Mason Bloom shook off all his doubts about leaving -- about seeking a way to leave -- and decided to purchase a new home in the Singing Creek housing community. The realtor had a long list of prospective places for him, but the idea of a creek running nearby had been enough for Mason. Of course, it was only an idea -- the small creek had been mostly diverted long ago as more houses were built.
Mike, his aspiring realtor, said, "You know there's no actual creek."
But Mason stepped into the back yard without answering. He knew.
The yard he walked through that day consisted of a patch of dry lawn and weeds poking from mounds of topsoil. He grew a new garden in his mind -- "Don't you want to see the bedrooms?" Mike had asked from the deck. Mason hadn't answered that question either -- he let the dirt crunch under his rubber soled shoes, and at one point closed his eyes to better feel the sun on his neck.
Later, standing next to Mike, Mason said, "My commute will be short." He signed the papers two weeks later.
The truth of the matter was that Mason wanted to be settled; he'd had to move for his new position, and although he was thankful for the change -- he had sought the promotion because it required the move -- he wanted to stop thinking about the details. It had been painful enough this far, but he hoped finally landing would make for a fresh start. That, and the yard showed promise. The house sat in the middle of a cul-de-sac, and the property line behind the house stretched a bit wider than the rest of the yards in the neighborhood. And it was quiet: Only one of the two houses that flanked his was occupied, and beyond the rear a stand of mature trees grew in spite of the creek's disappearance, and further on lay undeveloped lots.
Mason moved in with a dozen boxes, all of which fit easily into the back of his truck. After setting the boxes in their respective rooms, he walked outside to sit on the deck. A few tools he'd need popped into his head, and immediately his plan shaped itself. "Might as well start," he said to himself, and he did: Within an hour of moving in, he'd hand dug the first plot. It was late winter.
Warmth came early that spring. Mason's garden greened overnight it seemed; every plot came to life. Each morning, before the dew dried, he looked for the progress of his flowers, vines, and vegetables; he also added plants he'd kept inside, away from the frost: roses, lavender, creeping phlox. Along the property line, parallel to his house, he planted oaks and maples -- when they reached a more mature height, they'd create a kind of avenue, and as he dug each hole, he saw his future self walking from trunk to trunk, enjoying the tree-cooled air during the heat of the day.
Mason and Starr's friendship deepened as March gave way to April. They mostly sat outside together, sometimes in his garden, other times on her deck, and they got used to the company of the other. She tried to understand why he spent so many hours outside but could never bring herself to ask. One day in particular she resolved to bring it up -- she would push through the odd embarrassment she felt and simply ask him. All the other simple questions she asked, he answered. What was so different about this?
"Mason," she said. "I -- " She looked down at the sweating glass in her hands. The ice cubes were now only slivers, barely visible.
He shifted in his seat, turning toward her.
"I usually have a summer party." Hot pressure rose from her cheeks to her forehead. I'm an idiot, she thought.
"Okay."
"I'd like you to come." She was thankful that the shadows of early evening covered her. She added, a bit too quickly, "If you want to."
"Well, when is it?" His hands were suddenly interesting to him, and he played with his fingernails.
"Oh. It's usually in June."
"June. Thanks for the early invite, Starr." He chuckled softly.
"Yeah, I just thought of it." She noticed then, even in the midst of her own awkwardness, that he was fidgeting. "It'll be small, Mason. I invite some of my new clients. Some friends."
Finally he said, "Okay. I'm sure I'll be around."
When Starr was alone, thinking about their conversation, she realized his answer brought on a wave of elation. It swept over her as she stood at the bathroom mirror. "Idiot," she said. Then, when she flipped off the light and stood in the dark hallway, she asked the wall, "Why didn't you ask?"
June came and Mason's garden was a fit of color. He was especially proud of the corn rows -- four of them reaching to his shoulder -- that ran along Starr's yard. They'd agreed not to put up a fence, and Mason made sure he planted along the property line. He enjoyed listening to the long leaves shift in the wind; they seemed like long arms to him, and when they touched one another, they scratched out a song with an eerie, ancient theme.
He was ruminating on the origins of such a song, as well as their joint history, when Starr called over to him. "Hey, Mason, do you think you could help me a minute?" She was decorating for the upcoming party. The note of excitement in her request was obvious even to Mason.
"Sure." He walked over to her. "What's the plan?"
Starr held a tangled mess of yard globes. "These...silly things. I've been trying to lay these out, but --"
Together, they not only untangled the lights, but also hung them in sweeping lines from the deck to the gazebo at the end of her yard. "Those will be nice, Starr," Mason said when they were done.
"Yeah, and I like to have them up before and after the party. A few days at least." She stood looking at their work, hands on her hips. "I'll turn them on in a few hours." She turned toward Mason. "Want to sit with me?" When she asked this, her hand, of its own accord, reached out and settled on his stomach.
