Wander and Roam (Wander #1) (16 page)

“Um, let me check.” I reluctantly leave Sage’s side to find the fallen sign.

The next few hours are a whirlwind of activity. The booth remains packed with people filling bags and baskets with our produce. As soon as the crowd thins, we hurry to restock. Inevitably, another surge happens as soon as we fill our tables.

We fall into a steady routine. Weigh, accept payment, and restock. Repeat again and again and again. I’m dying to ask him about his kind words.
Does he really think I’m all of those positive things? Then why has he given me the cold shoulder for the last two days?
I simply don’t have time to ask him anything, though.

In the late afternoon, most of the produce has sold. A small basket of potatoes, a few bruised tomatoes, and some wilted lettuce remain on the table. The farmers around us have sold out, too, and are packing away their supplies.

“Why are you ignoring me?” I finally ask.

He sighs. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to flip the hot-cold switch on you.”

That’s exactly what he did. After weeks of the flirtatious, overly friendly Sage I knew, this new withdrawn, disengaged version of Sage is a stranger to me.

“Don’t I deserve an explanation?” I ask.

“It’s me, Abby.” He grabs his hair in frustration. “I realized I’m not good for you.”

Finally, Sage is ready to share an explanation of his aloofness. Just as I’m about to ask him more, Lonnie pulls up.

“Ready to head back, kids?” He pulls down the back of his pickup truck.

In complete silence, we load up the remains of the veggies and pack the empty boxes together. Sage climbs in the back once again, and I walk to the front. Lonnie chats the entire ride to the docks, but I stare quietly out the window at the little town.

When we board the water taxi, Sage resumes his stance by the bow. I thought we’d be able to resolve this awkwardness, but I really don’t know anything more. I wonder why he thinks he isn’t good for me.
Why does he think
he’s
the problem?

A
FTER A
week of awkward glances, forced smiles, and too much distance, I cannot bear it. I searched for release through the physically intensive farm work, but with every bed in the garden weeded, each ripe vegetable harvested and stored, garden tools washed and even polished, physical exertion isn’t working.

Since nothing on this farm needs doing, I decide to walk. Without any planning or conscious thought, I find myself on the path up the cliff. When I reach the spot that overlooks the bay, I sink down on the soft grass. The white sails against blue waters don’t distract me from this spot’s first memory. Our first kiss, so spontaneous after Sage’s lesson on being in the moment.

For the longest time, Robbie was my everything. My best friend, my confidante, my love, my soul mate. Truthfully, he was all of these and more. Everyone talks about true love, but nobody warns of the dangers of such an all-encompassing romance. When Robbie died, I forgot how to live.

For a few short weeks, Sage brought me back from my prison of the non-living. He full-on resurrected me. Rejoining the world was like watching an old movie that starts off black-and-white and ends in full Technicolor. Only between his cold shoulder and the loneliness of this farm, the grays have started to seep back in again.

I watch the blue sky and the bluer water until they blur. One by one, tears well over and run down my cheeks. When one droplet weaves its way to my lips, the tinge of salt brings back another memory, Sage’s salty ocean kisses.

For the second Sunday in a row, I curl up on the ground and weep. I have no idea how long I cry. I need the release, though.

“Abby?” Sage’s soft voice calls. His feet crunch against the forest debris, and his clothes rustle as he settles next to me.

I try to regain control, but my crying has gotten to the place where it overpowers me. How completely and utterly mortifying.

“I wish there was something I could do to ease your pain,” he whispers. Something rustles—his backpack, I think. He presses a crisp rectangle into my hands. I would know that object anywhere. The smooth linen texture of fine paper. The slight hint of glue. I wipe away the tears with my arm as I open my eyes.

The last purple envelope.

“I just remembered I promised to do something special with this one, something to help you mourn.” Sage rubs my back. I hate myself for it, but I lean into his touch.

He thinks I’m mourning Robbie. How can I tell him that I’m not mourning over what’s gone? Instead, I’m crying over what will never be. For a few brief days, I allowed myself to hope… to dream… to imagine.

Only my musings centered entirely on Sage.

For months, I clung to the fading memory of Robbie. Despite all the thousands of pointless things they teach throughout high school and college, no one offers classes on how to mourn properly. Probably a skill few young adults need, I imagine.

Something changed in the cemetery. Grief’s heavy, a stone-filled, sorrow-ridden backpack. When I tore away the straps of my burden of misery and abandoned it on that gravestone, the release was undeniable.

The world’s prettiest view, for all perpetuity. Robbie would have liked that.

“The Japanese have a ritual to work through their grieving,” Sage says. “Would you like to see if it helps?”

I refuse to embarrass myself by sharing what these tears were actually about, so I just nod.

He helps me to my feet then takes back the envelope. “I need a few hours to prepare. Meet me at the dock tonight for sunset.”

Fifteen minutes after the dinner bell rings, I finally make my way to the covered eating area. A stoneware container holds a steaming soup, but only one bowl rests next to it.

