Rose had just gotten out of the shower when the doorbell rang. She threw on a pair of shorts and a tank top and hurried down the hall. No one ever rang the doorbell. Lexie and Will would come right in. Same with Marty, and now Bodhi.
She took the stairs two at a time, but when she opened the door, no one was there. She stepped onto the porch and almost tripped over something on the doormat. She looked down, her eyes landing on a stack of books tied together with a green ribbon.
She looked around before bending to pick them up.
A piece of stationery was tucked inside the ribbon. When she unfolded the piece of paper, she immediately recognized Bodhi’s scrawl from all the times they’d worked on the farm’s books, trying to reconcile their expenses with their revenue.
Always time for a good book. Especially now.
BL
She raised her head again, hoping to catch sight of him, but he’d made himself scarce in a hurry, and she turned around and went inside.
When she got back to her room, she shut the door and sat on the bed before untying the silky emerald ribbon. There were five books, all of them from the Milford library. She read the titles softly: The Princess Bride, A Thousand Mornings by Mary Oliver, Wuthering Heights, Jane Eyre, Perfume by Patrick Süskind.
It was an odd mix of books, and a warm flush spread through her body when she imagined Bodhi standing in the narrow stacks at the library, his shoulders spanning the space between shelves, trying to pick stuff he thought she might like. He’d done that. He’d done it for her.
She opened the books one by one, relishing the crinkle of their protective covers. She’d forgotten that about library books, the way they crinkled. She opened A Thousand Mornings and held it up to her nose, inhaling the scent of paper and ink.
She scooted back on her bed, taking the book with her.
I don’t know where prayers go, or what they do . . .
“That was nice, you know,” Rose said when they were heading to the pasture to bring in the animals later that night. “The books.”
“It’s nothing,” he said. “I hope you like them.”
He was staring straight ahead, studying the pasture like it held the answer to some kind of mystery. Was he blushing under the brim of his hat?
She smiled. “They’re perfect. Every one. I already started.”
He looked over at her. “Yeah?”
She nodded.
“What did you start with?”
“The poems,” she said. “By Mary Oliver.”
“I haven’t read that one,” Bodhi said. “You’ll have to tell me how you like it.”
“I’ll pass it to you when I’m done,” she said. “Then you can read it, too.”
He looked over at her, and a slow smile dawned on his face. “Sounds good.”
She gathered Raven’s reins a little tighter in her hand. “Ready?”
He nodded, and they kicked the horses into a gallop as they headed for the cows in the distance.
Later that night, Rose was lying in bed, replaying the events of the day, trying to get comfortable in the stifling July heat. She and Bodhi had put the animals to bed and had a quiet dinner, finishing the last of the chicken pot pie she’d made the night before. She’d been enjoying cooking again. It made her miss her mom, but it made Rose feel close to her, too, flipping through the recipe book, knowing that her mom had touched the pages a thousand times, made thousands of meals from the very same book.
After dinner, they’d sat on the porch, drinking lemonade and talking about Buttercup, who seemed to have turned a corner. She was still small, but she was eating regularly, and that was a good sign.
When they’d said good night, she’d been almost sure Bodhi was going to kiss her. He hadn’t, but she had wanted him to. She had really, really wanted him to. She couldn’t remember the exact moment her fear had faded into the background, the moment it had become secondary to her feelings for him, but somewhere along the way that’s exactly what happened. Now she couldn’t get the non-kiss out of her mind, and she finally tossed back her covers and got out of bed.
She slipped on her sneakers and crept down the hall and out the door in her boxer shorts and tank top. Stepping onto the porch, she took a deep breath. The air wasn’t exactly cool, but it was fresher than the stale air in the house, and she stepped off the porch and made her way across the dirt road.
The moon was high and full, the stars like a blanket of diamonds over the clear summer sky. She’d heard kids from the city say that you couldn’t see the stars there because the lights were too bright. She couldn’t imagine it.
She stepped over the fence and into the orchard, weaving between the apple trees while she hummed an old song her mom used to sing when they went apple picking.
In the shade of the old apple tree,
Where the love in your eyes I could see,
Where the voice that I heard,
Like the song of a bird,
Seemed to whisper sweet music to me . . .
She was almost to the peach trees at the other end of the orchard when she heard the snap of a twig to her left. She froze.
“It’s okay. It’s just me.”
She put a hand to her chest like that would stop the rapid beating of her heart. “Bodhi. What are you doing here?”