It was entirely too hot to be traipsing through the woods, but Laura had thought Tuesday—when the pool boys came—was the perfect time to resume her search for the leaning tree. Afterward, she’d try to coax her mother into the pool for some water therapy. She had done some Google searches that morning and had found a few exercises that she thought her mother could handle. Even if she couldn’t, just being out in the pool would break up the routine that her days had become—a routine that mostly involved her recliner and the TV.
She worried about her mother. Some days she seemed to be filled with motivation, wanting to get outside and mess with her flowers. Other days, she showed no inclination to do anything other than sit and watch TV. But the hot, dry weather of summer was fast approaching. The occasional watering that she gave their flowers would become a daily thing. And as much as Laura enjoyed planting the flowers, watering them was a chore. Her mother, on the other hand, used to enjoy walking around the yard with a water hose, tending to the flowers. She wondered if her mother could manage a walker and a hose at the same time.
She shook her head. No, she’d probably get tangled and fall and that would be the end of Laura’s attempts at getting her outside. Baby steps. She needed to take baby steps. Like hand watering the flowers and plants on the patio. Her mother needed some purpose, even if it was as mundane as that.
Laura ducked under a low hanging limb of a post oak, then moved the branches aside from a rather large cedar. With a little imagination, she could almost convince herself that she was following the old trails she’d made years and years ago. She paused to take a drink from her water bottle, then slowly lowered it, her eyes wide.
The leaning tree. Right there. The freaking leaning tree.
“I’ll be damned,” she muttered as her face broke out into a smile.
It looked smaller than she remembered, but of course she’d been a kid back then. It had been huge as she’d scrambled along its bark. She walked closer, inspecting the brush that had grown up around it, trying to find a path to the trunk. It was an oak of some kind. She remembered taking her tree identification book out once and had settled on the Mexican White Oak, but she had no idea if that was actually the tree or not. It didn’t matter, really. Even in its gnarly state, it was still magnificent.
The trunk sloped upward at a forty-five degree angle, perfect for climbing. It had been blown over as a young tree, no doubt, but its roots had held. It was now thick and hardy, the branches that reached skyward were as big around as some of the smaller trees that grew nearby.
She pulled some of the brush away, making sure there weren’t any creepy crawly things there—like a snake slithering by or a nest of spiders.
It appeared safe, and she pulled herself up, the rough bark of the tree digging into her palms. She stood on the trunk, holding on to one of the thick branches to balance herself. She walked higher along the trunk, although quite a bit more cautiously than she had as a kid. As she got as high up as she dared to go, she finally took a look at the view. And…
“Wow.”
It was still there…the clearing, the open space of a hay meadow or valley that sloped down and out of sight, leaving her with a perfect, unobstructed view of a summer sunset. Of course, it was still hours before the setting sun would creep into this window. It was pretty now, nonetheless.
She sat down on the trunk and leaned against a branch, enjoying the view. She had been lost in thought on her hike out here, and she had no idea where she was or if she could find the tree again on another day.
She closed her eyes, listening to the sounds of the woods; the leaves rustling in the breeze, the chatter of a squirrel, the sound of a male wren as he sang from a nearby tree, the sharp call of cardinals, and the thundering sound of a woodpecker as he hammered his beak into a tree. She opened her eyes slowly, letting the peacefulness wash over her. She looked skyward, seeing only a handful of puffy white clouds dancing across the blue.
Another glorious day—yet she was feeling like a bit of a slug. How long was she going to take a break from writing? Or was this permanent? She had to admit that since she’d stopped trying to force words onto the page, her stress level had decreased significantly. But still, she was a writer. Writers wrote. Writers didn’t mow lawns, tend to flowers, hike the woods…and play in a crystal clear pool as if they hadn’t a care in the world.
She sighed quietly. Was she a writer? Was it a fluke that she’d managed to actually write a novel that got published? It must have been. She hadn’t been able to produce anything since. Her publisher had long ago given up on her.
Was she a writer? Growing up, she was never much of a reader but she did like to write silly stories, stories that she’d read at the dinner table to groans and eye rolls from Carla. In high school, she dabbled in poetry. Poetry that was so bad, she rarely shared her creations with anyone. It wasn’t until her first year of college that she discovered Kay Scarpetta. She devoured every novel featuring the famed medical examiner. Admittedly, she became somewhat obsessed with her, so much so that she wanted to create her own Kay Scarpetta. Murder by Day was born with dreams of Murder by Knight to follow. Unfortunately, her heroine—Claire McDonald—wasn’t interesting enough. No matter how many times she tried for a second book, Claire fell flat. Hell, even she didn’t like Claire all that much at this point.
Was she a writer? She blew out a heavy breath. No. She wasn’t. She was thirty-eight years old. She had no job. She lived with her mother.
How depressing. She liked it better when she could at least pretend she was a writer. Maybe she should think seriously about starting up a lawn business in the area. God knows she had time on her hands and she did really enjoy the work. If she could pick up five or six yards, that would at least give her some income. She had all of the equipment. She had Frankie’s old truck. All she’d need was a trailer to haul the mower and her tools on.
Yeah…maybe that’s what she’d do. Yeah, she’d think about it more tomorrow.
She stood up, a smile on her face again. It was time for some pool therapy.