Page 64 of The Fixer and the Fugitive

The parts for Celeste’s equipment came in and Jack spent a few days working in the barn, getting everything in working order. Celeste paced outside the barn on those days, feeling like a 1950’s father-to-be in a hospital waiting room. What if he couldn’t get them working? Worse, what if hecould? Then what? What about the trees?

That answer began to sort itself, too, when Esther forwarded her father’s contact information, along with the number for the local state extension agent. With shaking hands, Celeste emailed Esther’s father and called the extension agent. He contacted an arborist and they set up an appointment to inspect her trees.

I might actually be doing this,Celeste thought, staring dazedly into space.

Sam walked by the room, caught sight of her zombielike visage, picked her up, and sat down with her in his lap. “Why are you in a panic spiral?”

“I’m just sitting here. How can you tell I’m in a panic spiral?” she asked.

“Because you’re just sitting here. You’re almost never not doing something. You only freeze when you’re too stressed to function.”

“Huh,” she said, regarding him. She hadn’t realized that about herself until he said so, but now she saw it. She functioned well under physical pressure, but too much emotional stress and she shut down. “I guess I’m feeling a little overwhelmed by the orchard.”

“Why? It seems like things are going well. Jack has almost all the equipment up, the tree guys are coming, and Esther’s dad sent you that list of recommended reading,” he said.

“It’s a lot of things,” she said.

“But you’re Celeste. You can do anything,” he said with so much confidence she might have believed him, minus all the hidden things she knew that he wasn’t privy to.

“I can’t, though,” she said. She could feel herself curling inward, gripping his shirt in both hands like a lifeline as she shrank.

“Why not?” he asked.

“Things don’t work out. A lot. Most of the time, actually.”

“How so?” he asked with forced casualness. He had been trying not to pressure her to tell him things, personal things about her life. But it was always there between them, a gnawing tension and awareness that she only allowed him to know the most surface information. Adding to Celeste’s growing guilt and discomfort was the fact that some of the things he thought he knew weren’t even true.

“Nothing. I’m rambling.”

“Celeste,” he said, making her name a tired sigh.

She froze. She knew that tone, understood the exasperation and pending end of his patience.Here it comes.“What?”

He didn’t respond for several agonizing beats. “Nothing. Is it all right if I take the car to town? I’m expecting a few things.”

“Yes, of course,” Celeste said. She started to ease away, but he held her firm, giving her a squeeze.

“I want to love you. I wish you would let me.” He kissed her forehead, grabbed the keys by the door, and then he was gone.

Celeste meandered to the bookshelf, pulled out her journal, and flipped through it. She felt a sense of urgency, mingled with a large dash of helplessness. She so badly wanted to unburden herself, to write down everything that had gone wrong in her life and find a way to fix it. She felt desperate for a rescue from the quagmire she’d created, the secretive cage of self-protection. The only way that made sense was to write it all down, fix it, and then emerge into the world healed and whole. But what if that was wrong? Or, worse, what if it was right and it didn’t work? What if she wrote her entire life story and she was still as broken as before she started?

She sank to the floor, book in hand, and began reading, page by page, line by line.

Sam drove to town distracted and miserable. There was a not so small part of him that was annoyed with himself more than with Celeste. Why couldn’t he be happy with things the way they were? Why couldn’t he settle for the status quo? He and Celeste had fallen into a happy routine. He was certain he loved her, and he thought maybe she loved him, too. Why couldn’t what they already had be enough?

Because it isn’t,that annoyingly insistent little voice reminded him. He didn’t want part of Celeste; he wanted all of her, even the ugly inaccessible parts she tried to keep hidden. It was growing harder not to be hurt by her refusal to tell him, especially when he saw her writing in her journal night after night. He had started to become jealous of a notebook, but how could he help it? The book got all her secrets while Sam sat by and tried to pretend the continued rejection didn’t sting.

He pushed aside his sadness in favor of being social. Paradise had come to mean a great deal to him, along with its inhabitants. He felt well on the way to being friends with several of them, felt an unexpected sense of belonging in the last place he would have imagined. He was half Jordanian, half Saudi, an American citizen turned double agent, former arms dealer, reformed terrorist, and yet he felt like a local. People were excited to see him whenever he arrived in town. They treated him like a celebrity, more so because he was part of Celeste’s orchard. It became clear to him very quickly that the town wanted her to succeed in remaking it.

He paused to have four conversations before he could reach the door of the post office. Once inside, he paused and sniffed.Smells like maple,he thought. Jody, the postmaster, hastily shoved something back inside a box and closed it before brushing her hands together and smiling at Sam.

“You got some boxes.”

“Excellent,” he replied.

“From big cities. New York, Washington, Boston,” she continued, probing in her not-so-subtle way.

“Yes, I needed some things. Clothes and such.” He’d been slowly restocking his life, first with toiletries, underwear and socks, then with actual clothing, a laptop, and phone. He was beginning to feel not only normal, butsettled, another unexpected development. As a double agent, he imagined a timewhen he would have to flee for his life. He pictured himself wandering for years, possibly for the rest of his life, never feeling at peace, never feeling at home. But Celeste was right, this was his home. More than that, he was beginning to realize she was his home. If he had to leave Paradise and start over somewhere else, he would be okay, as long as she went with him. She had a way of curling into him, balancing his weaknesses, easing into his soft spots with tender comfort. He was finding healing through her gentle attention and affection. She gave him space, let him be, offered silent support, didn’t judge his past, in short acted like a true friend. His only regret was that she wouldn’t open up and let him do the same for her.

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