Chapter 20
The small road leading to Peter’s house was curvy, the woods thick. I raised my hand to protect my eyes from the late-day sun that insisted on shining over the treetops.
We reached the clearing and the house, but he wasn’t home.
“We’re going to wait.” I parked on the grass and got out of the SUV.
Claus nodded and got out too.
Jäger came running from behind the house.
“Come here, boy.” I stopped to pat him. “What’s up with all the white hair?” I was stunned by his salt-and-pepper snout. I haven’t been gone that long. Maybe the white hairs were there before, and I’d just failed to notice them somehow.
Once he moved his attention to Claus, I started walking to the lake.
Cool air filtered through an unsteady breeze, and a riot of sweet scents hit me in waves as I followed the lulling sound of ruffled leaves.
As soon as I got around the porch, I saw Peter’s greenhouse. Is it new? I’d always called his greenhouse an eyesore because of the plain white panels. I’d offered to plant some vines, but he’d said no.
Getting near it, I realized it was the same greenhouse. He’d replaced the front and side panels with clear ones, and yellow climbing roses covered a third of the structure already, their warm fragrance inviting me to get even closer.
I peeked inside and noticed that the blue-flame heater was now mounted to the wall and that he had installed the solar panel and the carbon dioxide generator he’d wanted for some time.
Two three-level display benches and a back shelf filled with unusually large, multicolor blossoms proved the upgrades had been successful.
Turning my attention to the lake, I realized the greenhouse was only a small part of the transformation that had taken place at 676 Water Well Lane.
Natural flagstone pathways, edged by gerbera daisies and zinnias, connected the back porch to three different spaces on an acre of land that used to have nothing but Bermuda grass. The area where the tree line met the lake had become a charming outdoor kitchen, complete with a built-in grill and a rugged dining set that blended with the woods. A large stacked-stone fireplace sloped down, becoming a short wall. Next to it, foxgloves, delphiniums, geraniums, and roses grew in tiers, forming a colorful enclosure.
The second path led to a simple arbor of red roses over a rustic country garden swing, and the third led to the dock and Peter’s quaint red rowboat. Two large lounge chairs, the same color as the boat, were added to the far side of the dock.
I walked down the third path and got in the boat with ease. There’s enough daylight to be on the water for at least an hour. I slipped the dock line eye off the rusty cleat and pushed off to look at the creation from where we’d planned it.
Jäger stood at the edge of the back porch and watched me run the oars through the oar locks.
No sign of Peter. Or of Claus.
I placed the blades in the water behind me and pulled hard before lifting them, gliding away from the house.
From twin barrel planters on the water’s edge, showy hollyhocks accused me from the top of their leaning spikes and dimmed everything good inside of me until all I could see was fault and all I felt was shame.
A roguish wind gust thrust the boat from the dock area faster than I expected.
I shook my head and reached toward the stern.
A good breath of untainted Pine Mountain air prepared me for the work ahead. I put the blades in the water again, leaned back toward the bow, and lifted. Soon I had established a strong rhythm.
I thought of stopping to watch a golden eagle in what looked like a high-soar-and-glide attack, but I chose to continue rowing, keeping my momentum.
Comfort came on the wings of my decision to stop dancing and was nurtured by the cadence of my labor.
I’d killed a piece of my dream the first time I was in Germany. It’d hurt, but I’d done it.
“Time to kill the rest of that stupid dream,” I mumbled, despite the eagle that emerged from the woods and defied aerodynamics with its oversized prey. What had Claus called it? Silly and random?
I worked, watching her disappear toward the horizon. Yep. That’s me. Silly and random.
Stern, bow, lift. Stern, bow, lift.
But that’s enough. I’m gonna get a real life now.
With a jolt of energy, I peeked over my shoulder and figured I just needed a dozen good strokes to arrive where I needed to be.
The sun was resting behind the trees, but its light still painted orange the thin clouds that hung around to usher in twilight, and I rowed surrounded by an equally orange lake.
Reaching the small bay, I lowered my eyes.
