Chapter 8

[Brock]

Yesterday, I’d messed up. Like royally fucked up. Pear and I had a great time the other night watching movies and drinking too much. Then yesterday morning, her face beamed when I made her breakfast. Those blue eyes as bright as the day. Her cherry-red lips curling like a Cheshire cat, all sultry but sweet. Fuck, when she looked at me like that, the way my heart hammered could crack my chest. Even walking through the home improvement store and setting up to repair a fence in the freezing cold did nothing to cool the warmth inside me as we spent time together.

But then we had to talk about my son, Nick, and I went too far. Damn mouth. Running off the rails again.

Pear wasn’t being intrusive. She was more inquisitive, like she really wanted to know why I was so reactive and why I rode my son about his future. She might not be a parent, but that didn’t mean she didn’t understand that making the wrong decision when you are young could mess up everything.

I didn’t want that for Nick.

I wanted more for both of my kids.

When I finally finished the fence after hammering my own thumb three times, cutting my hand on the cold wiring, and feeling a numbness in my fingertips, I’d wanted nothing more than to call my kids and hear their voices. Unfortunately, today was the day of Melissa and Kennedy’s wedding. I passed on calling as the kids would be too busy to talk to their old man.

When I returned to a cold living room and quiet house, my mood remained at a simmer.

Without a car, Pear didn’t have the means to leave. Still, I panicked when she didn’t respond to the knock on her bedroom door. What if something happened to her on her walk back to the house? What if a cow had already gotten into the orchard ?

The ridiculous thought had me cracking open her door to find her curled up on the bed, a blanket over her legs, a book near her head.

I didn’t want to disturb her, although I owed her an apology. Maybe more flowers were in order, but Pear seemed like the type who would be offended further by flowers. Petals on stems didn’t say I’m sorry to her. She’d want action, not reaction; only I didn’t know what that should look like.

And it shouldn’t have been something I’d lost sleep over, but I did.

My night was restless with thoughts of Pear and my kids. Maybe she was right about Nick. He didn’t have the same pressures I’d had. In many ways, he had it so much easier, and I wanted him to take advantage of the opportunities he’d been given. I didn’t want him to blow off his scholarship. He was a student athlete. He’d earned his scholarships and worked hard for his position on the college team. He had so much ahead of him.

Still, there was something to be said for happiness, and I’d been happy with the department. Sure, the ride has been bumpy at times, but I loved being a firefighter. A noble profession, Pear called it. She wasn’t wrong. I wanted Nick to be proud of whatever he did, to feel accomplished at something.

However, I wasn’t certain the department was the place for him. Then again, the hesitation might be my fear. I don’t want to ever get the news my kid has died in a blaze. Having to witness the deep loss in parents’ eyes at firemen funerals is rough. I don’t want to be on the receiving end of that kind of pain.

To my surprise, Pear is gone in the morning, but another note telling me to meet her in the workshop is propped up against a red mug positioned next to the perking coffeepot.

“Good morning,” I mutter, as I enter the cold building. While the wood-burning stove is on, the space hasn’t heated up yet. Neither has the air around Pear.

“Mornin’,” she mumbles, lifting an awkwardly large box that looks a little too heavy for her onto a make-shift worktable consisting of a sturdy piece of wood resting over two sawhorses .

“What’s the plan today?” Infusing my voice with more enthusiasm than I feel, I hope to crack the ice between us.

“Owl boxes.”

With blinking eyes, I stare at the sturdy flat box on the worktable.

“We need to build them and hang them.”

“We?” I arch a brow, surprised she’s willing to help me today.

“There are four of them and it will take all day if you do this alone.”

“Where do they need to be hung?”

“We can affix one to the outside of the barn. Two on posts that once belonged to bird feeders, and the last one will go on a dead tree on the edge of the property near the forest.”

“Why not install some simple birdhouses?”

Pear stops moving and finally looks at me. “Because my dad likes owls.” End of discussion .

On that note, I rip open the edge of one box while Pear opens another, and we begin the tedious process of matching parts and pieces. A goes into slot A while supported by B in the B-hole. I’d laugh if I wasn’t growing more and more agitated with the strained, tense silence between us.

Her unwillingness to talk right now speaks volumes and I have a strange itch to communicate with her, when communication has never been a strength of mine.

