by Anita Higman
Lark thought of Dr. Norton again and pulled down one of her yearbooks from the university. She flipped the pages back and forth until she found her professor’s photo. She studied the picture. So forlorn with a hint of something else. Desperation? She touched his photo. Rumor was, he’d not only lost his wife and friends because of his reclusive lifestyle, but he’d also died a lonely death. Only three people had come to his funeral, including herself. Strange, he’d willingly chosen his solitary way of life. Lark wondered what trauma in Dr. Norton’s past had made him so self-destructive.
But there was still hope for Everett. She vowed to rally round her neighbor. Whatever it took, she’d help him out of his solitary existence.
Three
Everett woke up feeling as animated as dirt. During the night he’d conjured up his usual array of nightmares.
Is that the doorbell? He realized the constant ding-donging had awakened him. He rarely slept in, but he’d stayed up late clearing out boxes. By the time he’d finished, he dropped from exhaustion. No time to grumble. He’d see to the door, get rid of whoever it was, and then get busy finishing up his office.
Everett stumbled over a shoe, nearly smacking his head on a bedpost. His brain whispered the word caffeine. And lots of it. No time right now, he told himself as he yanked on a pair of old jeans and a T-shirt. He made his way to the front door, but just as he opened it, a Pets Lovers of America van sped away from the curb leaving a trail of blue smoke. There on his porch sat a large cage. A parrot, the colors of a Hawaiian shirt, sat perched on a twig. Everett leaned down to the level of the bird’s eye. “Who are you?”
The animal scooted across the branch and crooked his neck upward as if to size him up. “Who are you?” the parrot repeated.
Great. A yapping parrot. Was it a delivery gone awry? Well, maybe the feathery varmint really belonged to Larkspur, the lady with the duck. And if not, maybe she’d at least want to take it off his hands.
The last thing on his agenda, though, was to get entangled in Lark’s day. His head began to throb. He threw on a coat, picked up the parrot, and headed next door.
Everett’s attention turned toward the street. Okay, so why was there a Fayetteville television van parked in front of Lark’s home? How could he have missed seeing the vehicle before? Everett marched to Lark’s house, bypassed the bell, and hammered on her door with his fist.
A man with a goatee and a notebook opened the door. “Lark does have a doorbell. You must be Everett from next door. I see you brought Igor.”
Who is this guy? “I’m afraid I don’t understand any of this—”
“I’m afraid,” the parrot repeated with a noisy mocking sound.
The man with the wimpy beard laughed. “Well, both of you come on in. Lark’s in her loft. We just finished the interview up there. We wanted to be where she creates.”
“Creates what?” He set the parrot down and glanced around inside. Sunlight poured in through the large windows. Immense paintings hung on every wall. Countryside scenes were filled with people caught up in everyday life.
Everett gazed at a painting of a girl wearing a sun hat and playing with a lamb. The word realism came to mind from a required art class in college. Even though the picture depicted life a hundred years ago, it looked welcoming and real enough to make him want to step into the landscape. And he also caught the unmistakable influence of the Ozarks in her work. Fascinating.
Then he remembered what Lark had said about joie de vivre. In French it meant the “sweetness of life.” Those words seemed to describe the painting completely. He felt himself falling into some kind of emotional black hole. Back to reality.
The goatee guy headed up the metal, spiral staircase. She must have done some remodeling on this old house. Everett heard laughter upstairs, so out of curiosity, he picked up the cage and followed the man.
“You mean you didn’t even know your neighbor was Larkspur Wendell, the illustrator?”
Everett felt annoyed with his cheeky attitude. “Illustrator of what?”
The goatee guy stopped midway and turned around just to frown at him. “You know—When Dragons Fly, In a Giddy Pickle, or the Electric Seeds series?” The guy looked at him as if he were the creature in a cage.
Everett shook his head but wanted to pelt the guy with birdseed. I should have had my coffee.
The goatee guy shrugged his shoulders and continued up the stairs. “I tell you, she’s one of a kind. I just love Lark.”
