“And yet something tells me you could afford it if you wanted it badly enough. I’d bet my work truck that you haven’t touched a penny of the inheritance Arnie left you.”
She studied her Kermit garden boots. “I haven’t, no, but even still, all the renovations it would need wouldn’t be cheap. Or easy.”
“So, you get a steady renter and you start selling those awesome succulent gardens you create on the side and you make it work. You. Could. Do. This.”
She lifted her chin to meet his gaze, but the high color in her cheeks had already begun to fade, along with the sparkle in her eyes. “Yeah, I don’t know, maybe.”
He flexed his hands into fists, debating how far to push this conversation. He knew exactly why she wouldn’t allow this dream to become a reality. “Bee—”
The phone in his front pocket trilled, alerting him to a text message. And then to a second one immediately after. And then to a third.
“You should probably check that,” she said quickly, though he had little doubt that she was as grateful for the escape as he was annoyed by it. “It’s probably Jason. We’ve been gone for a while.”
She was already three steps to the truck when he slipped the phone out of his pocket and read Jason’s messages.
Hit a snag. You might want to head back.
Soon.
Before Griffin could reply, a picture came through.
He pinched the screen to zoom in, struggling to comprehend what he was seeing. “What on earth?”
Abby twisted around, her hand reaching for the truck’s handle behind her. “Something wrong?”
He sprinted to his driver’s side door and then hopped into the cab with Abby. “Has everybody in this town lost their minds?”
“Careful now,” she said in mock defense. “I live here, too, ya know.”
He flipped the screen around for her to see the crisp image of a young boy and girl holding hands while chained to the tree, a padlock between them.
“Oh my . . .” Abby gasped. “Seriously? Is this for real?”
“Unless Jason has figured out how to use Photoshop between pruning and irrigating, then yes. I’d say it’s very, very real.”
Abby barreled out of the truck before Griffin had even thrown the gearshift into park, but she was far from the only adult on the scene. A news truck from their neighboring city was parked catawampus in the grass, as was Gladys’s radio van. Both vehicles were surrounded by a sea of fresh-faced picketers who couldn’t be much older than sixteen.
Abby jogged toward a girl who held a sign that read Trees have feelings too! Leaf them alone!
“Hey there, um, can I ask where y’all are from?”
“Oak Springs High School. We’re in Mr. Brower’s junior and senior speech classes. We’re exercising our right to protest.”
Abby scanned the crowd to find Mr. Brower, the same speech teacher she’d had nearly eleven years prior, seated in a canvas camping chair at the far edge of the parking lot. As she caught his attention, he flashed her a peace sign similar to the one on his tie-dyed tank top.
“O-okay. Well, yes, I suppose it is your right to protest, but this isn’t really the time or—”
Before she could finish, Griffin stormed past her toward the oak, more specifically, toward the two teen boys climbing on his new wood chipper.
“Uh, hold that thought,” Abby called over her shoulder as she rushed after him.
“Griff, wait—”
“This is insane.”
“True, but you can’t just—”
He halted a foot in front of the equipment. “If you aren’t off my machine in three, two, one—”
With fear-rounded eyes, both boys leapt to the ground, their hands raised high. One stayed to apologize while the other ran like he was about to be smashed by a rolling boulder. A small part of Abby wanted to laugh at the circus of it all, but there was simply too much chaos to focus on any one thing. A cameraman set up his tripod about twenty feet out from the live oak, no doubt capturing the teen boy and girl shackled to its robust trunk—only upon closer inspection, the apparatus holding them hostage to the tree looked as if it could double for a ten-dollar bike chain and combination lock.
The ash blonde with the highest ponytail Abby had ever seen bobbed her head as she spoke to the reporter. “It’s our year to carve our initials on the trunk. We’ve waited for this since we were freshmen. It’s tradition. No one should be able to take away our rights without a fight.”
“Yeah, and we’re prepared to stay here for days if necessary. To make our point,” the boyfriend said, his navy beanie so low he appeared to have lost his eyebrows in the wide knit.