Eventually, Pear slams the instructions in her hand against a square piece of flat wood and hangs her head. “There isn’t enough space for the two of us.”

The table is cramped and with each of us trying to keep our distance, an invisible line exists that divides the already tight table into even smaller halves.

“My place or yours, then?” I suggest, hinting at the owls’ intended new homes. “I’ll help you with yours, if you’ll help me with mine.”

Pear scowls at me, eyes narrowing like I have some kind of agenda in building owl boxes.

“Fine,” she mutters .

“Fine,” I counter, but a smile tugs at the corner of my mouth. At least we’ll be talking even if it’s put part C into slot C.

I move the panels I’d been working with onto the flattened cardboard of the open box and set everything on the floor before stepping beside Pear, awaiting her instructions.

She holds up a long, rectangular piece of wood and lifts a side panel. “Part A slides into the A-hole.”

And with that, we’re both cracking up and the tension between us slowly breaks.

+ + +

Driving my truck around the property, we hang the boxes in the places Pear suggested. The owl boxes were heavy as hell and awkward as shit to carry up a ladder one-handed but the smile on Pear’s face after each box is in place is worth it.

Once finished, she stands back to admire each creation, like I’d built her a home. Little gleams of light sparked in her eyes despite the midwinter day growing dark at an early hour. Standing in the shadow of my headlights, her body outlined by the brightness, I wanted nothing more than to kiss her.

“Think owls will really nest in there?” I ask.

With her hands still covered in mittens but tucked under her chin, Pear stares up at the two houses we installed last. The ones on the old birdfeeder posts.

“We’re a little late to set them up. They should have been hung in October, but I read you can go as late as February and owls will still find their new homes.” She pauses a second. “But I don’t know why an owl wouldn’t love that place.” She nods at the box on a thick column. “It looks inviting, right? If I were an owl, I’d want to live there.”

I chuckle at the thought of her living in a box suspended in the air. If she lived there, I’d want to live there as well.

“February? Don’t tell me. Owls are the official birds of Valentine’s Day, like jars of pears are the official fruit. ”

“Definitely official bird of romance,” she teases. “Nothing says love like the hoot of an owl.”

I snort, and without thinking, wrap my arm around her and kiss the side of her head. We make a great pair, whether she agrees or not.

Once back inside the warm human house, Pear cooks dinner for us even though she grumbled only days ago about feeding me. I hadn’t intended for her to provide anything for me, but I am grateful all the same. I can cook but I don’t love it. Breakfast is my specialty.

Dinners are typically a quick affair for me. Now that I’m alone, with both kids in college, I eat most of my evening meals standing at the kitchen counter, scrolling my phone while rushing through what I consider a necessity more than a pleasure.

Pear, on the other hand, enjoys every meal. She savors each bite, talking between each sample. A meal is an occasion for her. Tonight, we have pork chops she slow-cooked in mesquite barbeque sauce all day with a side of roasted potatoes, and I don’t think I’ve ever eaten anything so delicious in my life.

Pear is an amazing cook. Baker and cook. Her pie was heavenly. Her pork chops divine. I’ll happily take anything she wants to make me. Not that I wouldn’t cook for her. I can’t wait to tackle that tenderloin I bought. We’ve agreed to save it for New Year’s Eve, the official halfway mark of my stay.

The days are passing quickly, and the thought of leaving creates a strange ache behind my sternum.

“You okay?” Pear asks, catching me while I rub my knuckles over my breastbone.

“Heartburn,” I lie.

“You eat too fast.”

I sigh, falling back in my seat and staring at my empty plate. “Hazard of an empty nest. I eat alone a lot and hardly ever sit at my table. No reason to slow down. Just eat and move on.”

“Eat and be done. Blasphemy .” A sweet smile curls her mouth as she scolds me .

We’re finally back to the easiness that has developed between us over the last four days, and I, for one, am relieved. I like her, and I want her to like me. Not like some teenage crush thing, but actually enjoy my company, as a man. A man who hasn’t been with a woman in a long time. A man who values friendship but also wants more.

I’m not certain Melissa was my friend. We told each other things, but did we listen to one another? Did we hear what the other wanted? What the other needed? Melissa hadn’t heard my desire to build furniture. She’d scoffed at the idea. Guess carpentry was even lower on her list than fireman . Funny how being who I am never bothered her at first. Eventually, who I am led to a nice house. A decent car. Private education for our kids. It’s also strange she then ended up with a fire woman as her partner.

