Page 1 of His Brown-Eyed Girl

Addy Toussant studied the fading bloom of the Pauwela Cloud orchid. Such a shame to snuff out the white ruffled beauty, but the withered edges of the petal bore the tale. The bloom was off the orchid.

Snip.

The irony didn’t escape her as she tucked the petals into the waste bag she wore hooked on her gardening utility belt.

Not that Addy was old. Or unhappy about having her bloom fade. She rather liked the emerging lines around her eyes. Gave her character and all that.

Besides thirty-four wasn’t “old.” It was practically the new twenty-four. Or so a magazine she’d read yesterday in the optometrist waiting room had declared. But, still, the last of her friend group in high school had gotten married and most had started families, and though Addy didn’t feel empty, something about being so behind the curve made her feel, well, old.

But she shouldn’t feel that way. After all, not everyone wanted to be a wife and mother. Some women liked being exactly who they were. She’d always embraced that notion, a lifestyle her aunt Flora had modeled for her.

Addy stood and ignored the pop in her knee, stretching her back, and looking up at the plastic skylight in the top of the new greenhouse she’d built in her side yard. Afternoon was giving over to evening. She could just see the moon peeking out from beneath the pink clouds. Another Tuesday nearing conclusion, but at least it had been filled with sunshine and a warmer breeze.

Then her peace shattered.

A blur of motion rocketed into the structure, rending the heavy plastic sheeting. A scream caught in her throat as she pitched herself to the side, away from the roar. A corner of the greenhouse collapsed as Addy rolled away. A black rubber tire missed her nose by inches, and the reverberation of an engine thundered in her ear. Gasoline fumes assaulted her nostrils, making her cough as she lifted herself on an elbow amidst broken shards of pottery. The spinning back wheel of the motorbike snagged her sleeve.

“Oh, my sweet Lord,” Addy breathed out, tugging her loose-sleeved yoga shirt from the grip of the tire. Pushing herself upward, she caught sight of a Converse sneaker and jean-clad leg draped over the seat of the still rumbling bike.

Addy leaned over and turned the switch on the handle to the Off position. How she knew exactly where to find the switch stymied her, but the engine died.

A groan emerged from beneath the wooden shelf that had collapsed onto whoever had just driven the small motorcycle into her newly constructed greenhouse.

Addy shoved the splintered wood away to find a boy. The same boy who’d run through her daylilies on the same motorbike a month ago. The boy who happened to be the middle child of her raucous neighbors. The boy whose name was Chris. Or maybe Michael.

She got them mixed up.

Her New Orleans neighborhood was typical in that it contained vibrant, friendly families who swapped recipes and brought by sacks of tomatoes and peppers. Addy knew all her neighbors, but she didn’t know her newest ones all that well. Other than the fact the couple often seemed overwhelmed, kids and pets running amuck with their bicycles, footballs, and the occasional tantrum in the front yard.

“Chris?”

“What?” he mumbled into the yellowed grass floor of the structure.

“Are you okay?”

The child moved, pulling his leg to him and lifting himself from the floor. He blinked and his face crumbled as he realized what had occurred. “Oh, no. My bike.”

Hisbike?

Addy took in the torn plastic, bent frame, busted shelves and pottery shards of her greenhouse. Precious, no valuable, orchids lay scattered on the ground, roots dangling, stems crushed, petals bruised. But the stupid bike. Yeah, that was the concern here.

Dirt smeared the boy’s cheek, and if Addy hadn’t been so troubled by the fact the accident-prone child had nearly decapitated himself and destroyed her orchid collection she might have thought it endearing. But shewasupset.

And mad.

And scared the boy had nearly broken his fool neck… or arm.

“My arm hurts,” the boy said, cupping his shoulder. “And my handlebars are all bent up.”

Addy rose, carefully lifting the bike off the boy and pushing so it lay on the broken pots. “Let me see.”

The boy scooted back, wincing as he cradled his right arm. “Owww.”

Addy knelt beside the boy and gently placed her hand on his forearm. “Can you wiggle your fingers?”

Big tears hovered on the boy’s thick brown lashes. He dashed them away with his other hand. “I don’t know.”

“Try.”

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