“Days?” Jack Johnston, the reporter from Channel 9 News repeated. “So, then, you must have a plan for food and water? But what about when you need to use the restroom?” Obviously, he was finding as much amusement in this ridiculous scenario as Abby was.
“I’ve gone two full days with nothing more than an apple during summer cheer camp,” the girl announced proudly. “We’re hard-core.”
Beanie Boy appeared far more doubtful of his girlfriend’s apple-a-day diet plan, but he managed to add, “And I once drove all the way to Colorado Springs with my folks without having to make a single pit stop. We can hold it.”
The reporter turned back to the camera, a smirk pinching his right cheek. “There you have it, folks. Teens in love and committed to saving the life of a legendary tree. In a world where our next generation gets a lot of pushback, may we all rest a bit better tonight knowing that the youth of Oak Springs have die-hard spirits and ironclad bladders. This is Jack Johnston for Channel 9 News. Back to you, Kelly and Adam.”
The reporter and cameraman packed up a few minutes later, after taking several selfies with the picketers and getting a token interview with Mr. Brower in his Grateful Dead lawn chair.
Gladys Applebottom made her way over to Abby. “This old tree continues to make quite the ruckus, doesn’t it?”
“I’d say so. Between this and all the phone calls Griffin’s been getting and the letter I found this morning on the tree . . . it’s been a full day.”
“You got a letter?” Gladys asked. “Good! I was hoping people might take that approach. I mentioned it on the show yesterday.”
Abby nodded, remembering the convicting words of Priscilla Burns. “If more letters come in, I’ll be sure to turn them over to the council before the big committee meeting.”
“Perfect. I have a feeling you’ll be hearing from a lot more people before this thing is said and done.”
Abby looked from the teens chained to the tree, to the picketers in the street, and then finally to the argument happening between Bradley and Griffin on the front-porch steps of the inn, where Jason sat undisturbed eating a sub sandwich. But even in the chaos of it all, she couldn’t ignore the warmth spreading through her entire being at Gladys’s optimism: Nobody in their town was gonna let this tree be taken down without a fight.
eight
The next five days passed without much protest, at least, not in the way of teenagers chaining themselves to the base of a legendary oak tree—a fact Griffin was grateful for, even though it meant he’d lost his bet with Abby. While Griffin predicted the Tenacious Tree-Loving Teens, as the local news had deemed them, would make it at least six hours before tapping out, they’d only made it to three, which was exactly what Abby had guessed. He should have known they would call it quits early when Lover Boy started complaining that his body was “shutting down” on account of starvation just after hour two. Abby’s big win had involved another delicious round of veggie and salami pizza with a hefty side of gloating.
But Griffin would lose a bet to Abby any day of the week as long as it involved spending more time alone with her . . . which had grown increasingly more difficult to do as the live oak had grown in celebrity status. Gladys Applebottom informed him that the Kissing Tree of Oak Springs now had its own Facebook following and Twitter accoun
t. He didn’t doubt it. The way residents had flocked to his job site unannounced, bearing gifts like free sandwiches and cupcakes as well as handwritten letters detailing their reflections on the tree, had kept him in a continual state of wonderment.
Griffin’s favorite visitors of the week had been the preschoolers. Fascinated by chainsaws and chipper trucks, they’d come with colorful drawings and smiles that could warm even the hardest of lumberjacks. He wasn’t sure when his occupation had become field trip worthy, but such was life in Oak Springs—a life he’d missed more than he realized.
Today’s guest, though, was one he’d invited—Winston Hawks of Hawks Tree Services.
As the most reputable arborist in town, and one of Arnie Brookshire’s oldest friends, it didn’t seem right to seal up this arborist report without a sign-off from Winston. Thankfully, he’d just rolled back into town last night after visiting his aging mother on the East Coast—Connecticut, if Griffin remembered correctly. Winston had spent the better part of the morning giving Griffin his two professional cents on the old tree, signing off in agreement with Griffin’s assessment and treatment plan, as well as his recommendation for the tree to remain where it stood.