He glanced down momentarily, surprised at her touch. "Sure."
Once she realized what she'd done, she pulled away. Now they were both suddenly shy. "How about eight?"
"Okay." They were both relieved when the rows of corn were once again between them. The leaves, if either of them had been watching, rose up and brushed against one another, almost like the stalks were on tiptoes, trying to see more.
That night they sat under the swaying globes and talked about the party. Mason offered to cut flowers for her tables -- there would be a few of them centered under the lights -- and Starr readily agreed. Then, after a slight hesitation, she said, "You know, Mason, those cookies are the only things I've given you -- no, really, you're always bringing me something from your garden, and I don't know what to give you."
He didn't answer. Just then he heard the corn leaves; they picked up their tune in a soft breeze, and a catch developed in his throat.
"I don't know what else you like besides the garden -- " she became aware of his discomfort but thought it was because he didn't know how to receive, only give.
"Well, Starr," he finally said, then paused. "I -- "
But she'd thought of something and interrupted him. "Oh, I know! Why didn't I think of this before? Why don't you come over for a massage? That'd be perfect!"
"Oh, that's nice of you, Starr, but -- "
"But what?" She leaned forward in her chair and he could see the lights reflected in her dark eyes.
He swallowed before he said, "I'll think about it."
It was the first time Starr was annoyed with him; later, she sat by herself for a long while and tried not to let herself get angry. Finally, she went inside, feeling irritated and confused.
Mason's flood of emotions, which began with the memory and then the sounds of the corn-song, had been inflamed by Starr's suggestion, and now it was his turn to stare into the mirror. No, he thought, it was more than what she'd said. Which was true -- it was her hand resting on him, too; he could still feel his skin reacting to the small pressure she'd applied there.
He laid awake that night with the windows open. Again and again he heard the garden in the night, the corn's sounds rising above all else, and he let his tears fall freely.
The days leading up to Starr's gathering seemed long to her, and for one reason or another, she and Mason didn't talk. He ended up in the office more than usual, which he tried to avoid -- this time of year, when his work outside yielded so much, he felt any time spent indoors was a kind of waste -- and Starr couldn't help but think his absence was due to their last conversation. This wasn't true. Mason had been uncomfortable, and further thoughts about her touching him brought back memories he couldn't yet handle, but he missed their talks, too.
A friend of Starr's, a schoolmate named Bella who lived in the city, came early to help. The two of them were in Mason's garden looking for suitable flowers to cut. Bella stood in front of a bed of asters and said, "So, he said you could have whatever?"
"Right," Starr answered. She had a flutter of indecision at the question, but pushed it away. It was silly to think Mason would be upset by what they were doing, yet the fact that they hadn't talked in a while made her uneasy. This thought, so clear to her then, made her pause. A strand of her black hair broke loose and blew out in front of her; the wind snapped it back and forth. This small distraction allowed her to see the previous thought in its true form -- she wasn't uneasy about the flowers.
"Starr? What do you think?" Bella held up what she'd gathered. "More yellow maybe?"
"Sure. Yeah, I think so." It was Mason. She felt his absence much deeper than she'd realized.
"Hey, what's up?" Bella walked over and saw the look on Starr's face. "You going to cut some flowers, or just stand there?"
"Shut up."
"Thinking about the man who tends this place, huh? What's his name, Matthew?"
"Mason."
"Mason. Is he older?" Bella asked the question with emphasis on the last word, and she poked Starr with a long stem.
"Hey! No -- okay, yes, he's older, but he's not as old as I thought at first." Stooping down, she began to gather some roses. "We're friends, Bella."
"Sure," Bella said, and then added, "was that a car door?"
"Oh, I forgot. I have a client. Do you think you could finish?"
And so it happened that Bella, who readily admitted she knew little about flowers, walked up and down the garden to see what would make a nice finishing touch. She clipped here and there, but when she stood in front of the corn, which had tasseled early, she smiled. "There we go -- these will add some height." One by one, she clipped them into her hand and placed them in her bucket. "Starr is going to be excited when she sees these," she said to herself.
Bella was right, Starr was excited, but when it dawned on her what the tall flowers were, she turned to her friend and said, "Bella, did you cut those off the corn?"
"There's corn?"
"Oh, no." Starr's whole countenance fell. Both her hands hid her face when she explained. "Those are from his corn, Bella."
"That's bad, then?"
Starr didn't answer. She walked over to Mason's and knocked on the back door. All her hopes for the party were puffed away by thoughts of his work. "Mason?" Several times she knocked and called his name. And standing there she realized with a creeping sort of dread that the corn meant something to him of which the rest of the garden was only a part.
"Starr -- I'm sorry," Bella said when she came back. "It's not that bad is it?"
"No, don't worry about it," she lied. And then she added the truth, "He's a great guy."
Mike, his aspiring realtor, said, "You know there's no actual creek."
But Mason stepped into the back yard without answering. He knew.