After the divorce from my wife and dissolution of my friendship with Kenny, Kenny took a position in a suburban fire department.

“Did you hear that?” Pear pauses, fork midway to her lips.

“What?” I tilt my head, listening.

“That—” Pear is already pushing back her chair, forgetting about her unfinished dinner and rushing toward the front door.

“Where are you going?” I laugh as she struggles to tug her coat off the hook.

“Outside.” She giggles like a boy-band-crushing teen while she steps into a pair of boots without bothering to lace them up and tugs on a jacket, skipping the zipper. Jamming her knit cap on her head, she opens the front door and steps outside, gingerly crossing the porch.

I stand to follow her, stopping within the open doorway, and then I hear it.

Ah-who-who-who .

“Oh my God.”

“Shh,” Pear shushes, turning toward me with a finger to her lips before swiveling back toward the barn. We hung the box on the eastern side to protect the creature from the harsh winds that rush off the lake and make this region in Michigan a snowbelt. Still, I’m shocked an owl has found the home so quickly.

While sliding my feet into my construction boots, I pull my jacket off the coat hook I designated as my own. I shove my arms into my coat, tugging the door to close behind me. The soft click sounds too loud in the silence of the night.

Pear hushes. “We must be very quiet.”

“Because we’re hunting wabbits,” I whisper.

Pear scowls which proves she gets the reference. Elmer Fudd would be proud.

Once we cautiously step onto the gravel drive, Pear walks gingerly, her pace slow as she circles the barn. The moment feels like we are kids playing ghosts in the graveyard or hide and seek, sneaking up on an unsuspecting friend.

Pear pauses again when she hears the distinct cry.

Ah-who-who-who .

The hoot is throaty and strong. His call sounds weary but wise.

“He’s staking his claim,” Pear whispers. “He’s warning other owls to stay away.”

“Really?”

“Or he could be calling to a mate.”

“You seem to know a lot about owls.”

“I told you, my dad loves them.” Pear turns her head to face me. Her hands are stuffed in her coat pocket while her jacket remains open.

Stepping closer to her, I shift her and zip up her coat, tugging the hood over her head. She tips her head back and looks up at the sky.

“I love nights like this,” she states quietly, as if she’ll disturb the absolute silence. “The moon casts everything in a blue light.”

I hadn’t noticed, too curious about the owl, and concerned about following Pear.

Turning my head, I see what she means. Everything glows in a dull blue-gray gleam while the sky is an inky black and the moon a vibrant white disc. The silence around us even takes on a color, like the white noise of snowflakes floating to the ground.

“It’s beautiful,” I whisper to the heavens, breathing in the crisp, cool air. A chill runs down the back of my neck, yet I’m not cold. Something about this night feels magical, mystical maybe. A mystery is being shared with me, and I’m trying to listen. I want to learn the secret. I hear something but I can’t make out what I’m being told.

Instead, I face Pear again, who is watching me.

“Yeah. Beautiful,” she whispers as her warm eyes meet mine.

“I’m sorry about yesterday,” I say, not really wanting to discuss yesterday’s tension in the midst of our present peace, but something inside me begs me to seek her forgiveness.

“Me, too. It’s not my place—” She stops as my finger covers her lips.

“Do you hear that?” I cup my ear.

“What?” Her voice drops low, and she tips her head to the side as if she’ll hear better.

“ Ah-who-who-who ,” I call out, quiet but deep.

“What are you doing?” She giggles, covering her mouth to quell the sudden noise. Only, I want to hear her laughter. I want to see her smile. And I want to taste her mouth.

Pulling at strands of her hair that peek out from beneath her cap and hang straight against her shoulder, I say, “I’m staking my claim.”

Or maybe I’m making a mating call. Be mine. Be mine. Be mine .

I certainly understand how owls might work romantically during Valentine’s.

I’d prefer, if their call had an effect, on December twenty-ninth. A random Thursday in early winter.

And when Pear tips up on her toes and brushes my lips with a light kiss, I’m not certain I’ve ever been more surprised.

With a kiss as soft as an owl’s feather, she’s claimed me. And I don’t know if I’ve ever been happier.