Chapter Twenty-One
Phoebe unwrapped herself from the phone cord and hung up dancing a jig. John looked up blandly from his papers. “And how’s Elvira?” he asked.
Phoebe knew it was a perfunctory question as he’d heard every word of her end of the conversation. She danced over to him and leaned over his shoulder.
Reflexively, he covered his writing, and Phoebe gave him a little pinch.
“El had some news.”
“I gathered that from all the ‘no ways’ and ‘are you kidding mes’,” he said dryly.
“Well, then smarty pants. What’s the news?” Phoebe flopped down in the chair closest to his.
“Cardona asked out Hazel,” John guessed.
Phoebe felt herself deflate. “How did you know?”
“He told me he was going to.”
“And you didn’t tell me?” Phoebe slapped at his arm. “Honestly, John. Sometimes I think I was the one who was supposed to be born in Blue Moon.”
He grinned at her and pulled her chair closer to him until he could reach her for a kiss.
“Well?” she asked, pulling back.
“Well, what?”
“What do you think?”
“About what?”
“Michael and Hazel?”
“I’m a lot more interested in you and me,” he told her with a devilish smile. He brought her finger tips to his mouth and nipped one.
“You know, for someone who was so resistant to going to bed with me, you certainly are making up for lost time,” she reminded him with a saucy wink.
Dinner was over, the dishes were done, Murdock was snoring under the table. Before the phone call, Phoebe had been putting another round of “finishing touches” on her thesis while John scratched at his own writing project.
It was their own time, and Phoebe had grown to enjoy these nights spent in companionable quiet. Of course, a TV would have been nice, too.
She sighed.
“What’s that for?” John asked.
“Oh, I don’t know,” she said airily. “Life is pretty good. There’s really only one thing that I want. One thing that I need.”
Phoebe enjoyed how his gaze heated at just the idea of sex.
“And what’s that one thing?” he asked, kissing the inside of her wrist and sending a delicious shiver down her spine.
“I want to read something you wrote.” Her declaration had the same effect as dumping a bucket of freezing creek water over his head. John leaned back in his chair and groaned. He covered his face in his hands.
“You drive me insane,” he announced through his palms.
Phoebe grinned unapologetically. “I know. So you might as well just hand something over now. It’ll be easier in the long run.”
He shoved a stack of papers at her. “Read one. And do not comment on it. I don’t do this for other people’s opinions. I do it for me,” he reminded her.
Phoebe bounced up and down in her chair. “Oh, boy!”
She started at the top of the stack knowing if she took her time digging through the papers, it would just upset John more. Wiggling to get comfortable in her seat, Phoebe cleared her throat.
“No! Not out loud. Christ, I can’t be here when you read it,” John said, shoving his chair back from the table. “I’ll be back in five minutes.” He picked up his beer, whistled for the dog, and left through the side door.
Phoebe, bubbling with glee, settled in to read.
Visions of future passing
When I look at this land, I know it’s not the present that I see. I don’t see a dilapidated barn that’s about to fall or a farmhouse that desperately needs an overhaul. I don’t see broken fence lines and overgrown fields.
I see the future. That red barn painted up nice with white trim. Horses in the stalls and pastures. Kids spending an endless summer splashing in the pond. Lightning bugs dotting the fields and shooting stars streaking across an inky black sky.
I see acres of corn and wheat and soy. Fields of tomatoes, beans, squash, lettuce, berries. I see family and friends and bonfires after hard, gratifying days of work. I catch glimpses of long winters buried under feet of snow. A fire crackling in the hearth and stew simmering on the stove. Snowball fights and snowmen. Christmas trees with lights. Dark nights warm under a quilt as snow falls softly outside.
I can taste the apple cider and beer and burgers on the grill and pies fresh from the oven. Hear the laughter. Children at play, wild and free. A wife at night, quiet and teasing.
I see community. A town that never gives up on anyone. One that butts in even when it’s not wanted. Neighbors that show up to help without being asked because they know you and love you.
From this vantage point, I can see for miles into the future. There will be growth here. There will be family here. Harvests here. Happiness here.
I can hear it, too.
The high school marching band warming up before a football game.
The crickets on a summer night.
“Just five more minutes, dad.”
“I love you, John.”
There is something that I can find here and only here on these two hundred acres. I feel it in my bones as if they’re made from the same ground beneath my boots. I’m meant to be here, meant to work this earth. I’m meant to live here, love here, die here.
Phoebe loosened her grip on the papers in her hand, her eyes damp, her chest tight. He’d painted a picture of a beautiful, perfect life. He was a poet, a man who would be a hero to his wife and children.
The hairs on her arms stood up as if lightning were about to strike. Perhaps it already had. Not outside in the dark where man and dog wandered. But in her chest where her heart beat for the man who’d written down the life he wanted in blue ink on lined paper.
She’d gone and done it. She’d let down her guard and fallen in love with John Pierce, poet farmer.