The yard he walked through that day consisted of a patch of dry lawn and weeds poking from mounds of topsoil. He grew a new garden in his mind -- "Don't you want to see the bedrooms?" Mike had asked from the deck. Mason hadn't answered that question either -- he let the dirt crunch under his rubber soled shoes, and at one point closed his eyes to better feel the sun on his neck.
Later, standing next to Mike, Mason said, "My commute will be short." He signed the papers two weeks later.
The truth of the matter was that Mason wanted to be settled; he'd had to move for his new position, and although he was thankful for the change -- he had sought the promotion because it required the move -- he wanted to stop thinking about the details. It had been painful enough this far, but he hoped finally landing would make for a fresh start. That, and the yard showed promise. The house sat in the middle of a cul-de-sac, and the property line behind the house stretched a bit wider than the rest of the yards in the neighborhood. And it was quiet: Only one of the two houses that flanked his was occupied, and beyond the rear a stand of mature trees grew in spite of the creek's disappearance, and further on lay undeveloped lots.
Mason moved in with a dozen boxes, all of which fit easily into the back of his truck. After setting the boxes in their respective rooms, he walked outside to sit on the deck. A few tools he'd need popped into his head, and immediately his plan shaped itself. "Might as well start," he said to himself, and he did: Within an hour of moving in, he'd hand dug the first plot. It was late winter.
***
A few weeks later Mason met his neighbor, Starr Lamont. She walked into his yard as he tilled a section he meant to plant with wildflowers. Several times she shouted at his back, but he couldn't hear. This gave her time to see him clearly, for she had wondered just how old he might be; from her house he seemed rather old, thin, quite tall. Now, however, she saw his dark forearms as he worked, and his chin, too, was strong. Not as old as she'd first thought.
"Oh, hi!" She said. Mason had suddenly killed the motor and turned around. "You and I don't have a fence, so I just came over." She tried her best not to blush and held out a plate of cookies. "Welcome to Singing Creek."
Mason slid his hands out of his gloves. "Thank you," he said. "I'm Mason." He shook her hand and took the plate.
"My name's Starr."
"Nice meeting you." He nodded and held her where she stood with his large hazel eyes. His back stooped a little, she decided, but he still had to look down at her from his full height.
"You too." When neither one of them could think of anything else to say, she added, "They're chocolate chip."
"Oh, okay."
Another moment or two of silence. "What are you planting?"
"Foxgloves. Some Texas Paintbrushes. A few others, I suppose." He raised his free hand to point over her shoulder. "Thought they might be nice across from the lavender."
She turned to look where he indicated. "Did I step on your seeds? Oh, I'm so sorry!"
"No. I'll put in the lavender in a month or so. But not from seed."
"Oh, okay, I thought I may have ruined them." She had her hand up to her face so her fingers covered her mouth.
He only smiled, and when he didn't say anything more, she said something about enjoying the smell of lavender. That elicited another smile from Mason, but no more words. "Well, welcome to the neighborhood," she said.
"Thank you for the cookies."
Starr answered with a smile of her own. Then she went home with her mind abuzz with curiosity. For a short time she watched him from a window. He'd uncovered the cookies, and, without moving from where they'd talked, ate every last crumb -- he even used his fingers to lift the smallest bits to his mouth after crushing them against the plate. Starr's hand covered her mouth again, but this time it was to stifle the sudden laughter bubbling up.
Later, Mason knocked on her back door. The sun had almost fully set, and the coolness of the evening was almost cold. "Hope you don't mind I came to the back." He had the plate in his hand.
"Oh, no -- " she looked at what he held.
"This, well, I thought I'd bring something with it." Mason had cleaned up before returning the favor. He wore jeans and a green flannel shirt. "These are from a few years back, but they smell good still."
"Sachets!"
"Sachets!"
"Yes, I -- "
But Starr couldn't contain her surprise. "You make sachets?"
Mason shifted his weight. "Not always. But if the lavender does alright, then -- "
"Sorry, I just didn't expect that, well," she hesitated, drew back a step, then said, "sorry. That was rude. Come in, will you?"
He gave her the plate before he answered. As she took it, the full scent of the buds wafted up at her, and when he said, "I was headed for a walk," she didn't catch that he meant alone.
"I'll get my jacket," and before he knew what was happening, the two of them were walking toward the trees behind Singing Creek.
She did most of the talking. "Of course, most of my friends are around here, too. Just a few have gone on to the city. But as long as I have clients here I don't mind the suburbs." The sky turned purple while they watched and Mason listened. He even asked some questions.
"Yes, I'm a masseuse. It's been a few years since I started my own business."
"From your house?"
"Yeah." The sun was all but gone and with it any warmth that lingered. She rubbed her arms.
They turned back, and she said, "What about you?"
