Wings

“Well, good luck,” Laurel said.

David sighed. “Yeah, nothing like a little nepotism to make all your coworkers like you.” He laughed shortly. “Where are you going?”

“Down to my old house. My mom’s been talking about nothing but the sale for the last two days. She’s excited about it, but she’s kind of having second thoughts too.”

“Why? I thought they really wanted to sell.”

“I thought so too. But Mom’s getting sad about it. She grew up there. And her mom before that. And back and back. You know?”

“I think that’s awesome. I wish you didn’t have to sell.”

“Me too,” Laurel said. “Not that it’s not great here,” she said quickly. “I’m glad we moved. But I kinda like the idea of being able to go back and visit.”

“Have you been back since you moved?”

“No. We’ve all been so busy getting the store going and moving in and, well, we just haven’t had time. So Mom wants to visit and make sure she’s really certain about selling and rake the leaves while we’re at it. And wash the windows. And Dad’ll probably want to trim the hedges.” She smiled with fake excitement. “It’s gonna be fun, fun, fun,” she said sarcastically.

David nodded, then looked at her more seriously. “I wish I could go,” he said. “I really do.”

Laurel looked down; his eyes were so intense. “Another time,” she said earnestly, trying not to sound too disappointed.

“I hope so.”

EIGHT

LAUREL’S HAIR WAS WILD AND TANGLED WHEN THEY arrived. It would take ages to brush out later, but it was worth the forty-five-minute drive in the old convertible with the wind whipping across her face. They pulled into the long driveway, and Laurel held her breath as it curved around a clump of trees and the cabin came into view.

The appearance of her old house was accompanied by a wave of nostalgia Laurel hadn’t expected. The log cabin was small but quaint, nestled in a large circle of thick green grass surrounded by a rickety fence. Laurel had often missed her old home since moving but never as intensely as the moment it came into view for the first time in four months. For twelve years she’d lived in this house and on this land. She knew all the twisty paths through the vast forest behind the house and had spent hours wandering them. It wasn’t precisely that she wished she lived there again, but she didn’t want to let it go.

Her parents began unloading rakes and buckets and cleaning supplies. Laurel pulled her guitar from the backseat, and her mom laughed. “I love that you play that old thing.”

“Why?”

“It just reminds me of when I used to play it back at Berkeley.” She grinned at Laurel’s dad. “When we first met. We were such hippies back then.”

Laurel eyed her mom’s long braid and her dad’s Birkenstock sandals and gave a snort. “You’re hippies now.”

“Nah, this is nothing. We were really hippies back then.” Her mom slipped one hand into her dad’s, entwining their fingers. “I used to take that guitar to sit-ins. I’d play ‘We Shall Not Be Moved’ terribly off-key and everyone would bellow along. Remember that?”

Her dad smiled and shook his head. “The good ol’ days,” he said sarcastically.

“Aw, it was fun.”

“If you say so,” her dad relented, leaning in for a kiss.

“Do you mind if I wander a bit?” Laurel asked, slipping the strap of the guitar over her shoulder. “I’ll come back in a while to help.”

“Sure,” her mom said as she dug through the trunk.

“See ya soon,” Laurel said, already walking toward the back of the house.

The forest was filled with both broad-leaf and pine trees that shaded the soft green foliage carpeting the ground. Most of the tree trunks were covered with dark green moss that hid the rough bark. Everywhere you looked was green. It had rained lightly that morning and the sun was out, turning the millions of droplets of water into sparkling orbs that made every surface twinkle like sheets of emeralds. Paths twisted into the darkness between the trees, and Laurel slowly headed down one.

It was easy to imagine she was walking through hallowed ground — the ruins of some great cathedral from ages before memory. She smiled when she saw a moss-clad branch illuminated by a thin beam of sunshine and rubbed her hand across it so the glistening drops of water dripped from her fingers and caught the light as they fell to the ground.

When she had been out of her parents’ sight for several minutes, Laurel slipped her guitar to the front and untied the scarf. With a sigh of relief, she lifted her shirt a bit to let the flower petals spring free. After being tied down most of the day, they ached to be released. The petals stretched out slowly like sore, cramped muscles as Laurel continued down the thin, leaf-strewn path. She heard the distant gurgle of a large stream and picked her way through the vegetation in its direction, finding it in just a few minutes and plopping down on a rock at its edge. She kicked off her flip-flops and let her toes dangle into the chilly water.

She’d always loved this stream. The water was so clear in the still current that you could see to the bottom and watch fish flit back and forth. Where it splashed over rocks in small waterfalls, it churned into a perfect white foam that looked like thick, frothy soap bubbles. The whole scene belonged on a postcard.

Laurel began picking out chords from her favorite Sarah McLachlan song. She hummed along quietly as the scent from the flower enveloped her.

After the first verse, a rustle off to her left made her head jerk up. She listened carefully and thought she heard soft whispers. “Mom?” she called tentatively. “Dad?”

She leaned the guitar against a tree and worked at the knot in the scarf where she’d tied it around her wrist. She’d better get the petals out of sight before her parents saw.

The long silk scarf refused to come loose from her wrist and she heard another rustle, louder than the first. Her eyes shot to the spot the sound had come from, just over her left shoulder. “Hello?”

Carefully, Laurel folded the soft petals down and wrapped them around her waist. She was about to secure them with the scarf when a figure stumbled out from behind a tree as though he had been pushed. He shot a nasty look at the tree for just a second before his face turned to Laurel. His agitation melted away and an unexpected warmth filled his eyes. “Hi,” he said with a smile.

Laurel gasped and tried to back away, but her heel caught on a root and she fell, letting go of the petals to catch herself.

It was too late to conceal anything; they sprang up in full view.

“No, don’t…! Oh, dear. I’m sorry. Can I help you?” the stranger said.

Laurel looked up into deep-green eyes almost too vibrant to be real. A young man’s face peered down at her as she lay splayed on the ground.

He extended his hand. “I really am sorry. We…I did make some noise. I thought you’d heard me.” He smiled sheepishly. “I guess I was wrong.” His face looked like a classic painting — cheekbones clearly defined under smooth, tanned skin that looked like it would fit in better on an L.A. beach than in a chilly, moss-covered forest. His hair was thick and black, matching the eyebrows and lashes framing his concerned eyes. It was rather long and damp — as though he hadn’t gone inside when it started raining — and somehow he’d managed to dye just the roots the same brilliant green as his eyes. He had a soft, gentle smile that made Laurel’s breath catch in her throat. It took her a few seconds to find her voice.

“Who are you?”

He paused and studied her with a strange, unflinching look in his eyes.

“Well?” Laurel prompted.

“You don’t know me, do you?” he asked.

She was slow to answer. She felt like she did know him. There was a memory there, at the edge of her mind, but the harder she reached for it, the faster it slipped away. “Should I?” Her voice was guarded.

The probing gaze disappeared as abruptly as it had come. The stranger laughed softly — almost sadly — and