Chapter 9 - The Garden in Spring
By late April, North Carolina had exploded into full, riotous spring.
The azaleas along our front walk in Southern Pines were blooming in deep shades of crimson and white, their sweet scent hanging in the warm evening air alongside the smell of newly cut lawn and hickory smoke from our neighbor’s smoker.
Our backyard had been completely transformed.
Where there had once been bare sand and scrub grass, Claire had built four raised garden beds with cedar planks I had hauled from the lumber yard on my days off. Tomato plants were already climbing five feet up their wire cages; rows of sweet basil, flat-leaf parsley, and peppermint filled the air with herbal perfume; and along the back fence, three climbing rose bushes were heavy with tight, velvet-red buds ready to burst.
Claire stood between the raised beds, wearing denim overalls with dirt-stained knees, a pair of leather gardening gloves, and an old military ballcap turned backward.
Her hair had grown to her shoulders now—a rich, shining mass of dark waves that curled around her ears and caught the golden rays of the setting sun like black silk.
She was laughing, holding a green plastic watering can, watching a small gray squirrel attempt to steal sunflower seeds from the bird feeder mounted on the cedar post.
I walked through the screen door onto the small wooden deck, carrying a pitcher of fresh sweet tea with lemon slices and two tall glasses filled with ice.
"Hey, farmer," I called out, leaning against the railing.
Claire looked up, her face lighting up with a smile that completely erased every shadow, every bruise, and every ghost that had ever followed her down from the mountains.
She took off her leather gloves, dropped them into her garden basket, and walked up the three wooden steps to the deck. She didn't hesitate. She didn't flinch. She stepped straight into my arms, resting her chin against my chest, wrapping her arms around my waist with the easy, unshakeable confidence of a woman who knew she was sovereign in her own home.
"Did the battalion commander approve the leave dates?" she asked, looking up into my face with her bright hazel eyes.
"Fourteen days," I smiled, kissing the bridge of her nose. "Starting next Friday. We have a cabin booked on the outer banks of Ocracoke. No cell service, no military traffic, and no mountain roads."
She let out a soft, contented hum, burying her face into the cotton of my t-shirt. "Just the ocean."
"Just the ocean," I agreed.
I reached into my pocket, my fingers finding the small velvet box I had kept on our bedroom dresser for six months.
I popped the brass latch, pulled out the hand-carved silver hair clip—the open olive branch with its tiny freshwater pearls—and held it up in the evening light.
Claire’s breath caught in her throat. Her hand rose slowly, touching the thick, dark curls at the side of her neck.
"Turn around," I whispered.
She turned slowly, her hands resting against the deck railing, looking out over her blooming garden.
With infinite care, my calloused fingers gathered a thick lock of her dark hair from the left side, swept it back away from her temple where the faint, silver line of the old scar was completely hidden beneath the waves, and slid the silver clip into place.
The brass spring clicked shut with a tiny, perfect snap.
I stepped around to look at her.
The pearls gleamed against her dark curls. Her face was flushed with health, radiant under the golden twilight, her posture tall and proud as a young oak tree that had weathered the hurricane and kept its roots deep in the earth.
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"How does it look?" she asked, her voice trembling with happy tears.
"It looks like victory, Claire," I told her, pulling her back into my arms, feeling the steady, miraculous beat of her heart against my ribs. "It looks like home."
