Larkspur Dreams

Three


Everett woke up feeling as animated as dirt. During the night he’d conjured up his usual array of nightmares.

Is that the doorbell? He realized the constant ding-donging had awakened him. He rarely slept in, but he’d stayed up late clearing out boxes. By the time he’d finished, he dropped from exhaustion. No time to grumble. He’d see to the door, get rid of whoever it was, and then get busy finishing up his office.

Everett stumbled over a shoe, nearly smacking his head on a bedpost. His brain whispered the word caffeine. And lots of it. No time right now, he told himself as he yanked on a pair of old jeans and a T-shirt. He made his way to the front door, but just as he opened it, a Pets Lovers of America van sped away from the curb leaving a trail of blue smoke. There on his porch sat a large cage. A parrot, the colors of a Hawaiian shirt, sat perched on a twig. Everett leaned down to the level of the bird’s eye. “Who are you?”

The animal scooted across the branch and crooked his neck upward as if to size him up. “Who are you?” the parrot repeated.

Great. A yapping parrot. Was it a delivery gone awry? Well, maybe the feathery varmint really belonged to Larkspur, the lady with the duck. And if not, maybe she’d at least want to take it off his hands.

The last thing on his agenda, though, was to get entangled in Lark’s day. His head began to throb. He threw on a coat, picked up the parrot, and headed next door.

Everett’s attention turned toward the street. Okay, so why was there a Fayetteville television van parked in front of Lark’s home? How could he have missed seeing the vehicle before? Everett marched to Lark’s house, bypassed the bell, and hammered on her door with his fist.

A man with a goatee and a notebook opened the door. “Lark does have a doorbell. You must be Everett from next door. I see you brought Igor.”

Who is this guy? “I’m afraid I don’t understand any of this—”

“I’m afraid,” the parrot repeated with a noisy mocking sound.

The man with the wimpy beard laughed. “Well, both of you come on in. Lark’s in her loft. We just finished the interview up there. We wanted to be where she creates.”

“Creates what?” He set the parrot down and glanced around inside. Sunlight poured in through the large windows. Immense paintings hung on every wall. Countryside scenes were filled with people caught up in everyday life.

Everett gazed at a painting of a girl wearing a sun hat and playing with a lamb. The word realism came to mind from a required art class in college. Even though the picture depicted life a hundred years ago, it looked welcoming and real enough to make him want to step into the landscape. And he also caught the unmistakable influence of the Ozarks in her work. Fascinating.

Then he remembered what Lark had said about joie de vivre. In French it meant the “sweetness of life.” Those words seemed to describe the painting completely. He felt himself falling into some kind of emotional black hole. Back to reality.

The goatee guy headed up the metal, spiral staircase. She must have done some remodeling on this old house. Everett heard laughter upstairs, so out of curiosity, he picked up the cage and followed the man.

“You mean you didn’t even know your neighbor was Larkspur Wendell, the illustrator?”

Everett felt annoyed with his cheeky attitude. “Illustrator of what?”

The goatee guy stopped midway and turned around just to frown at him. “You know—When Dragons Fly, In a Giddy Pickle, or the Electric Seeds series?” The guy looked at him as if he were the creature in a cage.

Everett shook his head but wanted to pelt the guy with birdseed. I should have had my coffee.

The goatee guy shrugged his shoulders and continued up the stairs. “I tell you, she’s one of a kind. I just love Lark.”

Before either of them could say another word, they arrived at the top of the stairs. The French doors were open, and Everett could see Lark sitting on a stool at an art table. Her long, dark hair flowed around her slender shoulders. Even in overalls, she was no doubt a beauty, but even more than that, Lark had a distinct presence in the room. He could barely remember why he was so irritated.

Lark didn’t see him as the two men stepped into the room. A female reporter chatted with her while some guy packed up his camera.

Lark turned around to him. Everett noticed the radiance in her eyes, akin to the sun coming up in the morning.

She jumped up and hugged him.

Everett brought his free hand up on her back for a pat.

“I just love Lark,” the parrot repeated and then squawked.

Everyone burst into laughter except Everett.

“I’m so glad you’re here. You brought Igor. By the way, he likes to repeat things.” Lark wiggled her eyebrows. “So be careful what you say.”

Everett frowned. “Well, I didn’t. I mean—”

Lark looked at him as if they’d always been friends. “He’s your housewarming gift. I had him delivered from Springdale. I thought since you were all alone, Igor could keep you company.”