"About me." He had not been prepared to do any talking that evening, and it took quite an effort for him to add, "I'm a consultant. Do office visits only a couple days a week." That's all he gave her that night. Yet, when she was home later, and she'd watched Mason walk back to his garden, she realized he'd given her more than that: the sachets, a walk, and perhaps his friendship.
She moved over to the counter where she'd set the plate. "Yes," she said to herself, "a curious guy, for sure." And she breathed deeply, allowing the lavender into the depths of her lungs.
***
Warmth came early that spring. Mason's garden greened overnight it seemed; every plot came to life. Each morning, before the dew dried, he looked for the progress of his flowers, vines, and vegetables; he also added plants he'd kept inside, away from the frost: roses, lavender, creeping phlox. Along the property line, parallel to his house, he planted oaks and maples -- when they reached a more mature height, they'd create a kind of avenue, and as he dug each hole, he saw his future self walking from trunk to trunk, enjoying the tree-cooled air during the heat of the day.
Mason and Starr's friendship deepened as March gave way to April. They mostly sat outside together, sometimes in his garden, other times on her deck, and they got used to the company of the other. She tried to understand why he spent so many hours outside but could never bring herself to ask. One day in particular she resolved to bring it up -- she would push through the odd embarrassment she felt and simply ask him. All the other simple questions she asked, he answered. What was so different about this?
"Mason," she said. "I -- " She looked down at the sweating glass in her hands. The ice cubes were now only slivers, barely visible.
He shifted in his seat, turning toward her.
"I usually have a summer party." Hot pressure rose from her cheeks to her forehead. I'm an idiot, she thought.
"Okay."
"I'd like you to come." She was thankful that the shadows of early evening covered her. She added, a bit too quickly, "If you want to."
"Well, when is it?" His hands were suddenly interesting to him, and he played with his fingernails.
"Oh. It's usually in June."
"June. Thanks for the early invite, Starr." He chuckled softly.
"Yeah, I just thought of it." She noticed then, even in the midst of her own awkwardness, that he was fidgeting. "It'll be small, Mason. I invite some of my new clients. Some friends."
Finally he said, "Okay. I'm sure I'll be around."
When Starr was alone, thinking about their conversation, she realized his answer brought on a wave of elation. It swept over her as she stood at the bathroom mirror. "Idiot," she said. Then, when she flipped off the light and stood in the dark hallway, she asked the wall, "Why didn't you ask?"
***
June came and Mason's garden was a fit of color. He was especially proud of the corn rows -- four of them reaching to his shoulder -- that ran along Starr's yard. They'd agreed not to put up a fence, and Mason made sure he planted along the property line. He enjoyed listening to the long leaves shift in the wind; they seemed like long arms to him, and when they touched one another, they scratched out a song with an eerie, ancient theme.
He was ruminating on the origins of such a song, as well as their joint history, when Starr called over to him. "Hey, Mason, do you think you could help me a minute?" She was decorating for the upcoming party. The note of excitement in her request was obvious even to Mason.
"Sure." He walked over to her. "What's the plan?"
Starr held a tangled mess of yard globes. "These...silly things. I've been trying to lay these out, but --"
Together, they not only untangled the lights, but also hung them in sweeping lines from the deck to the gazebo at the end of her yard. "Those will be nice, Starr," Mason said when they were done.
"Yeah, and I like to have them up before and after the party. A few days at least." She stood looking at their work, hands on her hips. "I'll turn them on in a few hours." She turned toward Mason. "Want to sit with me?" When she asked this, her hand, of its own accord, reached out and settled on his stomach.
He glanced down momentarily, surprised at her touch. "Sure."
Once she realized what she'd done, she pulled away. Now they were both suddenly shy. "How about eight?"
"Okay." They were both relieved when the rows of corn were once again between them. The leaves, if either of them had been watching, rose up and brushed against one another, almost like the stalks were on tiptoes, trying to see more.
That night they sat under the swaying globes and talked about the party. Mason offered to cut flowers for her tables -- there would be a few of them centered under the lights -- and Starr readily agreed. Then, after a slight hesitation, she said, "You know, Mason, those cookies are the only things I've given you -- no, really, you're always bringing me something from your garden, and I don't know what to give you."
He didn't answer. Just then he heard the corn leaves; they picked up their tune in a soft breeze, and a catch developed in his throat.
"I don't know what else you like besides the garden -- " she became aware of his discomfort but thought it was because he didn't know how to receive, only give.
"Well, Starr," he finally said, then paused. "I -- "
But she'd thought of something and interrupted him. "Oh, I know! Why didn't I think of this before? Why don't you come over for a massage? That'd be perfect!"
"Oh, that's nice of you, Starr, but -- "
"But what?" She leaned forward in her chair and he could see the lights reflected in her dark eyes.
He swallowed before he said, "I'll think about it."
It was the first time Starr was annoyed with him; later, she sat by herself for a long while and tried not to let herself get angry. Finally, she went inside, feeling irritated and confused.