Susan follows my gaze to the remaining bowl. “Sage already took his portion. He said he was too busy to join you.”

Sage has been too busy to come to dinner all week. I’ve almost grown used to eating alone again. Almost, but not really.

Susan lowers her hand to mine. “I was wondering if you’d prefer to join me for dinner.” When I hesitate, she adds, “I wouldn’t mind the company. Zachary’s not a great conversationalist.”

“That sounds nice.” I pick up the stoneware and walk behind her down the trail. As warmth spreads from the stone to my hands, I think about the irony of my situation. For months, I secluded myself. But now that I’ve cut the bonds of my isolation, I crave contact.

“I hope it’s not too warm a night for soup. It’s the height of harvest, so my kitchen’s overflowing with veggies,” Susan says.

“Soup actually sounds good.” It smells good, too. I can’t pick out all the different vegetables but recognize the pungent odor of garlic. “I still haven’t gotten used to the idea of summer in December.”

“You probably have a more traditional Christmas where you’re from, huh?” Susan glances back, which gives Zachary a better view of me. He coos in my direction.

“If you count real snow most Christmas mornings as traditional.” This will be the first time I’m away for the holiday.

“I would love to see that. The holiday lights against the snow. Santa in a sleigh instead of on a surfboard.”

“Are… are you going to visit any family over the holidays?” If I’m lonely after this past week, I can’t imagine how she deals with the isolation.

“This little guy’s the only family I have left,” she says quietly. “My parents have both passed on.”

I tickle Zachary’s toes when I’m close enough to reach them. His laughter peals through the quiet evening.

“What happened to his father?” As soon as the question exits my mouth, I freeze in embarrassment. I should know better than anyone how painful inquiries about the past can be.

Susan pauses at her front door. “Some people aren’t ready for life’s responsibilities.” Without further explanation, she turns the knob and gestures for me to enter. Susan’s kitchen is dotted with signs of tonight’s soup. A compost bucket teems with vegetable scraps, a stainless steel stockpot still rests on the cold burner, and chopped bits of carrots and greens dot a large cutting board.

“Excuse me while I change Zachary’s nappy.” Susan frees him from the sling. “I’ll join you as soon as I’m done.”

I set the soup on the wooden table. Her kitchen looks exactly as it did the last time I was here, on jam-making night. Only it’s so much emptier without Sage’s laughing, joking presence.

We didn’t just convert the raspberry crop into jam that night. We transformed our fragile acquaintance into the sticky binds of attraction and friendship. Watching the berries solidify into a thick, sweet mass was fascinating, but the way Sage stirred the untouched flames within me was downright magical.

It was
real
. He felt it, too.
What could have happened?

“Sorry about that. He’s all clean now.” Susan walks back into the room and deposits Zachary into the highchair next to the table. She scoops some veggies into a little plastic bowl then chops them up even finer before setting them in front of him.

I take my first spoonful of soup.
Delicious
. “You could be a chef, Susan. Have you ever thought about opening your own restaurant?”

She waves her hand in a dismissive manner. “I would never leave my farm.” She rejects the idea immediately. “My father died a month after my twelfth birthday. A freak sailboat accident.” Her expression bears the familiar lines of loss. Susan knows grief. “My mother never quite got over his loss. She held on, for me I’m sure, but she was never the same after he passed.” Susan slowly brings her spoon to her mouth. After a long swallow, she rests it back in the bowl. “She passed herself, shortly after I met John.”

The silence stretches between us. I need to say
something
. “How?” I finally croak.

“The doctor said it was due to heart problems. I think she died of a broken heart.”

I drop my spoon in the bowl. The metal clangs against the stone, causing Zachary to startle. “Is there… is there such a thing?”

Susan shrugs. “There’s no official diagnosis, of course, but I watched Mum lose her will to live. My dad was her everything.”

The words ring too familiar for me. If I had never met Sage, if I had stayed focused on my grieving, I could have lost my own heart in the process.

Susan sips her soup. “John had dreams of big-city life. When I found out I was pregnant, he wanted me to sell my parents’ land to finance a home in the city. I couldn’t bear to leave their memories behind.”

My soup grows cold. For the first time since Robbie died, I am talking to someone who truly understands. “Right. How could you just go on?”

“I grew up here. I loved this farm. I wanted Zachary to be able to run free in this paradise, rather than being imprisoned in the city.” She watches him mash the veggies around on his tray.

“So Zachary’s father left?” I hope it isn’t too personal a question, but I need to know the rest of her story.

“He abandoned us to his dreams.”

I wonder how much loss one person can survive. Robbie’s death left me completely empty. I can’t imagine another loss piled atop of that.

“I wanted to maintain a working farm, so we could remain here. After a long week at the computer, I figured out how to make that happen as a single mother,” Susan says. “I couldn’t control what happened to my parents or John, but I chose my destiny.”