Before either of them could say another word, they arrived at the top of the stairs. The French doors were open, and Everett could see Lark sitting on a stool at an art table. Her long, dark hair flowed around her slender shoulders. Even in overalls, she was no doubt a beauty, but even more than that, Lark had a distinct presence in the room. He could barely remember why he was so irritated.
Lark didn’t see him as the two men stepped into the room. A female reporter chatted with her while some guy packed up his camera.
Lark turned around to him. Everett noticed the radiance in her eyes, akin to the sun coming up in the morning.
She jumped up and hugged him.
Everett brought his free hand up on her back for a pat.
“I just love Lark,” the parrot repeated and then squawked.
Everyone burst into laughter except Everett.
“I’m so glad you’re here. You brought Igor. By the way, he likes to repeat things.” Lark wiggled her eyebrows. “So be careful what you say.”
Everett frowned. “Well, I didn’t. I mean—”
Lark looked at him as if they’d always been friends. “He’s your housewarming gift. I had him delivered from Springdale. I thought since you were all alone, Igor could keep you company.”
Four
A cough erupted from Everett’s mouth. Just as he was about to explain himself, the female reporter lifted her chin as if to bring the conversation back to business.
“We have everything we need,” the reporter said. “Thanks for your time, Ms. Wendell. You were marvelous.” She lifted the lapel mike off Lark’s overalls and shook her hand. “By the way, if I leave without an autograph for my daughter, I’ll be in trouble tonight.”
Lark gave each crew member a hand-signed piece of art and a hug good-bye. She stayed in the room with him, while the crew filed down the staircase. To avoid the Igor topic, he found himself simply glancing around, taking in the various aspects of the room. Light purple walls with a sign over the door that read, “IMAGINE.” Flower petals strewn on the floor. Electric guitar on a stand in the corner. Books and art magazines stacked here and there and a bowl full of jellybeans on the floor near a beanbag chair. “Aren’t you going downstairs to lock your door?”
“No. We have very little crime here. In fact, sometimes I forget to lock up.”
This woman is so naive. “You’re being a bit. . .reckless,” Everett said. “Don’t you think?”
Lark walked over to the birdcage. “You don’t like Igor, do you?”
Everett switched gears. “Why did you really buy me a talking parrot? You could have just brought me brownies. I like brownies.” Well, until I tasted Skelly’s.
“Why not buy a talking parrot?” Lark looked at Igor and smiled. “I saw him online, and he seemed like a gift you might enjoy. I really—”
“But how would you know that?” Everett rubbed his aching head. “You don’t even know me. And I know it must have been very expensive.”
“Don’t you like pets?”
Everett shifted his weight. Keeping up with his neighbor’s conversation was as exasperating as using a cup to empty a sinking boat. “Let’s just say, pets don’t agree with me.”
Lark laughed. A bubbling kind of giggle that wasn’t an altogether unpleasant sound.
“They don’t agree with you?” Lark asked. “It’s not like you’re going to eat Igor for dinner.”
“Igor for dinner.” The bird shrieked and ruffled his feathers.
“I appreciate the thought, but
I have no time for pets. I work long hours. He would be neglected, so I’d like you to have. . .Igor.” Everett saw a little light go out of Lark’s eyes. Something made him want to bring that light back, but he wasn’t sure why. He might have to think on that one later. “I mean, it would be like turning my house into a resort for flying animals.” Guess I shouldn’t have said that last part. Why is she staring at my clothes? He looked down at his jeans, which were full of holes. And his feet were bare. Not good. He wondered how that happened. He never did that sort of thing. Well, at least the cold front hadn’t made it through yet.
Lark opened the cage door. “Hi there, Igor. You’re a sweetie.”
“You’re a sweetie,” the bird said back to her.
Lark chuckled as she stroked his neck. The bird dipped his head next to her hand and closed its eyes.
While Lark appeared distracted, Everett took note that her office had no blinds or curtains at the huge window. Most people put up drapes and heavy shutters, but as an artist she must like to use the natural light.
