straps budget meetings, especially when it came to anything he considered expendable or extraneous. Often, her groundskeeping budget fell into this category. She’d already had to switch to a lesser fertilizer, and her small staff had been reduced, not to mention her ignored requests for new gardening tools. So if he was upset about the costs of a broken arm, then a fine from the state wouldn’t bode well for any of them.
“I won’t get f
ined.”
The arrogance in his voice heated her blood. “Being a Malone won’t keep you from a citation. The rules are in place for a reason—to protect one of our town’s most precious historical landmarks.” The Malone family might be one of the most reputable families in Oak Springs, but not even they could outpower a more than one-hundred-fifty-year-old oak tree.
“He’s certified,” he continued.
“What?”
“My climber.” Bradley flicked his hand north.
She squinted through the setting sun’s glare. She didn’t recognize the man’s gear or his profile. “What company is he with? Because I’ve never seen that logo before.” And Abby was fairly certain she knew every certified arborist within a ninety-mile radius of Oak Springs. Not to mention the one arborist who moved far outside that ninety-mile radius two years ago. But most importantly, Winston Hawks, the older gentleman who had serviced their tree since she was a young girl, was still back east, visiting his ailing mother. “And what exactly is this guy supposed to be doing up there, anyway? Our next pruning isn’t scheduled until June.”
Bradley closed his eyes and massaged his right temple. And something about that gesture reminded her of when they were kids, back before braces had fixed the gap between his two front teeth and before LASIK had fixed his nearsightedness. “Do you realize what could have happened if that kid’s parents had decided to sue us?”
“Yes, but even if they’d tried, there were too many witnesses to—”
He continued as if she hadn’t spoken. “And do you have any idea how much the average pruning invoice runs us on the oak these days? Or any of the extra costs associated with the specialty irrigation plans and climbing equipment for its unusual height and width?”
As he spoke, a branch snapped from somewhere near the top of the crown and pinballed its way to the ground, shattering upon impact.
“Well, no, but I—”
“We can’t afford it. Not ten years ago, and certainly not now.” His pause caused her to hold her breath. “The very preservation act you seem so fond of places one hundred percent of the financial burden on the property owner. And yet I have next to zero rights when it comes to making decisions about the property I own surrounding this tree, or regarding the tree itself. Not without facing a severe penalty.”
Cold dread crept up her spine. “So what are you saying?”
“I’m petitioning the council for a removal.”
“You’re what?” Her voice was little more than a squeak, as if with that one pronouncement, he’d yanked all the fight right out of her. “A removal? But you can’t . . . you can’t do that.” She wracked her brain for an argument, anything that might appeal to a stuffy businessman like Bradley Malone. “The inn is called the Kissing Tree Inn. It’s integral to every part of your branding and one of the key reasons we’re booked to capacity every wedding season. Every bride wants their picture taken right here.”
“A name change is the least of my worries, and we have plenty of beautiful scenery to be photographed beyond this tree.” He slipped his phone from his pocket and tapped furiously on the screen. “The wedding season is only three months out of the year—four at most. It’s not what will sustain us.” He leveled his gaze on her once again. “Guests will book with or without that tree looming in the background of their photos. The inn has over a hundred years of history in this town.”
“As does this tree!” Fear like Abby hadn’t known since the day her daddy told her of his prognosis flooded her heart. Though Bradley had complained about the high costs associated with tending the tree before, he’d never threatened to repeal the protection order, and he certainly hadn’t threatened a removal. A removal. Just the thought of it made her sway on her feet. “Please, please don’t do this.” Her voice flexed with hidden emotion. “There has to be a way to keep the inn from financial hardship and keep the tree. We just need some time to brainstorm, to plan.”
For a moment, the hard exterior Bradley had worn since his divorce last January seemed to peel back a layer, exposing a fleeting glimpse of the man she believed he could still become. But then he shook his head and shattered her hope. “It’s too late. The repeal process has already started. I’ve hired an arborist I trust to provide the committee with a full health assessment report for the council meeting at the end of the month. If you have questions, you can direct them to him.”
She swung her focus back to the small-boned man rappelling off the trunk. Why would Bradley trust a stranger with something so important? Had he paid this guy off somehow? She scrutinized the climber’s shiny, unfamiliar gear—all of which spoke of a recent hire. It was that revelation alone that soothed the growing anxiety within her. This age-old tree wouldn’t be taken down by someone so inexperienced. It wouldn’t be written off by someone who lacked the respect for such a historic piece of nature. The town’s committee wouldn’t stand for it. And neither would she . . . no matter what it might cost her in the end.
