Harley bid Stevie farewell and made her way through the iron gate and to the vast expanse of green, littered with fallen leaves, the lawn rolling and gliding to the creek and the row of pine woods beyond.
Harley stopped beneath an oak tree and rested her back to the trunk. In the distance, a solemn, lonely figure lounged beside the creek beneath a weeping willow, the autumn sun casting threads of sunlight through the trees, his golden hair falling in careless waves over his forehead. He peered down at the shimmering water as if casting a spell over the currents, a spell that traveled across the expanse of grass and beneath the tree where she stood.
Suddenly she was a little girl again, surrounded by a sea of lilies beneath the oak tree in the Johnsons’ backyard. She lowered her eyes to her lap, where in her tiny arms, browned and scraped from endless days climbing trees and skipping rocks, she held The Giving Tree, the last present she had received from her mother, a book she had promised her mother she would read before summer’s end. She pushed her finger along the open page, studying the text.
Once there was a tree and she loved a little boy. And every day the boy would come and he would gather her leaves and make them into crowns and play king of the forest. He would climb up her trunk and swing from her branches and eat apples. And they would play hide-and-go seek. And when he was tired he would sleep in her shade. And the boy loved the tree.
The wind whipped through the oak tree’s branches, its limbs waving toward the heavens, leaves rustling in crescendo. The sweet redolence of coming rain filled the air, blending with the scent of freshly laundered linens as they flapped on Pearl Johnson’s clothesline and of fresh-cut grass forming ridges behind Angus Pruitt’s lawn mower as it droned across the yard next door. There, beside the Johnsons’ Tudor-style home was Patrick Middleton’s three-story brick mansion, the home’s shutters gleaming from a fresh coat of black paint, the foundation framed by flocks of white hydrangea bushes. A screen door creaked open and sandaled feet clomped across wooden boards, their impact then silenced by pads of grass.
Patrick Middleton appeared beneath Harley’s oak tree, dressed in low-slung khakis and a white linen shirt, his round spectacles pushing back strands of dark hair from his lined forehead, his smile lighting up his handsome face. He greeted her as he always did. “Ah, tis the fairy, the Lady of Shalott, floating in a sea of lilies, I see.”
Harley hugged the book to her chest and smiled up at him. “I’m reading a book. It’s called The Giving Tree.”
“Exploring a magical world in it, are you?”
“Not really,” she said with a shrug. “It’s just about a tree in a boy’s backyard. It’s nothing special really.”
“Well, I don’t know about that. In The Wizard of Oz, didn’t Dorothy say that if I ever go looking for my heart’s desire again, I won’t look any further than in my own backyard? And if your heart’s desire isn’t there, you never really had it to begin with.”
“Kind of like treasure?”
“Yes, kind of like treasure, treasure in your imagination.”
Harley’s gaze danced around the Johnsons’ backyard, expecting black pirate chests to burst forth in shoots on the lawn, their gold coins clinking to the grass in puddles.
“Well, I didn’t want to disturb you, my lady,” Patrick said. “It’s just that I saw you out here and thought you might like a glass of lemonade or some cookies.”
Normally, Harley would have jumped at the chance for a glass of Patrick’s freshly squeezed lemonade or a plate of his butter cookies, but her stomach was sour, had been sour for weeks. “No, thank you, Dr. Middleton.”
Patrick smiled, watching the little girl as she lounged in the grass. “Well, all right. Keep exploring then.”
“Dr. Middleton …” Harley pointed to the blond boy in the Winstons’ yard next door. “That boy over there. Why is he always so sad?”
Patrick watched the boy as he slept beneath the willow tree, a hardback copy of a book spread across his chest. Tucked inside the book’s spine was a bookmark made by a little girl’s hand, one with a red heart and an inscription that read You Are Loved.
“Because he’s all alone in the world, Harley. He’s always been all alone.”
“But I don’t understand. It looks like he’s got everything over there. Everything in the whole world.”
“I’m afraid not. It’s only for the summer.”
Patrick returned his attention to Harley and forced a smile. “Well, I best be about my work, my lady.”
“Bye, Dr. Middleton.”
“Goodbye, my sweet girl.”
Minutes passed and Harley could hear the sharp rap of typewriter keys emanating from Patrick’s office window. She returned her focus to the boy in the Winstons’ backyard. He had risen from his bed of grass and was standing on the creek bank, gazing down at the water in thought. He lifted his arms over his head and removed his white t-shirt, tossing it to the ground by his feet.
Rays of sun cut through the trees, casting ribbons of sunlight across the boy’s back. There in varying shades of indigo, a pair of angel’s wings traveled from the blades of his shoulders to the small of his back.
“Like the archangel,” Harley whispered. She smiled at the boy, watching as the wings of indigo moved in motion with his back. “Yes, like Michael.”
She was transported back to the Briarcliffe of thirty-two years ago, to the immense, rolling grounds where the townspeople of Notchey Creek gathered on quilts and blankets for the Sutcliffes’ annual summer picnic, waiting for their host, James Sutcliffe, to give a few words of welcome. And there he was, handsome and tailored and tall, holding his baby son in his arms, standing before the microphone on the stage where hired musicians were set to perform.
He welcomed them all, thanking the town for all they had done for Sutcliffe Timber and Real Estate, for his family, and for Briarcliffe, over the years. Then he held up the baby in his arms, and the crowd cheered, and James Sutcliffe, sadness filling his eyes, said that he wanted them all to meet his son, the love of his life, Michael.
But everything had changed after that day, after James Sutcliffe had been killed, after his life had been stolen from him long before its time, his son, too, sentenced to death, only to be saved by a man who thought he had been the infant’s undoing.
Harley directed her eyes to that baby, to the boy of her childhood, who was all grown up, tall and powerful and golden, like his father had been, his eyes saddened by tears, as he lay once again by the creek, gazing down in quiet concentration as he once had, searching for something just beyond his grasp.
Eighteen years had passed between them, eighteen years in which Beau Arson had risen from being an abandoned baby to a penniless orphan, passed from one derelict set of parents to the next, supposed guardians who cast aside the boy they had been paid to love, only for that unwanted boy to be lifted up, through his incredible, God-given talent, to the greatest of heights, achieving money, power, fame, but nothing to fill the hole in his heart.
Nothing until now.
For Michael Sutcliffe was home, home at last.