Help me, dear God. I’m so tired.
I traced the oar handles, worn where Peter’s hands had been so many times, and brought my fingertips to my face, conjuring the memory of his touch back to life.
And as I looked at our romantic cottage garden from the best fishing spot on Red Tree Lake, a feeling of coming home overwhelmed me.
I welcomed the evening breeze that caressed every leaf and looked skyward, letting the remaining daylight soothe me. When I looked across the lake again, Claus was walking toward the dock.
Or is it Peter? I compared the man’s frame to Jäger’s. That was Peter and his dog. I knew what the two looked like side by side.
Gasping and turning the boat around, I rowed as fast as my arms would let me, certain that I looked like an idiot but not caring one bit. Why couldn’t this boat have an engine?
After rowing to the middle of the lake, I looked over my shoulder. Could I read his face? Nope. Too far away. He stood at the end of the pier, firm and still, as if planted, with his hands in his dark-jeans pockets and his black button-up shirt untucked.
Once closer, I looked again. Strands of soft brown hair framed the expression I couldn’t yet decipher.
Docking with a hard bang, I turned to him. Please let me come home.
He reached for my hand and helped me out of the rowboat. His hand lingered on mine, and my head bowed.
I shivered because I was cold—and afraid. But above all, I shivered because being next to Peter was still absolutely exhilarating.
“Girl, you’re a mess.”
Looking up, my eyes saw what they’d hoped to see all along—there it was— the boyish smile that had thrilled me on our first date and every date since. “I am.” I nodded. “I am a mess, Peter.” I got closer to him, hesitantly.
He didn’t back away.
“I’m a mess without you.” Letting my cheek touch his chest, I breathed in his cologne. “Oh, Peter. I missed you so much.” The palms of my hands rested on his chest, too, the soft fabric of his shirt cool to the touch. Was I forgiven at last?
He put his arms around me. “I missed you too.”
“I wasn’t having an affair,” I said, feeling warm and protected in his embrace.
“I know.”
He did? “Claus is going to tell you all about it.”
“He already did.” Peter’s voice had the same tranquility of the lazy afternoon breeze. How could it be? “I already sent your boyfriend packing. He told me all I needed to hear.”
Where was Claus now? A piece of my heart stung. “How did he leave? We drove here together.”
“Walking.”
“Walking to where?”
“How would I know, and why would you care?”
My body shuddered. Why did I care? There would be a time to grieve that relationship, but this wasn’t it, was it? “Did he tell you that—”
“He did.” Peter held my face with both his hands.
“But you don’t even know what I was going to ask.”
“It doesn’t matter. I just want to be with you.” His eyes were tender, his smile warm. “Can we do that?”
My head bobbed in agreement. But why was he making this reconciliation so easy on me?
“Did you eat?”
“Huh?” Did I eat? I’d been gone for seven months, had left under the worst of circumstances, and now that we were face to face at last, all he wanted to know was if I’d eaten?
“I have some steaks in the fridge. Let’s grill.”
“You don’t want to know anything or ask anything?”
Peter jammed his hands in his front pockets, and a faint line formed between his brows. “Ana, this nightmare has consumed me for the past several months. No, I don’t want to know anything or ask anything. I just want to start a fire for you and grill some steaks, if that’s okay.”
“That’s okay.” He would want to know more one day. But maybe it was best to start slowly.
“Good.” Wrapping my hand in his, he led me to the fireplace area.
“Zeon zoysia?” I asked, surprised I hadn’t noticed the Bermuda grass was gone.
“Yep.” He crouched and picked two pieces of fine-bladed zoysia grass. “I’ve always wanted it.” He handed the soft green blades to me.
Bringing the delicate grass to my nose, I remembered the first time we’d met, the date at Callaway, at the azalea bowl. The grass had just been cut, and the air smelled of new beginnings and of fresh starts. Today it did again.
I stopped to pat the ground, the turf known as the perfect stage for family fun. Catching up with Peter, I sat to watch him arrange the pine and the cover of the Sunday paper in the fireplace.