Griffin stepped forward to shake the man’s hand. “Thanks for your time, Winston. I appreciate you coming out, especially when the weather’s about to turn and you have a crew to manage.”
“Ah, you know how it is. A little rain is good for the soul.” Winston tipped his wide-brimmed hat and glanced up at the graying sky. “Although my gut says this rain might be brewing into something bigger. You best get your fancy new equipment under cover.”
Griff’s focus hadn’t been on the weather as much as it usually was, but even still, he knew Winston was right. He felt it in his gut, too. The gathering clouds had a violent look about them.
“Will do, sir.” He’d forgotten how much he enjoyed conversing with Winston. Arnie had set Griffin up with an apprenticeship with Hawks Trees right after he graduated from high school, and he learned some invaluable lessons that summer, along with some good inside jokes.
“And you tell me if those boys and girls on the preservation committee give you any trouble. They’re a good bunch overall, and I trust they’ll make the right decision, but I do feel for Bradley.” He shook his head and glanced at the inn. “The caregiving bill for a tree this age and size will just keep growing as time goes on, no matter how many discounts he’s given.” He gestured to the tree. “But the fact remains: This tree may be geriatric, complaining of its aches and pains, but it ain’t dead yet.”
“Well said. See ya around, Winston.” Griffin laughed and started back to where Jason was busy spreading fungicide near the roots.
“Hey, Malone!”
Griffin turned to find Winston inspecting his work truck appreciatively. “If you ever tire of the fast pace of storm life and need a place to settle down, come talk to me, will ya? I might have something of interest to you.”
“Oh yeah?” Griffin wiped his hands on his work pants and took a few steps closer, intrigued. “What might that be?”
Winston’s grin widened as the wind began to pick up. “I’m pushing retirement age, son.” He hitched a thumb back at the tree. “But like our oak friend here, I’m not done living yet—just done climbing. I’ve built a steady business over the last three decades, consistent work up and down I-45. But my own boy just partnered with a law firm in Dallas. He doesn’t have interest in tree work.”
“You’re selling Hawks Trees?” The question was cradled in surprise.
“Not today, and not necessarily tomorrow either, but the time for change is coming soon.” He shrugged as if he hadn’t just offered Griffin the opportunity to acquire a reputable business in Oak Springs. “Just something for you to ponder while you’re here.” Again, he tipped his hat. “Have a good day, son.”
“Yeah . . . you, too. Thanks.” Griffin’s words were lost on a powerful gust of wind that had Jason whooping in delight as he fought to balance the heavy spray pack on his back.
Before Griff’s thoughts had a chance to take root and allow him to contemplate the offer he’d just been given, the sky’s grumbling mood demanded his attention. “Hey, Jason, it’s time to pack up the equipment. We’re about to get soaked.”
“Got it,” Jason answered, shrugging out of his pack and dropping the sprayer to the ground.
Thoughts of Abby in the gardens around back caused Griffin to quicken his steps, gathering his supplies and tossing them all into the back of his unhitched trailer while Jason turned on the weather radar in the cab of Griff’s truck. He flipped the tracking device around, the red zone hard to miss. “It’s gonna be a biggie, boss.”
It was an announcement that usually came with a rush of adrenaline and a surefire excuse to hit the road without a care in the world. But not this time. This time Griffin had no intention of leaving town. Because this time, the person he cared most about in the entire world was right here.
And suddenly, right here was the only place he wanted to be.
Abby regretted not grabbing her parka when she had the chance, but it was too late to run back to her cottage now. By the looks of the temperamental sky, she would have only minutes to prepare her gardens for the coming rain. Her body was sturdy enough to handle a spontaneous downpour from the heavens, but her most delicate of flowers and vegetation would not be.
She sprinted to the toolshed in search of the cloches and heavy stakes that would act as a protective shelter for her most fragile of plant life just as an aggressive onslaught of wind caused her to stumble into the shed door. Where did all this wind come from? The weather alerts on her phone had indicated precipitation was in the forecast, but the too-close rumble of thunder sent a jolt of fear down her spine.
