Page 34 of The Second Dance
I remember being surprised at how sweet he was. How a teenage boy was already talking about the treehouse he was going to build his kids one day.
He won me over with those dreams.
And now I’m scratching them out and replacing them with something else.
Crap.
No wonder he was so disappointed that first day. He thought I’d remember.
He thought I knew where we were. What this patch of dirt meant to him.
He pulls to the middle of the lane where a gate leads down to the pasture. I don’t know if he always parks here, or if muscle memory is taking us back to the place where we parked all those years ago.
I remember how he pulled me in close, pointing at the little pond in the ravine below.
It was too dark to see, but he painted a picture with his words so vibrant it glowed.
He was going to teach his kids how to fish down there.
“You can still stock it with fish.” My thoughts roll off my tongue, unfiltered.
His gaze flicks to my face. Recognition sits there. Like he was waiting all along for me to acknowledge what this place meant to him. To us.
I can feel my cheeks heating. “Bluegill are a native species. As long as the birds aren’t disturbed, you can come here whenever you want.”
He sits back, staring down at the pasture. He’s got a little frown on his face.
His eyes rove over the hills and valleys, and I can tell he still sees his dream built down there. He shakes his head. “Wouldn’t be the same, Andy. It’s not mine anymore.”
“You don’t think Heather will give it to you one day?”
His eyes connect with mine, narrowing slightly at the use of his mother’s name. “If she does, the ground is still committed to the foundation.”
“For twenty-five years. You read the paperwork.”
“Of course, I did.”
I’m just doing my job. Songbirds truly are dwindling. The population has gone down nearly three billion since the seventies.
Three.
Billion.
That represents more than forty percent of all songbirds. This is more than a noble cause. It’s a knock-down, drag-out battle.
So, why do I feel so terrible?
My fingers scrabble at the doorhandle and I’m tumbling out of the truck before I make the decision to do so.
He climbs out, circling around to stand beside me. “Show me what we have to do.”
I follow him to the gate and step inside the pasture with him.
Bristly grass pokes at my calves. Thank God I decided to wear the boots and not the flats this morning. At least my ankles are protected. One of these days, I’ll dust off the blue jeans and dress appropriately for the field.
But jeans are so boring.
No panache.