He stepped over to her art table and looked at one of her watercolor paintings. The sheet of rough, white paper seemed to come to life with rabbits, foxes, and turtles all hiding among the ferns and tree trunks. The fanciful pictures were no less than what? Enchanting? He’d better not get caught using that word in public.
But the illustrations reminded him of an earlier time in his life when he used to read to children at one of the local hospitals in Fayetteville. Amazing. He used to actually volunteer his time, and he’d loved it. But that seemed like a lifetime ago, before life had taught him the lessons of unspeakable misfortune. “You didn’t mention you were an artist.”
“Well, you were busy herding your movers,” Lark said. “And it seemed like they needed a little coaching as I recall.”
She had more paint on her lavender overalls than on her paper. He saw her eyes searching his again. But what could she be looking for? “This current work here—is it to illustrate a new book?”
“No, I did it just for fun.” Lark smiled down at the painting. “The idea came from a dream I had. So I thought I’d try to capture it.”
“So you have pleasant dreams?” Everett asked.
“Almost always. Do you?”
He almost said no but then admonished himself for nearly sharing intimate details about his life. “It’s rather hard to explain.” Maybe he just needed to get back to work.
“I’m sorry about the gift,” Lark said. “Sometimes I’ve been known to be a little too—spur-of-the-moment. It’s one of my great weaknesses. But I assure you, God and I are working on it.”
“Apology accepted.” He offered her a wide smile since he was glad to be rid of Igor, but he wondered just how “spur-of-the-moment” she was and how many “weaknesses” she and God were working on. Suddenly he heard a series of clatters and bangs. “What’s that racket?”
“Oh, it’s Skelly. Our neighbor. He sometimes throws pots and pans at his brick wall.”
“How peculiar. Why does he do that?” Everett wanted to see what was happening, but he knew Skelly’s backyard wasn’t visible from her window.
Lark stroked her hands along her arms. “Skelly lost his wife to cancer a few months ago. You know, when her hair fell out from the treatments, she wore a baseball cap. And wherever they went, Skelly always wore a baseball cap, too. Just so she wouldn’t feel different or alone. Rose is in heaven now.” Lark smiled at him with a faraway gaze. “I loved the way they loved each other.” She shrugged. “So now he bakes everyone brownies just like his wife did, he prays a lot, and sometimes, when he misses her terribly, he finds it helpful to throw a few pots and pans against his brick wall. Why not, if it helps?”
“I’m sorry for Skelly. That must be hard.” Everett paused, not really knowing how to respond to the man’s sorrow, so he decided to change the subject. “But I still think you should lock your doors. I saw a hooligan-type last evening.”
“Really?” Lark tied her long hair back with a clip and took a step closer to him.
“Yes. That riffraff on the bike. You know, the one who offered the bee a ride with no helmets.” He raised an eyebrow and then rebuked himself for judging someone he barely knew.
Lark looked surprised. “That riffraff, who was kind enough to drive me to the church fall festival yesterday, happens to be Jeremy, our youth pastor.”
Everett swallowed hard, but he felt like another retaliating remark building up. “Well, I hope he doesn’t have a wife.”
“Jeremy is single, and we go out from time to time. And, I might add, he’s got a very successful teen ministry. Now don’t you feel a little. . .silly?”
“I’ve never been silly in my life,” Everett said.
“I’ll bet you haven’t, Mr. Holden.” Her lips curled up at the edges.
“I’ll bet you haven’t,” the bird squawked back at them.
“Oh, shut up,” Everett said. Oh man. Now I’m talking to animals. Time to go. Everett looked away from Lark’s bemused expression to stare out her workroom window. He noticed her office window was directly facing his own large office window. And the windows were only a few feet apart. A groan welled up inside him. “If you’ll excuse me, I still have twenty-one boxes to unpack.” He turned and moved toward the stairs.
Moments later, Everett offered his good-bye at the door. He knew the words came off rather strangled, but he felt more determined than ever to keep Lark at a safe distance. And he wasn’t about to make this community his new family as Lark suggested. He repeated his mantra. “Passive resistance and neutrality.”