From the youthful look of this guy, he couldn’t have had his arborist certification for more than what? A month or two? Absurd. She’d spent the better part of her twenty-eight years elbow deep in this soil, planting and pruning and experiencing the world through the gentle guidance of a master gardener who’d spent his life teaching her to respect God’s creation. And while she might not be allowed to climb the protected oak herself, some out-of-town kid wouldn’t tell her anything she didn’t already know.
Because she knew this tree. The same way she knew every square foot of these twenty-six acres. This land, much like this old oak, was a part of Abby, an extension of her broken heart. And if she lost it, there would be nothing left inside her to keep on beating.
From somewhere not far behind her a throat cleared, and the familiar rumble of it sent tiny goose bumps racing down her neck and spine. She didn’t need to turn around to identify the man who now stood at her back. Because he was the same man who showed up uninvited in her dreams. The same man who had kissed her in the greenhouse during a hailstorm on her nineteenth birthday. The same man who’d held her for hours the night her father had breathed his last breath.
And he was the same man she’d vowed never to give her heart to again.
Griffin Malone.
two
Griffin had spent the better part of his four-hour drive from San Antonio to Oak Springs readying himself for this exact moment. Heck, who was he kidding? He’d spent the better part of the last two years readying himself for this moment. And while he knew that dropping in unannounced for a round of Ghost from Girlfriend’s Past would smart a bit, it wouldn’t come close to the permanent fracture Abby’s rejection had caused when she’d shut him out of her life.
As if overnight, Abby had become an impenetrable fortress, hiding herself away from the world—from him—despite his best attempts to reach her. No matter what he’d said, she’d refused to hear the truth: He loved her too much to watch her waste her talent on the inn . . . and so had her father.
And while he knew showing up on her turf today with job orders from his cousin wouldn’t be a surprise Abby would appreciate, it was quite possibly his only chance at closure. And closure, he realized, seemed to be the one thing he couldn’t manufacture on his own. Building a successful arborist business? Done. Hiring reliable employees? No problem. But letting Abby go while the promises he’d made to her dying father remained unfulfilled?
Impossible.
On the long drive over, he’d prepared himself for the sight of Abby’s sleek, sunbathed skin and her dark walnut eyes. He’d forced himself to remember the lone spattering of freckles that arched the bridge of her nose and highlighted the tempting peak of her top lip. But he’d failed to prepare for what the sound of her voice would do to him. Because she wasn’t just speaking, she was pleading. For the life of this tree, much the way she’d pled for the life of her father the day he’d decided to stop treatments.
Griffin cleared his throat and shook t
he difficult memory away. He shoved his hands into the pockets of his work pants and stepped toward her, fighting against the invisible power of muscle memory that ached to pull her into his arms.
“Hey, Abby.”
She turned around slowly, blinking him in as if she, too, was struggling to sort the past from the present. “Griffin.”
He’d thought of a dozen opening lines, a dozen different ways to stay indifferent and unaffected—all of which evaporated the instant she spoke his name. It was the first contact they’d had since she’d told him off in this very spot. Nearly two years ago.
A distant part of him was aware of his cousin’s impatient mutterings about “not having much daylight left” and something else about “finishing the report before Annette flies over on her broomstick and curses them all,” but Griffin ignored him, too transfixed by the face he’d convinced himself couldn’t possibly affect him after all this time. But he was about as good at self-deception as he was at giving relationship advice.
There was only so much Bradley and Annette drama he could handle in a single afternoon. A quota that had been filled in the first ten minutes of his arrival at the inn. Granted, he knew it couldn’t be easy for his cousin to work in such close proximity to his ex-wife, but even still, Griffin had zero counsel to offer on how to get a stubborn inn owner and an eccentric wedding planner to see eye to eye on, well, anything. He had his own relationship woes to sort out with Abby, which was exactly what he intended to do with the time he’d been given here.
He smiled as he took in the beautiful woman in the green garden boots. “I see you still have Kermit.”
Abby lifted the toe of her short rubber boot and gave a noncommittal shrug, even though the evidence of his handiwork—a humorous frog drawn in permanent black marker under her ankle—was still in place for the world to see. “They’ve still got a few years left in them.”
The Kissing Tree Page 25