Mason's flood of emotions, which began with the memory and then the sounds of the corn-song, had been inflamed by Starr's suggestion, and now it was his turn to stare into the mirror. No, he thought, it was more than what she'd said. Which was true -- it was her hand resting on him, too; he could still feel his skin reacting to the small pressure she'd applied there.
He laid awake that night with the windows open. Again and again he heard the garden in the night, the corn's sounds rising above all else, and he let his tears fall freely.
***
The days leading up to Starr's gathering seemed long to her, and for one reason or another, she and Mason didn't talk. He ended up in the office more than usual, which he tried to avoid -- this time of year, when his work outside yielded so much, he felt any time spent indoors was a kind of waste -- and Starr couldn't help but think his absence was due to their last conversation. This wasn't true. Mason had been uncomfortable, and further thoughts about her touching him brought back memories he couldn't yet handle, but he missed their talks, too.
A friend of Starr's, a schoolmate named Bella who lived in the city, came early to help. The two of them were in Mason's garden looking for suitable flowers to cut. Bella stood in front of a bed of asters and said, "So, he said you could have whatever?"
"Right," Starr answered. She had a flutter of indecision at the question, but pushed it away. It was silly to think Mason would be upset by what they were doing, yet the fact that they hadn't talked in a while made her uneasy. This thought, so clear to her then, made her pause. A strand of her black hair broke loose and blew out in front of her; the wind snapped it back and forth. This small distraction allowed her to see the previous thought in its true form -- she wasn't uneasy about the flowers.
"Starr? What do you think?" Bella held up what she'd gathered. "More yellow maybe?"
"Sure. Yeah, I think so." It was Mason. She felt his absence much deeper than she'd realized.
"Hey, what's up?" Bella walked over and saw the look on Starr's face. "You going to cut some flowers, or just stand there?"
"Shut up."
"Thinking about the man who tends this place, huh? What's his name, Matthew?"
"Mason."
"Mason. Is he older?" Bella asked the question with emphasis on the last word, and she poked Starr with a long stem.
"Hey! No -- okay, yes, he's older, but he's not as old as I thought at first." Stooping down, she began to gather some roses. "We're friends, Bella."
"Sure," Bella said, and then added, "was that a car door?"
"Oh, I forgot. I have a client. Do you think you could finish?"
And so it happened that Bella, who readily admitted she knew little about flowers, walked up and down the garden to see what would make a nice finishing touch. She clipped here and there, but when she stood in front of the corn, which had tasseled early, she smiled. "There we go -- these will add some height." One by one, she clipped them into her hand and placed them in her bucket. "Starr is going to be excited when she sees these," she said to herself.
Bella was right, Starr was excited, but when it dawned on her what the tall flowers were, she turned to her friend and said, "Bella, did you cut those off the corn?"
"There's corn?"
"Oh, no." Starr's whole countenance fell. Both her hands hid her face when she explained. "Those are from his corn, Bella."
"That's bad, then?"
Starr didn't answer. She walked over to Mason's and knocked on the back door. All her hopes for the party were puffed away by thoughts of his work. "Mason?" Several times she knocked and called his name. And standing there she realized with a creeping sort of dread that the corn meant something to him of which the rest of the garden was only a part.
"Starr -- I'm sorry," Bella said when she came back. "It's not that bad is it?"
"No, don't worry about it," she lied. And then she added the truth, "He's a great guy."
***
Just about everyone Starr invited came that night, and by the time Mason finally arrived, the house and the back were full of talking and laughing strangers. He'd made a stop to get Starr a gift, a small bottle of white wine, and he decided on a whim that he'd go through the front. He rang the doorbell and waited. A smile grew on his face when he heard Starr's footsteps and then her voice. She sounded happy.
The door opened and Mason said, "Is this the right place?"
Starr laughed in her surprise at finding Mason at the front door. "Mason! Hi!" And then, unexpectedly, she joined him on the porch and pulled the door closed.
"Hey, what is it?" Even in his confusion he had time to appreciate how well she cleaned up. It was the first time he'd seen her in any kind of dress, and her hair surrounded her shoulders in waves.
"Mason." She looked up at him. "A terrible thing happened, and I want you to know it was an accident."
"Okay." He smiled and added, "It sounds like your party is off to a great start."
"Yes, it is -- but, look, Bella helped me cut flowers for the tables, and I wasn't there when she finished. I had a client." She took a breath.
"Starr, this is about flowers?"
"She cut all the tassels off the corn."
"Oh." He tried not to show her that a deep pang had flipped in his stomach. "Yeah, that's not good."
She grabbed his hand. "I'm sorry. Please forgive me."
"Of course. It's only corn, Starr." He handed her the wine. "Come on, you're missing out."