❧
What was it about this guy? Exasperating. Lonely. But so cute. Or maybe one of the things that captured her interest was his expression of subtle yearning.
She plunked down on her love seat, pulled a sprig of baby’s breath from the vase, and stroked the tiny blossoms across her cheek. Lark suddenly thought of Jeremy. So dedicated and funny and genuine. In fact, he had so many good and godly qualities about him, she’d be crazy not to think of him in more serious terms. But she’d known since girlhood Mr. Lifetime would be poles apart from her. Like south meeting north and then trying to find a common parallel. She knew in her heart the Christian man she’d marry someday would not only garner her admiration and affection. . .but also leave her breathless.
She rested her feet on the coffee table. Yes, an acorn has fallen, Lark thought. And Everett’s neatly stacked pile is about to be scattered.
Five
Lark stretched her arms out to a new morning. Sunday had gone well. Church had been good, but now Monday morning beckoned. The clock on the night table read 6:30 a.m. She never bothered with setting her alarm but instead let her natural body rhythms tell her when she’d had enough sleep. She flipped the light on and smiled at the bird in his cage. “Good morning, Igor.”
Bits of his softness floated about the cage as he fluffed his feathers. “Good morning, Igor,” the bird repeated.
Lark shoved her lavender comforter back, slid her wiggling toes into her slippers, and got up. She chatted softly to Igor as she checked his food and water supply. Still wearing her long, granny nightshirt, she padded up the spiral staircase, letting her hand slide along the cool metal railing up to her loft. No need for coffee since she let music rev her creative juices in the morning. Once in her studio, she flipped on her lights and her amplifier, strapped on her guitar, and prepared to rock. Was that classical music she heard coming from Everett’s office? Seems kind of loud. She listened closely. Wow! Vivaldi. Wind and brass. Cool.
She didn’t see Everett standing anywhere in his office so she decided to enhance the music with her own hard rock. Oh yeah. Oboe Concerto in D Minor. Lark positioned her fingers on the neck of the guitar and tapped out her own beat with her foot. Almost time for my part. Lark raised her guitar pick high in the air and lowered it on her strings, adding her own metal sound to the bright melody. She closed her eyes, swooning to the joining of two great musical styles. Cr
escendo. Oh, there’s that sweet spot on the guitar.
The classical music stopped. Lark turned toward her window. Until now, she hadn’t realized her large, bare office window faced Everett’s large, bare office window just a few feet away. And when the lights were on, they could see each other perfectly.
Everett stood like a soldier in his suit with a no-nonsense stare. All in all, he looked pretty daunting. In fact, on the jovial scale, he was a minus fifty. But even so, he had an irresistible earnestness about him, too.
He held up a large piece of paper with a phone number on it. She let her guitar make a slow dying sound and placed the instrument on its stand. While still humming the melody, she pushed in all the right numbers on the phone. One ring. Two rings. Why is he waiting?
He finally picked up the phone. “Hi. Everett Holden. Your neighbor.”
Lark had to pucker her cheeks to keep from laughing. “Yes, I can see you. . .right in front of me. Good morning.”
Everett cleared his throat so loudly Lark had to pull the phone away from her ear. “Please,” he began. “Please don’t tell me you get up every morning at six thirty to play your electric guitar.”
Okay, I won’t tell you. “I guess you want me to turn down my amp. It’s just that I loved your Vivaldi, and I couldn’t help but join in. It’s so exhilarating.” She shot him her sweetest smile and waited for his face to brighten. It didn’t. “But I don’t think it was any louder than your music.” Lark tried to stay lighthearted.
Everett moved around the room, stacking manuals on his shelves, obviously multitasking. “But your music doesn’t mix with my music.”
Did he actually say that? Lark wondered what the magic words were to turn up the corners of his mouth. Maybe spreadsheets and revenues.
Then she noticed it. Tiny lacelike specs floating just outside the window. “Look. An early snow!” Still holding the telephone, Lark opened the window and stuck her head outside. Fresh, crisp air swirled around her. “Everett. Isn’t this amazing? A snowfall never forecasted. Don’t you just love things as unpredictable as the weather?”
