WHO I REALLY AM

Maximus and Joimus spent two days in Coffs then returned home, planning on driving back the following evening to check on Ahnna and Alistair. Several of the Glen residents had been out to the mill, getting the inspection and repairs underway. Maximus had put his plans for the thermae on hold, arranging instead for Jeff to redo much of the plumbing in the old structure. An electrician had also been hired to tend to the wiring. The General wanted not just the office addition, but the entire mill rewired before Alistair and Ahnna might return.

This morning Maximus and Cort were planning on repainting the interior of the office while Joimus and Claire restored the garden just outside where Alistair and Robert had fallen and where the firefighters had had to walk and drag their hoses.

This was the first time Claire had seen the mill and as she stepped out of Joimus' stationwagon, she was immediately taken by its rustic charm. "It looks like it's out of another place and time," she commented to Cort, who was unloading a large can of paint nearby.

"It does, doesn't it," he agreed, nodding, Merry weaving between his legs, almost sending him sprawling. "I'm glad we can help fix it up. Alistair has been very kind to me. He's a good man."  Cort had been truly concerned about him, more than he'd expressed to anyone.

There had been a heavy rain the day before and the soil was still damp with it as Joimus and Claire set about pulling out ruined plants, piling them off to the side. Joimus remembered exactly what had been growing where in the mill gardens and wanted to recreate them as near to that as possible. She and Claire had developed a quiet camaraderie at the Greenery and worked well together.  Plant after plant was unpotted and set into the ground as the two women worked steadily at their task.

Cort had had to put Merry back on her cable to keep her out of the paint. It was a warm morning and he stripped off his shirt as he climbed up the stepstool, stretching to paint the upper part of the new wall Jack and Bridgid had built. The door to the office had been left open to aid in ventilation and from time to time as she worked in the garden just beside it, Claire would look up and catch sight of him, pausing to watch his movement, the ripple of muscles in his shoulders as he painted. It could be very
distracting and she'd find herself holding the rootball of some plant and not getting it into the ground at all.

The painting was done just at lunchtime and Cort came to the door, still shirtless, and with splotches and dabs of paint here and there about his torso and arms. Claire, pressing the soil around a newly-planted phlox,  stopped and stared at him. He wiped his forehead with the back of an arm, succeeding in smearing a small swath of paint across it. Her lips twitched in amusement. "Are you going on the warpath?" she asked, unconsciously wiping her own cheek with a muddy-gloved hand.

Joimus sat back on her heels, chuckling. She'd been aware of Claire's glances into the office all morning. "You two are becoming a matched set with your smears. I suggest you go down to the bridge and study your reflections in the pond water." She was a smart woman. She knew what she was doing.

"Would you like that?" Cort asked Claire, smiling fetchingly.

"I do believe I would," Claire replied, slipping off her gloves. When she tried to stand, she found her left leg had gone to sleep from being in a rather cramped position too long and she tottered precariously. In a smooth, graceful motion Cort was off the little porch and had hold of her elbow before anybody realized he'd moved.

Maximus came out and set on the stoop, rubbing his leg, watching as Cort and Claire went down the path to the little arched bridge. "They seem to get along," he commented, smiling then at his wife, who was coming up to him.

"Your leg hurt, darling?" she asked, sitting beside him, curving her arm through his.

"Just a little. Too much standing for too long. Nothing of concern, though."

"Everything about you is of concern to me. You know that."  She nuzzled against his shoulder.

"I do know that." He kissed the top of her head.

Cort paused at the edge of the pond. "What are those?" he asked.

"Iris," Claire replied. "Are you not familiar with them?"

"I'm not sure. I don't think they grow where...."

"Where?"

"Wherever." He shrugged. "I don't think they grow there." He turned, looking at the whole panorama of the extensive mill gardens. "I don't think much of any of this grows there."

"You don't remember flowers?"

"I don't seem to remember...green. It all strikes me as very different. But I like it," he hastened to add. "And I like that you know how to make this sort of thing happen."

He had, indeed, the last few days spent more time at the greenhouse and its environs than out in the barn or the fields. There was always something he could offer to help with, something heavy that needed lifting or moved. And he found this delicately beautiful young woman the loveliest flower he'd ever seen.

They walked up to the top of the arch and stood, looking down into the pond whose smooth surface did reflect their faces. They both burst into laughter at the same time, seeing their smears. He turned, leaning his hip against the railing, looking at her. It was noon and the sunlight beat straight down atop her pale blonde hair so brightly he had to hood his eyes a bit. "Tell me about Claire," he said softly.

"What would you like to know about Claire, Mr. Wells?"

"Anything. Anything at all."

"I haven't been many places, had many adventures, I'm afraid. I basically grew up with the flowers in my grandmother's garden. I like simple things, beautiful things, like tulips and poetry."  She kept her eyes down toward the pond, realizing again just how uncool she was.

Cort, however, who had no concept of the modern term of coolness, thought she was exquisite and something deep in him knew he'd never encountered anything as rare or beautiful as she was. He was quiet, studying her down-turned face, appreciating its loveliness. His quiet made her lift her eyes, needing to see his expression after what she'd said. She caught him off guard, caught the fullness of his thoughts plainly writ on his features. No man had ever looked at her like that before, with a respectful yet very open regard. Her lips parted in surprise and he turned quickly away. "I...I'm sorry," he murmured.

His hands were on the railing and she lay her palm on the nearest. "Sorry for what, Cort?"

"I...I was staring. I shouldn't...."

He made her feel beautiful, something she'd struggled with for the last couple of years during her illness. "Thank you," she said quietly.

He lifted his eyes again, not understanding.

"For the way you make me feel about myself."

He was very, very aware of her hand atop his, of how entirely he was drawn to her. But then his mind flooded with the fact of his circumstances and he gently slipped it out from under hers, stuffing it into a pocket in his jeans.

She stiffened, afraid she shouldn't have said what she just had. "I...I was too...," she began.

"It's not you, Claire. I find myself wanting to know you, to be closer to you but...then." His eyes locked onto hers. "Then I realize I have no right to do anything of the sort, not when I don't even know who I am, what I might be, whatever I've done. I have no right to anything, not in this place."

"Oh, Cort!" she responded, quick tears stinging her eyes. "You are here. You! And the you who's here has every right to be happy, to make a place for himself."

He shook his head. "It's not that easy, Claire, not for me. There's something I have no name for weighing me down, something that wakes me in the night, shaking with the darkness of it. Until I know what that is, I can't settle into anything new. I may not like who I really am. You may not like who I really am."

"I'm not worried about that, Cort, truly I'm not. I'm pretty sure I see who you really are."

"There's something there, though, Claire, something big, something that changed everything, and I don't know what that thing is. I don't...know."  He put both hands on the railing and leaned his forehead down on them.

She took a step closer, resting her hand on his shoulder, instantly aware of the feel of his sun-warmed flesh. "You will, Cort, when it's time. You will.  She felt his back lift as he took a deep breath.

Alistair had said something very similar to him at the Wade's wedding reception...that he would remember when he could bear to remember. Why couldn't he bear to remember the thing? WHAT couldn't he bear to remember?