They walked through her house together, Starr still holding onto Mason. At the back door, she looked toward him in order to catch his reaction at the centerpieces. He felt her eyes on him. From somewhere that felt like a past life, Mason drew from a well of goodwill; it was not dug by him but by the woman he'd loved. A few short years together with her showed him how to forgive. In this moment, with his aggravation growing, he slowed his breathing, looked down at his new friend, and said, "Those tables look beautiful, Starr."
The rest of the evening was pleasant enough. Starr was able to believe that Mason had forgiven her, but she wasn't fooled by his attempts to mask his true feelings. She watched him carefully when she could, and he talked more than she'd expected him to; more than ever she wanted to know what it was that connected him so deeply to his garden -- to the corn especially.
As the last few guests left, Mason walked to the front door with Starr. "Thanks for inviting me, Starr."
"Sure -- of course." All her questions shriveled quietly; she couldn't ask and it was strange to her.
"It's late." He looked at the living room. "Want help?"
The two of them cleaned up silently. She intended to leave the mess until morning, but Mason said she'd be glad to have it done. When they were finished inside, he said, "Do you mind turning on some music while we work back here?" The night had produced a breeze.
"Okay, yeah."
A half hour later and the two of them stood at the tables, which were clean except for the flowers. Mason watched Starr take the containers one by one and set them inside on the kitchen counter. He folded the tables and rolled them around to her garage. When he got back, he found Starr standing under the hanging lights. Her hair fluttered in the wind, and she hugged herself to ward off the chill.
"Well, thanks again, Starr." It was obvious he didn't know what to say. Both of them were thinking the same thing, but neither could say it aloud. He saw in her face that she was sorry, and he looked directly at her for longer than he intended. The music still played over the wind, but he knew what was at his back -- he felt them there, the rows of tall, detasseled corn. "I think I left something on the coffee table."
Starr watched Mason's eyes as he spoke; he had made that up, but she went along with it. Once they were inside, he walked through the house without stopping. "Mason -- are you alright?"
"What? -- yes, I'm fine." The close moment they'd shared had quickly turned into this, Mason rushing to get away. But from what? From her? Or --
"You know where to find me."
Mason opened the door. "Good night."
And then Starr was suddenly alone. She turned the music off. With one light on behind her, she sat at the kitchen counter. The fact that Mason had gone out the front door seemed to her a new realization. Her hand reached out, fingertips up. "You are pretty," she said as she touched the closest tassel. "I wish I knew what Mason saw in you." For a long few minutes she watched the corn flowers; they looked to her like wind chimes -- small and silent. Waiting. She laid her head down on her arms, but kept her eyes on the tassels. Sleep came but it was shallow, and in that space in between, a hope for one thing rose in her mind: that somewhere in the world there lived a creature that knew how to hear the quiet song of these flowers. Knew how to hear it and what it meant. It was the kind of hope that usually fades away in the presence of a day's worries. But Starr's night was just beginning.
"Okay. Deep breath. Mason, this is going to hurt." She removed his shirt. "Sorry. I have to clean you up. Stop the bleeding -- okay?"
Mason's eyes opened momentarily, but rolled back into his head.
Starr rushed into his bedroom and came back with his bedsheets. As tightly as she could, she wrapped him. "Here, just lie there. I'm going to call for help." When she made her way back, she heard Mason talking, trying to get up. "Hey, no, just stay there. Someone's coming." She wadded the rest of the sheet and set it behind his head. "Don't move."
"Yes, it is -- but, look, Bella helped me cut flowers for the tables, and I wasn't there when she finished. I had a client." She took a breath.
"Starr, this is about flowers?"
"She cut all the tassels off the corn."
"Oh." He tried not to show her that a deep pang had flipped in his stomach. "Yeah, that's not good."
She grabbed his hand. "I'm sorry. Please forgive me."
"Of course. It's only corn, Starr." He handed her the wine. "Come on, you're missing out."
They walked through her house together, Starr still holding onto Mason. At the back door, she looked toward him in order to catch his reaction at the centerpieces. He felt her eyes on him. From somewhere that felt like a past life, Mason drew from a well of goodwill; it was not dug by him but by the woman he'd loved. A few short years together with her showed him how to forgive. In this moment, with his aggravation growing, he slowed his breathing, looked down at his new friend, and said, "Those tables look beautiful, Starr."
The rest of the evening was pleasant enough. Starr was able to believe that Mason had forgiven her, but she wasn't fooled by his attempts to mask his true feelings. She watched him carefully when she could, and he talked more than she'd expected him to; more than ever she wanted to know what it was that connected him so deeply to his garden -- to the corn especially.
As the last few guests left, Mason walked to the front door with Starr. "Thanks for inviting me, Starr."
"Sure -- of course." All her questions shriveled quietly; she couldn't ask and it was strange to her.
"It's late." He looked at the living room. "Want help?"
The two of them cleaned up silently. She intended to leave the mess until morning, but Mason said she'd be glad to have it done. When they were finished inside, he said, "Do you mind turning on some music while we work back here?" The night had produced a breeze.