She dragged thick plastic coverings from the shed to the gardens, working in vain to straighten them out as they slapped against her chest and face so many times that her frustration matched the angry rain that soaked her hair and pale gray T-shirt. Without a second pair of hands to help secure the stakes into the ground, this job would be nearly impossible. But there was no one she could call for help. Griffin and Jason were likely in a similar predicament over at the tree, sheltering the high-dollar machinery and gear.
She’d just have to power through the way she’d always done.
Despite her rain-slicked hair that caught in her eyelashes, she drew back the heavy mallet and drove it into the stake, pinning the corner of a tarp to the pooling soil. It took seven strikes for the ground to yield to her strength, as if refusing to wave the white flag no matter how badly her muscles ached to call it quits. The sky bellowed again, the sound crackling in her ears and rattling her teeth. She willed herself to work faster, tugging again on the plastic tarp until it was taut over her favorite spotted bee balm, begonias, and irises. Her garden boots slipped on the wet earth as she found her footing at the opposite corner of the raised bed.
She had gripped the mallet to strike at a new stake when warmth wrapped around her wrist and stilled her swing.
“I got you!” Griffin hollered over the raging storm, piercing her with a confident gaze. “I’ll hammer; you straighten the tarps. We need to be quick.”
Grateful beyond words, she nodded and reached for the opposite end. This was a rhythm they both knew well, a partnership based on an efficiency that complemented their strengths and covered their weaknesses.
With no further communication needed, the remaining three corners of the garden bed were sheltered in a matter of seconds. Fighting against horizontal sheets of rain, they raced back to the shed, tossing the tools inside and latching the door closed. The first rod of lightning lit up the ground around them an instant before they reached the front steps of her cottage.
They barreled inside her living room, both a storm-soaked mess of dripping hair, clothes, and work boots.
Griffin swiped an arm across his eyes and then peered down at her drenched shirt. “Where’s your jacket?”
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It was such a ridiculous question, in light of the widening puddles at their feet and the flash flood happening on the other side of the cottage walls, that she couldn’t help but laugh. She pressed a palm to the chest of his saturated black cotton tee, lifting it away just enough to see a perfect indentation of all five of her fingers. “Looks like I could ask you the very same question.”
He caught her hand in his, the warmth of his skin a welcome contrast to the chill creeping through her body. “I’m sorry I couldn’t get to you sooner. One of the gears in the chipper jammed, and we had to push it to the clearing.”
At the sincerity of his voice, her throat tightened. “Your timing was perfect. I don’t think I could have finished it in time without your help.”
His thumb slid over the pulse point in her wrist and she shivered. “We make a good team.”
And something about the present tense of that statement, the here and now of it, caused her mind to fog with possibility. “We do.”
The splatter of water pooling around their boots cut her attention away from the earnestness of his gaze. “I’ll get us some towels and see about finding you some dry clothes of my dad’s. You can have the bathroom first.”
She twisted toward the linen closet, but he caught her arm once again and drew her back to his chest. “Wait.”
Though he said nothing more with his mouth, his eyes were alight with a desire that waged war against the last of her willpower. Because keeping Griffin out of the very space he’d occupied inside her heart for so many years was as futile as demanding that the wind stop blowing.
“Yes?” she asked a bit too breathlessly.
“I just wanted to look at you a little bit longer.”
Self-consciously, she touched her soggy ponytail stub. “I’m sure I look like I fell out of a tornado cyclone.”
“No, you don’t.” He stepped toward her. “You look beautiful.”
She didn’t flinch when he dropped his hands to her waist or his gaze to her mouth. Instead, despite all her resolve to lock him out of her life, she reached for him, too, skimming his cheek with the same inquisitive touch she used to greet a budding flower petal. She relished the familiar feel of his lips parting hers for the first time in much, much too long. And just like that, she allowed the bleak realities of her world, the concrete walls she’d lived inside, to break away. She explored each forbidden sensation she’d fought to block since Griffin arrived—the woodsy scent of his skin, the secure hold of his embrace, the low rumble in the back of his throat as his fingers skimmed her rain-slicked hair.
The Kissing Tree Page 30