Mom did say he was different. I couldn’t figure out what it was, but something about him was indeed different.
What was it? An aloofness that hadn’t been there before? It was as if part of him was all there and engaging, but part wasn’t—there was a missing set of emotions, a missing dimension. No … the only missing dimension was probably in my brain. I remembered my reaction to Jäger’s white hair. It was probably nothing. Just the passage of time. Or maybe it’s the hurt I caused. Maybe he’s being a bit guarded.
“How do you like it?” He raised his arms like a conductor as he walked to his cord of walnut firewood beyond what was now the kitchen.
“I love it—everything is perfect.” I watched him walk back with four logs. “It’s like a Thomas Kinkade painting. Remember we went to a gallery at the mall in Atlanta one time? Remember dimming the lights by each painting and watching it change?”
“Of course I remember.” He looked as if he were going to say something else, but he didn’t.
“It’s everything I’d hoped it would be.” Watching him light the fire, a hint of melancholy tried to surface. Thoughts of my life in Germany appeared before my eyes, dull and lifeless, like an old photograph that had lost its color. But it had been so bright. How could it all have ended like this? Was I right back to the feeling that nothing was ever sufficient for me? Seemed that way.
My head hung low with the weight of the day, and images of Lorie’s face came to mind uninvited. I had to stop the madness. All of it. Stopping dancing was a beginning, but could I really do it? I had to … Columbus was not an option, and Atlanta wasn’t either.
The sounds from the flames demanded my attention. Peter rested his hands on my shoulders, and we watched the fire together. If he only knew the comfort and courage that he gave me by simply standing next to me.
We cooked together and enjoyed the cool night as we talked about his work and about my landscaping adventures.
“So this German couple paid you to landscape their terrace?” Peter asked, cocking his head.
“Yep.” I picked the reddest tomato out of the produce basket to cut for our salad. “And there was the teacher’s terrace too.” I decided not to mention Claus’s garden. Or the Thunderbird.
“I never knew you cared about planting beyond showing support for me.” He shook his head and pulled a head of lettuce and a Samuel Adams from a small fridge under the kitchen counter.
The vibration signaling a new text message startled me, but I decided not to look. I grabbed the open bottle Peter offered me and drank, wondering why he’d switched to a full-bodied brew.
“You can sit,” he said. “I can finish.”
“Okay.” I chose the chair closest to the fire and filled my lungs with the steak smell that surrounded me. Should I check the text? Where had Claus gone? Did he make it back to my parents’? The text was probably from my parents—they were probably wondering what in the world I was doing. Would they be okay with my behavior and my decisions? Or would Dad give me his “life is not black or white” speech? His voice played in my head. You have this awful habit of wanting things to be black or white, and that’s hardly ever the case. Why not?
Peter put a Tracy Lawrence CD in the player he’d brought from the house and finished preparing the salad. I remembered that CD. It ended with “Paint Me a Birmingham.” How perfect would it be if he asked me to dance? Would we dance all night like we used to?
I checked the text, just in case, and saw it was from Claus.
IF YOU ARE SERIOUS ABOUT QUITTING, LET’S DO A FAREWELL—PRAHA IN COLUMBUS. BRIAN SAID HE WANTED A FIFTH PIECE FOR THE MIXED BILL.
“No,” I said to myself, putting the phone away. Famous ballerinas danced farewells. I wasn’t famous. And I would never, ever, dance Praha now. Ever.
Peter turned around, looking at me from the kitchen. “What did you say?”
“Nothing.” At least if Claus was texting about ballet, he must have made it safely to somewhere. No other texts or missed calls, so if he was at my parents, they must not have freaked out.
As we ate, we talked about Europe. He asked me about my travels, and I told him about Prague, Mallorca, a quick trip to London to see a ballet, as well as an even quicker sightseeing trip to Paris. I avoided talking about Germany, and I hadn’t mentioned the audition or the Met. I’d blushed at the mention of Prague.
Another text message came in.
“I’m getting another beer.” Peter stood up. “You?” he asked while collecting the two empty bottles.
