When the day came to meet at the tree and leave town together, my boyfriend never showed up. I was heartbroken and devastated. Weeks later, I received a letter from him, explaining how he’d joined the army with his older brother. He said he was too young to become a husband, and that he needed more life experience before he settled down to start a family with me. He asked if I would write to him during the war so that he’d have a connection to home, and to me.
But I refused to write back. I was too hurt, too angry, too justified in how wrong he’d been for standing me up without being courteous enough to tell me in person. As the years went on, bitterness grew in my heart like a vine, causing me to become untrusting and cynical of men—even the man I was married to for nearly twenty-two years. After his death, I was certain I would end up alone. It’s what I deserved. I’d become a victim of my own making.
Last fall, during a rather routine shift at the diner, I served breakfast to a man I barely gave notice to, other than the fact that he was in a wheelchair, one leg amputated at the knee. When I picked up his check, there was a note written on the back side of the receipt. It said: I earned a Purple Heart in battle, and yet I’m little more than a coward when it comes to you. I never should have left without saying good-bye. I loved you. I think I always will. Please forgive me.
My heart cracked in two as I fled the diner in search of him. I drove all through town, scared I’d missed him, scared I’d never have the chance to free the pain I’d harbored for so long. But then, on my way back to the diner, I saw him. He’d parked his chair in front of that old live oak—contemplating life, love, and all the regrets sandwiched in between. That was the day I spoke the words I should have said decades earlier: I forgive you. Will you please forgive me, too?
This month marks ten years of a second chance I never should have been given. We were married under this tree eight years ago, and we pray each night that the good Lord will use our story to free others from the same prison of guilt and unforgiveness.
Much love,
Priscilla Burns
Abby’s throat constricted, her chest tightening with a mounting pressure she’d come to know all too well over the last two years. Though she’d been able to hide from Griffin, ignore his texts, and decline his phone calls, she hadn’t been able to avoid the guilt for the way she’d ended their relationship. At times, that pressing guilt had been more consuming than her grief.
As had her resentment.
Fresh conviction knocked on her heart as hot tears gathered on her lower lashes. She dashed them away with the back of her hand, only to see Griffin coming toward her in the distance, trudging his way through the damp grass.
“Unbelievable,” he muttered on the tail end of a chuckle. “You’d think we were celebrities in hiding by the amount of phone calls I’ve had to field after Gladys aired another show this morning. My voicemail is full for the second time today, and that’s after I spent an hour dealing with the first round. Some guy actually called to ask if he could bring his bongos to the tree and beat on them while I pruned—said there was new scientific evidence that a good reggae beat brings healing to distressed nature. Please tell me you haven’t heard of such a thing, because it was all I could do not to burst out laughing and—”
“I’m sorry, Griff.” The words tumbled out of her without hesitation. She didn’t want to live another day, or even another second, without offering him a proper apology for her actions.
He stopped just shy of her, blinked, and then closed his mouth, as if whatever he was planning to say next no longer mattered.
Spurred on by the letter still clutched in her hand, she willed herself to continue this difficult conversation that should have happened long ago. “I shouldn’t have waited two years to say this, but I was wrong to cut you out of my life, as if you hadn’t meant anything to me . . . or to my father. Because you did mean something.” You still do, her heart pleaded. “I know now you were only trying to help me believe things could be different . . . that I could be different. But I was too hurt to see that in the moment.” She took in a shuddering breath and then exhaled. “I’m so sorry. I hope you can forgive me.”
She’d watched movies where time appeared to slow when people spoke significant things to one another—a confession, a proposal, a buried truth resurrected. And as the background music quieted, the viewer of such pivotal moments in time could almost hear the pounding of heartbeats and the frosty puffs of breath. Abby couldn’t be sure how much time ticked by in the space between her words and his, but she was certain she felt every millisecond in between.
“Thank you,” he finally said. “I do forgive you, Abby, and you’re not alone in your regrets. There were lots of things said and done that night that I wish we could go back and change.”
“I know; me too. But we can’t,” she amended softly. “Part of me wonders if . . .” Only she couldn’t finish that thought. Not yet. Not with him. Apologizing and asking Griffin for forgiveness was one thing, but exposing such a deep vulnerability? That was a level of intimacy she couldn’t share, especially in light of all Griffin’s shiny accomplishments and successes. “I just hope you don’t have regrets about leaving Oak Springs. You did the right thing in going; I hope you believe that.”
He shortened the distance between them and reached for her, his hands wrapping her upper arms as if to ground her here in this present moment. “Hey . . .” he said, concern lacing his voice. “What’s brought all this on this morning? Did something happen?” He paused a beat and then let out an exasperated sigh. “Wait—have you been getting crazy calls from the radio show, too?”
She shook her head, this time her chest loosening on a laugh. “No, no calls, but I did find this.” She held out the piece of paper, and confusion crimped his brow.
“A letter?”
“More like an inspiring story involving our faithful tree here. It was pinned to the trunk for someone to find.”