"Okay, yeah."
A half hour later and the two of them stood at the tables, which were clean except for the flowers. Mason watched Starr take the containers one by one and set them inside on the kitchen counter. He folded the tables and rolled them around to her garage. When he got back, he found Starr standing under the hanging lights. Her hair fluttered in the wind, and she hugged herself to ward off the chill.
"Well, thanks again, Starr." It was obvious he didn't know what to say. Both of them were thinking the same thing, but neither could say it aloud. He saw in her face that she was sorry, and he looked directly at her for longer than he intended. The music still played over the wind, but he knew what was at his back -- he felt them there, the rows of tall, detasseled corn. "I think I left something on the coffee table."
Starr watched Mason's eyes as he spoke; he had made that up, but she went along with it. Once they were inside, he walked through the house without stopping. "Mason -- are you alright?"
"What? -- yes, I'm fine." The close moment they'd shared had quickly turned into this, Mason rushing to get away. But from what? From her? Or --
"You know where to find me."
Mason opened the door. "Good night."
And then Starr was suddenly alone. She turned the music off. With one light on behind her, she sat at the kitchen counter. The fact that Mason had gone out the front door seemed to her a new realization. Her hand reached out, fingertips up. "You are pretty," she said as she touched the closest tassel. "I wish I knew what Mason saw in you." For a long few minutes she watched the corn flowers; they looked to her like wind chimes -- small and silent. Waiting. She laid her head down on her arms, but kept her eyes on the tassels. Sleep came but it was shallow, and in that space in between, a hope for one thing rose in her mind: that somewhere in the world there lived a creature that knew how to hear the quiet song of these flowers. Knew how to hear it and what it meant. It was the kind of hope that usually fades away in the presence of a day's worries. But Starr's night was just beginning.
***
Mason stared at his bedroom ceiling. His thoughts, which were memories set alight by the pictures he held in his hands, did their work to keep him awake. "I'm sorry," he said. "I shouldn't have left."
After he said this, he dressed and walked into the night. He grabbed a shovel. The wind had ceased. Soon, one sound filled the air: metal meeting earth, meeting earth, meeting roots.
***
A man's cry woke Starr, yet she thought it was her dream. And because she'd been roused so quickly, the thoughts she'd had about the corn's flowers was fresh and still cloaked by night's mystery. She went to the back. All the unlit globes hung there, and she walked under them toward Mason's yard. "I'll ask the stalks." A foolish thought -- but she meant to anyway. "I'll talk to them. And listen."
So she did. She stood in the middle of the corn rows and held out her hands so they were scratched by the rough leaves. "What do the tassels mean? Why do they play such a beautiful, silent tune?" No wind came. A sigh escaped her lips, and a groan echoed it. The shock of such a sound, for the briefest moment, made Starr think it came from the corn, but when she heard it again she knew it was Mason.
"Mason?" She found him on the other side of the corn rows. "Hey, what happened?" He lay on his stomach, a few stalks under him. "Mason, hey, what happened?" She tried to roll him over. When he resisted, she pushed harder. Then she saw the shovel. The handle stuck out under his opposite side. "Let me help you. Here." Again she tried to roll his body, and this time she felt his blood. "No, Mason. Come on. Wake up!"
He mumbled soft words and pushed against the ground just enough to help her.
"There. Now, to your knees." Even in the dark Starr could see he'd been cut wide open. "Okay, Mason, you fell on your shovel; you have to help me get you up and inside. Rest on me, but -- oh, no, you'll have to -- yes. Alright. Now, one leg after the other." In this slow way, they stumbled to his house, inside, past the kitchen, into the bathroom. Once the light was on, a wave of shock rushed at her. She closed her eyes and tried to forget that Mason's blood covered her side and her hands. That he was slumped over the bathtub, still bleeding.
"Okay. Deep breath. Mason, this is going to hurt." She removed his shirt. "Sorry. I have to clean you up. Stop the bleeding -- okay?"
Mason's eyes opened momentarily, but rolled back into his head.
Starr rushed into his bedroom and came back with his bedsheets. As tightly as she could, she wrapped him. "Here, just lie there. I'm going to call for help." When she made her way back, she heard Mason talking, trying to get up. "Hey, no, just stay there. Someone's coming." She wadded the rest of the sheet and set it behind his head. "Don't move."
***
All night long Starr sat with Mason at the hospital. The rush of it all kept her awake, and her anxiety increased as the hours passed. She touched his forehead and whispered to him. "They say you're fine. But...I can't sleep. Not yet."
"Melissa?"
Starr opened her mouth to answer but stopped.
"Melissa," Mason's hand searched his bed, and Starr took it. "Melissa, I'm sorry. I should have stayed -- too soon, it was too soon --"
He began to get agitated, moving his legs as though to sit up. "Mason, it's okay. It's Starr."
"I've just missed you for so long. And I thought the garden -- the garden," he trailed off and sighed. Soon he slept again, his breathing even.
