The drive widened slightly once they rounded one curve and then another. “This is crazy,” she said. “Are you sure we’re going the right way?”
“According to the map, this is the place.”
“Why so far off the main road?”
Dawson shrugged, as puzzled as she was, but after edging around the last curve, he instinctively braked the car to a stop, both of them suddenly knowing the answer.
12
The final stretch of the drive ended at a small cottage nestled in a grove of ancient live oaks. The weathered structure, with chipping paint and shutters that had begun to blacken at the edges, was fronted by a small stone porch framed by white columns. Over the years, one of the columns had become enshrouded in vines, which climbed toward the roof. A metal chair sat near the edge, and at one corner of the porch, adding color to the world of green, was a small pot of blooming geraniums.
But their eyes were drawn inevitably to the wildflowers. Thousands of them, a meadow of fireworks stretching nearly to the steps of the cottage, a sea of red and orange and purple and blue and yellow nearly waist deep, rippling in the gentle breeze. Hundreds of butterflies flitted above the meadow, tides of moving color undulating in the sun. Bounding the field was a small, slatted wooden fence, barely visible through the lilies and gladiolas.
Amanda stared at Dawson in wonder, then at the field of flowers again. It seemed like a fantasy, one person’s imagined vision of heaven. She wondered how and when Tuck had first planted it, but even then, in that moment, she’d known that Tuck had planted the wildflowers for Clara. He’d planted them to express what she meant to him.
“It’s incredible,” she breathed.
“Did you know about this?” His voice mirrored her own sense of wonder.
“No,” she answered. “This was something that was meant for just the two of them.”
As she said it, she had a clear picture of Clara sitting on the porch while Tuck leaned against a column, reveling in the heady beauty of the wildflower garden. Dawson finally removed his foot from the brake and the car rolled forward toward the house, the colors blurring like droplets of living paint stretching for the sun.
After parking near the house, they climbed out and continued to take in the scene. A small, winding pathway was visible through the flowers. Mesmerized, they waded into the sea of color beneath a patchy sky. The sun reemerged from behind a cloud, and Amanda could feel its warmth dispersing the perfumed scent that surrounded her. All her senses felt amplified, like the day had been created specifically for her.
Walking beside her, she felt Dawson reach for her hand. She let him take it, thinking how natural it felt, and she imagined she could trace the years of labor etched into his calluses. Tiny wounds had scarred his palms but his touch was improbably gentle, and she knew then, with sudden certainty, that Dawson would have created a garden like this for her as well if he’d known she wanted it.
Forever. He’d carved the word into Tuck’s workbench. A teenage promise, nothing more, yet somehow he’d been able to keep it alive. She could feel the strength of that promise now, filling the distance between them as they drifted through the flowers. From somewhere far away, she heard the distant rumble of thunder and she had the strange sense that it was calling to her, urging her to listen.
Her shoulder brushed against his, making her pulse quicken. “I wonder if these flowers grow back, or if he had to sow seed every year,” he mused.
The sound of his voice brought her out of her reverie. “Both,” she answered, her voice sounding strange to her own ears. “I recognize some of them.”
“So he came up earlier this year? To plant more seeds?”
“He must have. I see some Queen Anne’s lace. My mom has it at the house and it dies out when winter settles in.”
They spent the next few minutes wandering along the path while she pointed out the annuals she knew: black-eyed Susans, blazing stars, morning glories, and prairie asters, intermingled with perennials like forget-me-nots, Mexican hats, and Oriental poppies. There seemed to be no formal organization to the garden; it was as if God and nature intended to have their way, no matter what Tuck’s plans might have been. Somehow, though, the wildness only enhanced the beauty of the garden, and as they walked through the chaotic display of color, all she could think was that she was glad Dawson was with her so they could share this together.
The breeze picked up, cooling the air and ushering in more clouds. She watched as he raised his eyes to the sky. “It’s going to storm,” he observed. “I should probably put the top up on the car.”
Amanda nodded but didn’t let go of his hand. Part of her feared that he might not take it again, that the opportunity might not arise. But he was right; the clouds were getting darker.
“I’ll meet you inside,” he said, sounding equally reluctant, and only slowly did he untwine his fingers from hers.
“Do you think the door’s unlocked?”
“I’d be willing to bet on it.” He smiled. “I’ll be there in a minute.”
“Could you grab my bag while you’re out there?”
He nodded, and as she watched him walk away, she recalled that before she’d loved him, she’d been infatuated with him. It had started out as a girlhood crush, the kind that made her doodle his name on her notebooks while she was supposed to be doing her homework. No one, not even Dawson, knew that it hadn’t been an accident that they’d ended up as chemistry partners. When the teacher asked the students to pair up, she’d excused herself to go to the bathroom, and by the time she got back Dawson was, as usual, the only one left. Her friends had sent her pitying glances, but she was secretly thrilled to be spending time with the quiet, enigmatic boy who somehow seemed wise beyond his years.
Now, as he closed up the car, history seemed to be repeating itself, and she felt that same excitement. There was something about him that spoke only to her, a connection she’d missed in the years they’d been apart. And she knew on some level that she had been waiting for him, just as he’d been waiting for her.
She couldn’t imagine never seeing him again; she couldn’t release Dawson to become nothing but a memory. Fate — in the form of Tuck — had intervened, and as she started walking toward the cottage she knew there’d been a reason for it. All of this had to mean something. The past was gone, after all, and the future was the only thing they had left.
As Dawson had predicted, the front door was unlocked. Entering the small house, Amanda’s first thought was that this had been Clara’s refuge.
Though it had the same scuffed pine flooring, cedar walls, and general layout as the house in Oriental, here there were brightly colored pillows on the couch and black-and-white photographs artfully arranged on the walls. The cedar planking had been sanded smooth and painted light blue, and the large windows flooded the room with natural light. There were two white built-in bookshelves, filled with books and interspersed with porcelain figurines, something Clara had obviously collected over the years. An intricate handmade quilt lay over the back of an easy chair, and there wasn’t a trace of dust on the country-style end tables. Floor lamps stood on either side of the room, and a smaller version of the anniversary photograph perched near the radio in the corner.
Behind her, she heard Dawson step into the cottage. He stood silently in the doorway, holding his jacket and her bag, seemingly at a loss for words.
She couldn’t hide her own amazement. “It’s something, isn’t it?”
Dawson slowly took in the room. “I’m wondering if I brought us to the wrong house.”