Chapter 25
"You're sure you want to do this?" I ask Claire as I slide into the passenger seat of the Jeep after loading up the back.
It's Friday afternoon, and I need to install a couple of burning bushes at a business in Asheville. Claire got off work early, so she offered to come help. I didn't say no because I can't seem to get enough of her. I want all my days saturated with Claire, to help make up for the blank, long days I've spent without her—and all the days you'll be without her in the future, an unhelpful voice whispers in my head.
We decided to take the Jeep, which we practiced driving yesterday afternoon. Both of us have gotten the hang of it, but I want to make sure she's totally comfortable with it before she brings it out alone. Granted, there's dick-all I can do from the passenger seat, as we've both seen, but it makes me feel better to be there—to have eyes on her. To be able to talk her through any tough spots, something I'm better at now that I'm not gripped with the guilt of having agreed to teach her something I suck at.
"Yes," she says resolutely as she pulls out of the driveway without hesitating or stalling. Pride fills my chest. "I have to admit I'm not used to playing in the dirt, though. My dad's a bit of a clean freak, and we didn't exactly have a garden. The only plants we had were the windowsill kind."
I layer my hand over her thigh, and she glances at me, her eyes sparkling. "We both make things," I say. "When you mix things in your kitchen and put them in the oven, or fry them, you're creating something out of smaller parts. You're making them into something bigger, better, than they could have been on their own. It feels like that when I plant things too, like I'm bringing possibilities to life. I want to share that with you."
She shakes her head, giving me a sidelong glance that blazes through, her eyes big and gold and warm for me. "You always say you don't have a way with words, yet you keep proving yourself wrong. Thank you, Declan. I'm glad you're sharing this with me."
So am I. But even though I've been happy for the last couple of days—happier than I can ever remember being—I feel on edge. Part of it is because I'm worried about Rosie. I spoke with her last night, and she acted like quitting the job was no big deal—she doesn't like to be tied down, never has—but I sense a greater discontent behind it. She's up to something, and I don't know what, and I'm too far away to do anything about it. But that's not the only reason I feel like I'm walking the razor-side of a knife. It can't go on like this. I can't keep letting Claire in without actually letting her in. But it's impossible to tell her everything, isn't it?
Still. I feel the pulse of wanting to. Of wanting to lay myself bare before her and let her decide whether to stab me or expiate me.
I breathe in a jagged breath, taking in her rosemary scent, and let it out, calmer already. I feel Claire watching me as she pulls onto the highway to Asheville. "You know, I've barely spent any time in Asheville," she says, "other than going to that lawyer's office and a couple of stores. Do you like going there?"
"Sometimes. But I like Marshall better. It's…it fills me with calm, being out here with nature. Having the mountains in my backyard."
She smiles at me, because she knows that already—she probably knew it within hours of meeting me. "That's because it's where you belong. Sometimes we're not born where we belong, and we have to find it."
I turn a little in my seat, needing to see more of her, my hand still on her leg, soaking in her warmth. "And how about you, Claire? Have you found it?"
I want her to say she has—that she's found it here in the mountains, with me, and maybe even with Nicole. But I'm also scared of that possibility. I'm scared of showing her all the stains on my soul.
"I think I'm in the process of finding it," she says, smiling at me, her expression filling me with hope edged with worry. "Maybe that process will be complete when I fall in a bucket of dirt."
"Things always seem clearer to me when I have my hands in dirt," I say with a grin, letting my fingers slide over her thigh. Wanting to cling to the levity to keep from falling over the edge. Wanting to hold on to her for as long as I can.
We talk easily for the rest of the drive, and when we get into the city, I direct Claire to the spa that's the site for the installation. She parks in the lot of the small building with the sign shaped like a lotus flower. The bushes I've brought will go to either side of the door.
After we speak with the business owner, an older woman with a soft demeanor, we get to work, unloading the shovels and fertilizer, followed by the bushes, their roots still wrapped in moist burlap.
"Aren't they a little plain?" Claire asks me in an undertone, like she's worried the woman might hear us through the brick or glass and get insulted. Or possibly that some of her clients will—the spa is still open for business, giving people manicures and pedicures, and whatever the hell else they do.
She's right. The bushes are green and full, but not particularly decorative. But they're much more than they seem.
I take her hand and run it over the profusion of green leaves. "I wouldn't call them plain," I tell her, leaning into her ear, "they're lush and green, and you already know how I feel about green things, but in a few months the leaves will change. The trees will be a sea of orange and yellow and green and red, and these bushes will reveal their secret. They're called burning bushes, because in the fall, they'll look like they're on fire. They'll turn scarlet, and every last leaf will look like a budding flower."
She glances up at me, her lips parting prettily. "That's beautiful."
My lips tip upward for half a second. "You're like that, you know. I feel like you've been changing color before my eyes, becoming more yourself. It's beautiful to watch."
She lifts up on her toes and kisses me, softly and sweetly, and I feel the warmth of it swallow me up. Putting an arm around her waist, I say, "Now, Claire Rainey, it's time to put you to work."
It's sweaty, dirty work, and by the time we're done, I can tell Claire's tired. But we did it right, and the bushes look upright and healthy, like they'll take to their new home just fine.
"You were right," she says, grinning at me. "They're not plain. They add something that was needed here. Something that was missing."
Life, brimming to either side of the door, making the place inviting. Spas are supposed to be relaxing, or so Rosie tells me—she'd know, since she's worked at one—and we've made this one more so.
I can tell Claire understands the feelings coursing through me—the sense of worth this gives me. Bringing life to the world. Making it more beautiful. And I take off my gloves and pull her close.
"I'm so dirty and sweaty," she says, laughing.
"So am I," I say into her hair. "Let's go home, and I'll draw you a bath and make you dinner." Because I want to take care of her. I might not be any good in the kitchen, but I need to show her how much I appreciate everything she's been doing for me. I need to let her know how I'm feeling without telling her the things I dread sharing.
She glances up at me in surprise. "You want to take me to your house?"
"The hard thing will be getting me to let you leave," I say with a smile, halfway meaning it.
"That means something to you."
"You mean something to me." And then I kiss her again, letting her know how true it is. How she's cut to the core of me. How badly I want to keep her.