Starr slept as well, but the first sign of light in the room stirred her. She stretched her stiff neck and back -- "I hope you're sleeping better in that bed." A nurse entered the room, and Starr said, "I'm going to get some things for him. I'll be back."
"He looks good this morning. Everything seems normal."
Parked in Mason's driveway half an hour later, Starr sat in the driver's seat and tried to put in order all the events of the last couple days. Her hopes for the party -- which seemed distant -- the anxiety of ruining Mason's garden, his gracious reaction, the two of them under the night sky afterward. She shook her head and smiled at the memory of her thoughts about the tassels. "Well, that's enough of that."
As she entered his place, her body reminded her she hadn't slept much or eaten. She had to steady herself for a moment in the hallway by the bathroom, and it was then she found the first picture. "What's this?" It was Mason, much younger, hanging out the window of a car. Without much more thought, Starr walked into the bedroom to find a dresser. Instead, she found several more snapshots trailing to the far side of Mason's bed.
Starr sat on the edge of the mattress and gathered all the pictures into her hands. Then she flipped through them. Soon, a tear or two rolled down her face. "Nice to meet you, Melissa." Starr's shoulders shook at what she saw: a wedding, Mason and Melissa fishing and swimming, fields green with new corn. When she came to herself, she was fully crying. "Clothes. He needs clothes." She opened the top drawer of his night stand. It was full to the top with more pictures.
Now she had to leave. At the doorway she turned back to see she'd let the first handful of Mason's memories spill all over his pillow, some slipped off the bed while she watched. She went to the front door as quickly as she could, her sorrow turning into a kind of panic. For some reason, she had to go home, she had to regroup. She ran out of his house and into her own. Leaning on the door, she wiped her face and tried to slow her breathing.
"Okay. I need to eat." Light from the kitchen windows streamed through the living room, inviting her to come. "Yes. Okay." The first tassel she saw as she entered the kitchen was too much. With her hands to her face, she began to sob again -- it was in this moment that her nighttime wish to know what sound the tassel-chimes made returned, and she smiled, in spite of her tears, she smiled because now she did know. There was a creature who understood the sound and knew what it meant as it played on the breeze -- he still slept in a strange hospital bed, weary and hurting, and she meant to be there when he woke.
"Melissa," Mason's hand searched his bed, and Starr took it. "Melissa, I'm sorry. I should have stayed -- too soon, it was too soon --"
He began to get agitated, moving his legs as though to sit up. "Mason, it's okay. It's Starr."
"I've just missed you for so long. And I thought the garden -- the garden," he trailed off and sighed. Soon he slept again, his breathing even.
Starr slept as well, but the first sign of light in the room stirred her. She stretched her stiff neck and back -- "I hope you're sleeping better in that bed." A nurse entered the room, and Starr said, "I'm going to get some things for him. I'll be back."
"He looks good this morning. Everything seems normal."
Parked in Mason's driveway half an hour later, Starr sat in the driver's seat and tried to put in order all the events of the last couple days. Her hopes for the party -- which seemed distant -- the anxiety of ruining Mason's garden, his gracious reaction, the two of them under the night sky afterward. She shook her head and smiled at the memory of her thoughts about the tassels. "Well, that's enough of that."
As she entered his place, her body reminded her she hadn't slept much or eaten. She had to steady herself for a moment in the hallway by the bathroom, and it was then she found the first picture. "What's this?" It was Mason, much younger, hanging out the window of a car. Without much more thought, Starr walked into the bedroom to find a dresser. Instead, she found several more snapshots trailing to the far side of Mason's bed.
Starr sat on the edge of the mattress and gathered all the pictures into her hands. Then she flipped through them. Soon, a tear or two rolled down her face. "Nice to meet you, Melissa." Starr's shoulders shook at what she saw: a wedding, Mason and Melissa fishing and swimming, fields green with new corn. When she came to herself, she was fully crying. "Clothes. He needs clothes." She opened the top drawer of his night stand. It was full to the top with more pictures.
Now she had to leave. At the doorway she turned back to see she'd let the first handful of Mason's memories spill all over his pillow, some slipped off the bed while she watched. She went to the front door as quickly as she could, her sorrow turning into a kind of panic. For some reason, she had to go home, she had to regroup. She ran out of his house and into her own. Leaning on the door, she wiped her face and tried to slow her breathing.
"Okay. I need to eat." Light from the kitchen windows streamed through the living room, inviting her to come. "Yes. Okay." The first tassel she saw as she entered the kitchen was too much. With her hands to her face, she began to sob again -- it was in this moment that her nighttime wish to know what sound the tassel-chimes made returned, and she smiled, in spite of her tears, she smiled because now she did know. There was a creature who understood the sound and knew what it meant as it played on the breeze -- he still slept in a strange hospital bed, weary and hurting, and she meant to be there when he woke.
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