A mix of curiosity and understanding softened his features. His eyes drifted from the letter back to her face once more. “My only regret in leaving Oak Springs was that I couldn’t convince you to come with me.”
“My home is here, Griff.” A statement she’d made countless times, and yet this time the words seemed less convincing while standing in the shadow of a man whose presence warmed her like the summer sun.
He pulled her to his chest and pressed a kiss to the top of her head, the way he’d done years before their just friends label morphed into the something more category. “I know it is.”
They stood that way for several minutes, locked in an embrace under the sprawling limbs of the same old oak where their relationship had both begun and ended.
She heard an unmistakable rumble coming from Griffin’s abdomen and pulled away slightly.
He chuckled. “Sorry, I missed breakfast. Bongo Guy was pretty long-winded.”
“I hope you told him he could come out and play; I have a few rose bushes that could use some reggae encouragement.”
“You’re out of luck there.” He gave her a wink. “But I’m thinking I’ll call an early lunch break today. How do pancakes sound?”
“Lunch break? But it’s still morning, and you haven’t even started work yet today.”
“That’s the glory of being the boss.” His smile made something expand in her chest. “Jason should be rolling in any minute. I had him go to the supply store to pick up a few things. He can finish the pruning today, and then we can start on the next part of the treatment phase this afternoon. I have to turn in the arborist report to the council by the end of next week.”
Abby stepped out of his embrace and returned the letter back inside the envelope. “Sounds like a good plan.”
His face twisted in confusion. “What part?”
“The part where we leave Jason to work and go out for pancakes.” And with that, she started for his truck, leaving him to jog after her.
seven
After a hearty breakfast sponsor
ed by applewood bacon and maple syrup, Griffin decided to take the long way back to the inn. Partly because he wanted to see the changes Abby had described to him over a shared buttery tower of flapjacks, but mostly because he wanted more time alone with her.
Just a few streets into downtown, he could clearly see that Abby’s assessment of the town’s growth had been spot-on. Oak Springs had expanded from the small town he’d known since he was a teen into a miniature city of booming potential. New businesses, restaurants, schools, subdivisions, and even rumors of a superstore coming their way early next year. And yet unlike so many of the smaller towns he’d visited, the residents of Oak Springs didn’t seem to adopt the antigrowth mindset. Even the table of retirees who sat in the booth next to theirs at breakfast—a group of men he remembered as Piggy Pancakes regulars from years ago—seemed optimistic about the changes in town. Griffin’s ears had perked up as their conversation shifted from last week’s church sermon to the increase in job opportunities in the area. “I say, whatever it takes to keep our kids and grandkids local, then it’s fine by me. Community is a mindset, not a population size.” The other men concurred.
For the first time since he arrived, he could understand his cousin’s desire to offload the financial burden of the massive oak and do something different with the land he’d inherited. Griffin had seen the sketches for a more distinguished common area and park, and for a few vacation cabins that would help bring in more revenue during the peak seasons. And though he disagreed in principle with removing a live tree before its natural death, he believed the heart behind Bradley’s ideas wasn’t all bad. As the preservation act stood now, Bradley couldn’t add anything to that part of the property while the tree was still standing. Every move he made was scrutinized by the committee.
He also knew his cousin was still mourning the loss of a marriage he never anticipated would end.
“You seem to have forgotten your way,” Abby said, her tone light and engaging as she looked from the road to him.
He stopped by the water tower at a sparkling new intersection that was once just a four-way stop. “Just enjoying the scenic route is all.” Truth was, though, Griffin had forgotten many things over the last two years, not the least of which was how good Abby felt wrapped in his arms. Her presence, much like this town, always had a way of grounding him, of reminding him that even as a grown man, he couldn’t escape his longing for home.
Running from city to city, chasing storms, adrenaline highs, and a growing bottom line had certainly taken the edge off, but it hadn’t cured him of what he wanted most. And it wasn’t the thrill of packing up at the dead of night to follow the wind radar for limb cleanup.
As he followed the curve of the road, his attention continued to gravitate to Abby—the way the sun haloed around her chestnut hair kept drawing him back. She’d kept her hair the same length for as long as he’d known her, a few inches or so below her chin. It was just one of the many ways Abby proved her steadfastness.
“My home is here, Griff.”
Her earlier words took another stab at his conscience. Abby had apologized for blocking him out of her life, and yet he’d failed to reciprocate in kind. Not because he didn’t have things to apologize for—there were many things he wished he could go back and do differently in those final grief-ridden days and hours. And yet, he’d never once considered his request of Abby to have been anything less than a white-stallion rescue, a chance to spread her wings and try on a different kind of life, one her father had urged her to experience. A life of adventure outside the one he’d passed down to her at the inn.
Fueled by a dying man’s wish, Griffin had felt justified in his position to push her to leave with him. His promise to Arnie—to take care of his beloved Abby, to protect and love her until his own last breath—was one he imagined would be as easy to keep as it was to make. But there had been nothing easy about holding on to a woman who had needed a place to call home more than she had needed him.
