Her gaze swept the nooks and crannies along the base of the house. Where was an anole? A green tree frog? She searched the thick shrubs for a bird’s nest. A flash of red in the sky drew her attention to the live oak tree in Emmi’s yard. A cardinal! They nested here as early as March. She heard the high-pitched calls, which sounded like the male was saying, kiss me, kiss me.
“Hope, come see!” Linnea gestured again, and smiled with relief when Hope walked toward her. She held her hand as they approached the tree and checked out their scarlet visitor. Suddenly, she heard a loud, insistent knocking on a window. The cardinal flew off. Linnea rolled her eyes and, looking up, saw John standing at the tall window.
“Who’s that?” asked Hope, staring up.
Before she could answer, John pushed open the double window and shouted out, “Hello!”
Hope, curious, stepped forward and waved back with exuberance.
John called out something, but from where they stood, they couldn’t understand. Linnea cupped her hand to her ear and shook her head. John put up a finger in the universal just a minute sign and disappeared.
Hope turned to look at her. “Where did he go?”
Linnea shrugged. But she could guess. Sure enough, a moment later John returned to the window and waved again. Then he pointed to Hope with one hand, and with the other released a paper airplane.
The plane sailed through the air, avoiding the large live oak and crossing over the fence. Enchanted, Hope squealed with delight and took off after it. Linnea had to laugh at the sight. Hope scampered across the scrubby dunes in front of the cottage and, arms high in the air, managed to catch the plane. She was beaming, proud of herself. Linnea hurried to her side.
“Let’s see what he has to say,” she said. “You can unfold the airplane.”
“But I’ll break it!”
“It’s okay. He’ll make another.” I’m sure, Linnea thought. “Inside I think he wrote a message, just for you. Open it!”
Hope carefully unfolded the paper, her pink tongue worrying her lip. Linnea watched, realizing that this was the child’s first paper airplane. She looked up at John and smiled her gratitude that he’d given Hope something to be happy about.
Hope spread the paper flat and slowly read out the words. “HELLO. MY NAME IS JOHN. WHAT IS YOURS?” She turned toward the window and shouted, “My name is Hope!”
John put his hand to his ear and shook his head.
“He can’t hear you, honey.”
“Can I send him an airplane?”
“It will be hard to fly an airplane up to the second-floor window.” She tapped her lips. “I know. How about we write him a note and leave it for him in a special place?”
“Okay!” Hope was all into the game. “How will he know where to find it?”
“I’ll tell his mama. Miss Emmi.”
Hope nodded with enthusiasm. Then she asked, “Miss Emmi is John’s mother?”
“She is.”
“Can we write him a note now?”
“I don’t see why not.”
Hope turned and waved to John again. She cupped her mouth and yelled, “I am writing you a note. You have to find it!”
John whistled and surprised them by holding up another paper airplane. He stood wide-legged, the window gaping open before him Don’t fall, Linnea thought, unbidden. This time, he pointed the airplane directly at Linnea, head bent in concentration as he took aim. She imagined his green eyes, intensely focused. Then, with a quick movement, he released it.
Hope squealed with delight. This plane traveled farther than the first, in a direct line over the fence toward Linnea. Hope was after it like a dog on the hunt, arms out, crying, “I got it!” She lurched for it, but the little paper plane sailed past her grasp and landed gracefully on the gravel a few feet away from Linnea’s feet. She smiled as she watched Hope pounce on it.
“Can I open it?” she called back.
“Knock yourself out.”
Hope’s pudgy fingers struggled to unfold the paper plane against the gravel. The folds were neat and tight, and Linnea thought how typical it was of John to be so precise. In a flash, she remembered watching his intense concentration when he constructed his architectural models. It was the last hobby she’d ever suspected the lowcountry surfer dude would have. John’s mind was a wonder—brilliant in computer programming, inventive, creative. His outward behavior was loose and relaxed. But his mind… It was as if he could harness a tornado of ideas into a powerful laser focus, in both his work and his hobby. He’d showed off his models in his condo on glass shelves like the works of art they were—the Eiffel Tower, the Chrysler Building, and his first, a train depot. Each had taken years to build. And now, she thought with a laugh, paper airplanes.
Hope had the paper spread out on the pebbles. She looked up with a frustrated expression. “I can’t read it.”
“Let me take a look.” Linnea reached out for the wrinkled paper. Smoothing it, she read the words.
Listen, there’s a hell of a good universe next door, let’s go.
“What’s it say?” Hope asked.
“It’s a quote,” she said softly, feeling the impact of the words. “From a poet I especially like, e. e. cummings.”
It was a phrase she and John had often said to each other when they were living next door to one another, that first summer they’d fallen in love. She slipped back in memory to the many hazy, sultry hours she’d spent lying in his bed in the loft next door, the walls surreal, painted in a Van Gogh swirl of stars and planets and sea animals by Flo’s mother, Miranda Prescott. They’d talked, made love, read poetry. They’d taken turns reading aloud the lines of e. e. cummings, W. H. Auden, Rumi, Mary Oliver, and Marjory Wentworth, the South Carolina poet laureate. Linnea sighed, lost in the memory.
Hope sidled close and leaned against her. “Read it.”
Linnea blinked, coming back. “Please…” she prompted.
“Please,” Hope replied, chastened.
“Listen, there’s a good universe next door, let’s go,” she paraphrased, leaving out the word hell. She felt a softening in her heart and looked up at the window. John was standing there across the garden, watching her.
Neither moved to wave.
“What does that mean?” asked Hope.
“I think,” she replied, “it means he wants to be my friend.”
“I want to be his friend,” Hope said with a pout.
Linnea laughed softly. “You can be his friend too. Let’s go inside and write him a note telling him just that.” Taking Hope’s hand, she walked back toward the cottage, letting Hope’s enthusiastic wave and calls of “Bye!” suffice for them both.
* * *
THE FOLLOWING MORNING was warmer, and Emmi’s garden perked up. The cheery red azaleas competed with bursts of yellow daffodils. The air was heady with the scent of honeysuckle along the fence.
“Where should we leave the note?” asked Hope.
Linnea held the child’s hand as they searched Emmi’s garden for the right spot to put Hope’s note for John.
“The flowerpot?” suggested Linnea, pointing to the potted blooms at the base of the stairs to John’s loft.