“Sure.” I checked the text. It was from Claus again.
IF YOU DON’T WANT TO DANCE PRAHA, WE CAN DANCE SOMETHING ELSE.
Even if it were something else, the right answer was still no.
“Paint Me a Birmingham” started. Peter would certainly hate the idea of Claus and I dancing together a final time too. I need peace, not more complication and turmoil… No more.
Peter placed two just-opened bottles side by side on the table, drops of condensation forming fast. “Wanna dance?” He reached for my hand.
How could he be so kind to me? “Yes, I absolutely do.” Before entering the church, on the day he’d asked me to return his mother’s ring, I’d looked at the bridge on the other side of Falls Creek Lake, wishing I could be there, starting over. This right here, right now, is that wish come true. We would start over.
I took his hand and accepted his gentle embrace as we slow danced by the fire. The smell of wood smoke mixed with his musky scent invited me even closer. My legs were tired from the morning class, my arms tired from rowing, hands aching, heart aching … but here I was with a man who didn’t need me to do anything to earn a spot in his life, with whom I could just be. This is life. This was the way things ought to be—forever. “Do you think you can give me another chance?”
“I’ll sure have to try. I was miserable without you.” His lips touched my neck, his face tickling me with his scruff. “I missed your salty ballet taste.”
“I missed everything about you.” I ran my fingers through his hair and pulled him closer. He moaned, making me melt completely, and I kissed him as if we’d never been apart. My hand slid to his chest. His hand met mine, and he spread my fingers. I felt his heartbeat on the palm of my hand as we swayed to the music.
When the CD ended we stayed together, listening to the fire and rocking to his heartbeat.
Peter’s fingertips caressed my cheek. “I’m sorry I didn’t believe you.”
“I would have felt the same way if the roles had been reversed. I’m sorry.”
“It’ll pass.” He inhaled before continuing, “When you were with Claus, you never called me back. You didn’t write me back either. You didn’t look for me until you ended your relationship with him, and that means something to me. It means I can trust you won’t do things behind my back and break my heart, just like you didn’t do anything behind Claus’s back. He broke his own heart.”
“I wanted to contact you, but I knew it wasn’t right.” The cool night air prickled my skin. “If there’s anything I’ve learned through this whole mess, it is to be way more cautious and understanding when it comes to people’s feelings and perceptions.”
“I believe you.” His hands rubbed my arms. “You’re freezing.”
“A little.” A duck quacked in the darkness, the sound familiar. Warmer Damm Park. The times Claus and I had spent at the park had been so precious, more precious than the intimacy we’d shared.
“Let’s get you inside.”
Maybe my arms were cold, but my cheeks weren’t. What if I didn’t want to go inside? He’d said something about reading the Bible in his letter. Was he of a religion that read the Bible a lot, and wasn’t there something in the book against people sleeping together without being married? Maybe that could be an out.
“I’m cold.” Picking me up in his arms with ease, he started walking toward the house.
“What are you?” I asked.
“What am I?” He laughed. “I don’t know. You tell me.”
I laughed too. “I mean what religion? You wrote you would ‘never ever’ go back to church.”
“Oh.” He laughed again. “Baptist.”
Of course. “Calvary Baptist Church?”
“No. Grace. Why?”
“Nothing.” We were within feet from the back porch now. “Weren’t you reading the Bible again? Isn’t there something in there against, you know, people being together like this?”
“I was reading it there for a while … oh—” He stopped walking and his expression dulled. “We don’t have to, if you don’t want to…” His lips stretched but his eyes drooped.
Was I breaking his heart again? That was not my intention. And what if he changed his mind about letting me back in his life if I didn’t allow for everything to go back to normal—our normal?
“It’s up to you.” His smile looked forced.
A tight feeling in my chest warned me. I couldn’t handle his rejection—that was too big a risk. “I want to.”
“Good.”
A hint of melancholy that I didn’t understand but very much felt squeezed my heart, and I nestled my head on his chest as he opened the back door. I need to get back on the pill.