Abby shifted in her seat, sitting up straighter as he pulled onto the road where Arnie had taught him to drive with his learner’s permit. Smithe Farm Road.
“You almost gave my dad a heart attack on this road.”
Griffin smiled. “I remember.”
“I’m pretty sure that was the closest I’d ever seen him come to swearing.”
He chuckled at the memory that flooded his mind. “Oh, he came more than close, Bee.”
“What?” Abby rotated as much as her restraint would allow. “No way, you’re joking. I’m not sure my father knew a single curse word, much less how to use one in a sentence.”
At that, Griffin let loose a real laugh, full and deep. Her father had been the truest of gentlemen, a reputable deacon at Tenth Avenue Chapel, and the kind of man who was more comfortable pruning a rose bush than holding a rifle. But the afternoon Griffin nearly drove them into the ditch that ran alongside the Smithe property line was . . . wait.
He slammed on his brakes, and Abby yelped.
“Griff! What are you—?”
But he was already turning in to the driveway, curious about the dusty For Sale sign staked to the side of the entrance.
“Wow . . . when did this place go up for sale?” he muttered aloud, surveying the property through his road-trip splattered windshield. The last time he’d been here was on a raspberry picking excursion with Abby some four or five years back, before the farm had turned into this overgrown jungle of weeds.
“About a year ago—officially, anyway. It was held up awhile before that in an estate feud between family members.”
He popped his door open and scrutinized the old rancher building in front of them. The house, at least, didn’t look as bad off as the grounds. It was dated, to be certain, but it still appeared to be structurally sound.
Abby hopped out of the passenger’s seat and closed the truck door behind her. “You want to see something?” Without waiting for his answer, she beckoned him to follow her around the house, and like a smitten puppy, he willingly obliged.
Truth was, Griffin didn’t want to be anywhere that Abby wasn’t.
They trampled over weeds and stumps and a giant overgrown blackberry bush until they reached the back of the old yellow house.
And then she stopped.
“It’s beautiful, isn’t it?” A hint of reverence lit up her voice in a way that had him wondering if they were seeing the same thing.
He continued to scan the wasteland in front of them. Barren fruit trees, a dried-up pond little more than a hole in the ground, and several dedicated garden areas so full of debris they were almost unrecognizable.
Griffin suddenly wished for the ability to see this land through her eyes, because whatever Abby saw in this place had transformed her entire countenance. She radiated a hope he hadn’t seen on her face since . . . since before her father became ill.
As if in a daze, she moved toward a nearly shriveled rose bush and knelt in front of it. She touched the lone bud on the vine with her fingertips. “I stop here sometimes and just . . . I don’t know. I guess I imagine what this land could be if it was tended to properly.” She stood tall and again surveyed the acreage. “The potential feels limitless here.”
A stark contrast to the grounds at the inn, where everything had been polished and pristine for decades. Maintaining was not the same as designing.
“Like a canvas waiting for the right painter,” Griffin said as understanding dawned.
“Yes, exactly.”
Griffin strolled on ahead of her, making a mental checklist of issues needing attention. “How many acres is this?”
“Nine-point-two.”
He spun slowly, eyebrows hiked. “So, you’ve called on it, then?”
Her shrug didn’t fool him one bit. “Only out of curiosity.”
“Have you walked through the house, too?”
“Both of them, yes. They could use some updating, but they’re actually in pretty good shape.”
&nb
sp; “There’s two dwellings?”
She nodded. “There’s a two-bedroom cabin on the opposite side of the property. It actually has a separate driveway I didn’t know was there until Sheryl, the agent, pointed it out.” The wistful note in her voice made his heart stretch wide. She reached down between her garden boots to pluck two dandelion weeds out of the dried soil. “It’d make for a perfect rental . . . ya know, if somebody needed income while they were fixing up the property and the main house.”
“Huh. Sure would,” he said, eyeing her as she tucked her hands in her pockets and released a weighty sigh.
He stepped even with her and nudged her shoulder. “So, why can’t you be that somebody, Bee?”
“Me?” She laughed, dismissing the idea instantly. “No. I could never.”
“Why not?”
“I have the cottage and the grounds to tend to.”
He proceeded with caution, careful to avoid talk of the promise he’d made to her father about helping her move on from the inn, of not letting her talents go to waste on the same grounds Arnie had tended to for decades. “But the inn has no real outlet for your creativity. Even if Bradley doesn’t get the expansion he’s pushing for now, it will happen eventually. And that will leave you even less land to tend.” He paused, silently asking God to give him the right words. “When I look out at this”—he waved a hand over the acreage—“I see a mess ready for the burn pile . . . but you see hope for the future. That’s a gift, Abby.” One he’d been the recipient of on numerous occasions.
She shook her head slowly, as if arguing more with herself than with Griffin. “It’s too much money.”
The Kissing Tree Page 29
