Larkspur Dreams (3 page)
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.
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. Crescendo.
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?”
Lark heard nothing from her telephone partner, so she looked back at Everett, who now wore a fixed and intent gaze. It reminded her of the glassy expression held by the stuffed, wild boar hanging in Skelly’s den. She’d thought an impromptu celebration of the snow with some frothy cocoa would be fun. But Everett didn’t appear to be in the mood for a festive beverage.
“Don’t you like snow?” She heard his raspy breathing and wondered if smoke would puff from his nostrils at any moment. Rarely did she make anyone angry. Usually people left her presence with a hug and a kind word. The moment felt unfamiliar, yet strangely exhilarating, as if she were plummeting on a roller coaster ride.
“I like snow,” Everett said. “In fact, I like a lot of things. But right now, I’m trying to work.”
“Well then, have a nice day.”
“Thank you,” Everett said. “The same to you.”
Was that a simper? He has a chink in his rock wall,
Lark thought as she let a slow grin overtake her face. But then Everett dampened her optimism by parking himself down at his desk as immoveable and cold as a slab of granite. Oh well, hope still reigned. Even granite could be carved with the right tools.
Lark gave up on Everett for the time being as the snow claimed her attention. She had to be a part of it. She headed back downstairs, slipped on some moccasins and put on a coat over her long nightshirt. Once she’d flipped on the outdoor lights, she hurried out into her backyard.
The glorious white stuff fell more heavily now, floating all around her, engulfing her in a cocoon of softness. Suddenly she realized she’d never painted a winter scene.
I should memorize this moment.
The pristine flurries had already lighted on the pines and decorated their boughs.
And what a unique quiet.
As if the snowy splendor commanded all the rest of nature to an awed silence.
The delicate feel of the flakes on her face reminded her of a feather tickling her cheek. Lark licked the melting snow from her lips. A gust caused the flakes to do a little tango. She raised her arms and danced with the flurries, dipping and swaying and singing. She knew God looked on, sharing her pleasure in His creation. An icy gust made her shiver, so she raced back inside, laughing the whole way up to her loft.
❧
Everett slammed his coffee mug down so hard a three-tiered bead of brown liquid rose in the air and then plopped back in his cup. Cold, bitter brew again. He made a mental note to throw out his coffee beans and buy some caffeine pills. His concoction always tasted like crude oil anyway.
He glanced over at Lark’s office window. Her light was off, so she still must be out of her office. At least she’d finally gotten the good sense to come in from the cold. He’d seen her from his window, and she’d been outside twirling with her arms stretched wide. She looked stark raving mad.
Or maybe she’s simply childlike.
It reminded him of something he and his sister, Greta, had taken pleasure in when they were growing up. Sneaking out one night to play in the first snow of the winter. The moon had come out full that night, illuminated the snow, and made it glisten like stars. They’d pelted each other with snowballs. His sister had quite a hefty pitch as he recalled. Several times they’d doubled over laughing. He hadn’t thought of that moment in years. But then he remembered they’d both caught colds, and his sister had been forced to the hospital when her fever and cough spiraled into pneumonia. He knew scientifically that their sickness had not actually come from being out in the weather, but in his mind he always associated the two.
