AllFreeNovel
Share Us
Devon laughed more, small and sleepy and bright across the distance. “What about you?”
“Oh, I pretty much like anything. One of my uncles is in a country-and-western band, not massively famous but they’ve been doing okay for a few decades now, and that’s cool. One of my other uncles, and I swear this is true, decided he wanted to get super-into our heritage and learned the bagpipes. Which I have been known to put on in the lab. The grad students either love it or try to hide in the coat closets.”
“Country and western,” Devon said, “and the bagpipes.”
“Come on, I told you I like anything, as long as it’s authentic and interesting. Springsteen, the Chicks, some newer rock. I’m adaptable.”
“Like your sea grass. I did wonder about the Gaelic, with that name. It suits you. A brook, a little stream, the outdoors and flowing water…”
Burne sat on his couch beaming at nothing, at the phone, at Devon. He wanted to dance, to learn to play the bagpipes himself, to sweep Devon into a kiss. Next to flowing water and flowers.
He said, “Thanks? I like yours, too. Like poetry. Is your house seriously called the Rose House?”
“It is. The site used to be part of a botanical garden—I mean over a century ago, when some wealthy railroad magnate bought the land. It all got split up later, of course. Most of the garden died or ended up wild. When I bought this piece of it, the only structure left was the old gardening shed, but the local historical association and some horticulturists asked if I’d bring back the roses.”
“And you like a challenge.”
“And I like a challenge. So there’s a small public rose garden down the hill from me, which we made open for everyone, and then some historic varieties growing around the walls of this house. I don’t touch them—the gardeners do that—but I love the scent.”
Burne could see it. Devon out on his balcony, breathing rose-tinted air, in beach-gold sun. Devon knowing he couldn’t touch the roses, avoiding cuts and scrapes and perilous thorns. But happy to have them present, welcoming scraps of history in, giving them a place to grow once more.
He said, voice rough with emotion, “That sounds…beautiful.”
“I’ll show you, if you’d like.” Devon yawned again. “Sometime…”
“I’d like that. Should you get some rest?”
“I will…”
“I’ll tell you about flowers,” Burne said, “until you fall asleep. Out here on the islands, up in the hill grass…the way they pop up in blue and pink and orange, no real order, no beds or trimming or cultivation, just pure wildflowers peeking out through the gold when you look around…”
He knew Devon was listening; he knew when Devon’s breathing changed, sliding into sleep. He kept talking until he was sure, and then for a minute after that.
He held the phone for a while even after that, sitting on his couch in his temporary room, plain and simple and not rose-drenched or designer. But at the moment both he and the couch felt pretty damn elated at what they’d just done.
He, Burne, sitting right here, had been here for Devon. For his Devon. For comfort.
He’d been able to help. To do something. From here. This sofa, this room. Magic.
His stomach reminded him noisily that he’d missed movie-night pizza and popcorn.
Burne laughed, got up, let triumph carry him into the miniscule kitchen space. He had bread and cheese, or peanut butter and honey; he had some chocolate-chip cookies that one of the paleontologists had conjured up and handed out, which were delicious and not at all covered in bone-dust, despite all the jokes.
He still felt a whisper of concern: not outright worry, a fossil-trace, a pencil-smudge of un-erased emotion. Devon had been unwell enough to collapse during a meeting, under stress. With no one else present in person, to care for him.
But Devon sounded okay, if tired. That was also true. And he must know how to care for himself, having done so for years. Burne absolutely wouldn’t assume any better knowledge on his own part, about that.
He did hope Devon was getting enough rest, and had eaten something, not only tea, with whatever painkillers they’d given him. This happened, Devon had said; but that didn’t make it easy to go through, physically or emotionally.
But he, Burne, had helped. Devon had wanted him, had believed he could help. Something Devon wanted, when having a bad day.
He thought about Devon’s words:I’ll show you, sometime. Meaning: the roses. That house. A flower-name and Devon’s imagination, Devon’s heart, in the design.
He did an impromptu dance with a slice of bread.
If Devon wanted toshowhim—
Could they meet? In person?
