Up in the Ash Tree
For Sofie on her birthday

Sofie looked about herself and let loose the giggle that had been building ever since she arrived. The house needed a new roof. The exterior needed sanding, scraping, and painting. In place of tidy gardens and a trimmed lawn there were overgrown trees and weeds that had forced their way through almost everything and flourished in a wild tangle. The greenhouse needed repairs, and that was before she could begin growing the flowers that would be her livelihood. Despite the enormity of the job that lay ahead, her spirit soared. Finally, she thought, a place of my own. A place for my sons. Isn’t this the greatest? A second chance. She leaned over to pick up a rusted trowel and pulled at a weed that had engulfed a stack of pots in its trailing branches. Then, on a whim, she climbed a sturdy ash tree as high as she dared, gaining a new perspective on her house and the surrounding five acres. This time I'll make my happily ever after. She couldn't wait to get started.

Sofie had mistakes in her past, as well as successes and triumphs. Even her most painful experience had not been entirely negative, she mused as she watched her young sons scramble through the wild growth gathering broken pottery and other trash. She had four healthy boys and an undiminished sense of adventure. Somehow, she would give them the carefree childhood they deserved. She would be their cushion, their safety net, and their support. And she knew they would be hers. She vowed that she would show the world that she had the strength and sagacity to stand on her own two feet – starting right here with this little house and her old beater van. This is all we need, she thought with determination.

The next morning she awoke to the warm glow of brightness that filtered through the dust-grey windows of her room. Instead of peeling wallpaper, drab carpeting, and the sagging bed that Sofie had given up in favour of her air mattress on the floor, she saw the possibility of what the room could be. It was spacious with high ceilings and large windows. She pictured butter-yellow walls, oak furniture, a tawny spread, and a thick rug at her bedside; she imagined a room that would fill her with warmth even on the drizzliest mornings. She looked at her boys in sleeping bags all around her. This room had been the only one they cleared out before bedtime, so everything she cared about most in this life was right here with her. She sighed in improbable contentment, despite the day of backbreaking work that lay ahead of her. Now all I need is a really great bed, she thought. Somehow, it would all come together.

And slowly it did. Bit by bit, day by day, the boys cleared the yard of debris and the van filled with bulging trash bags. The house was scraped and received a new coat of bright white paint, and the front door beamed a greeting in bright blue. A row of flowers grew beside the front walk and the dense growth was mowed into manageability. Sofie was proud of the progress they'd made with so little money and so much hard work.

Unknown to her, the surrounding community was impressed, too. Most of the locals were thrilled that the little house – unkempt, unloved, and quickly on the path toward dereliction – had been rescued and renovated. Everyone who met the boys liked them immediately because they were friendly and respectful. And Sofie was pretty, personable, and witty with no outward sign of her recent heartbreak; she quickly made friends at the post office, the supermarket, the second-hand furniture shop, and the paint store.

Each night after she tucked her sons into bed Sofie walked around the small house picking up the few toys the boys missed, switching off lights, and locking doors. She looked out the kitchen window and saw the greenhouse plastic reflecting the light of the full moon, the earth bathed in silvery light. She studied the shadows and silently counted the different shades of grey. She longed to capture it on canvas, but didn't have time. With all the clean up and renovations, she hadn't yet been able to resume all of the activities she enjoyed. She stared at the bedroom walls in her sons' rooms and pictured bright, vibrant murals she knew would cheer her boys as they woke in the mornings. But for now she couldn't undertake a job she didn't yet have time to finish, so the boys had each been allowed to pick a colour and help paint their own rooms.

Summer's end loomed and it was time to register the boys for school. Steve, the eldest, would take a bus to the middle school where he was in grade eight. Mike, Jim, and Phil would attend the local elementary school, only a 15-minute walk from their home once they were familiar with the route. "But I'll drive you for the first week," Sofie said, ruffling Phil's already tousled hair with her hand. Green-eyed Mike nodded knowingly at Jim. "What?" Sofie asked.

Jim had a hint of tease in his voice when he said, "You don't want to let your baby walk to school!"

"The truth, my boy, is that I wish I could keep you here with me forever, just as we've been this last month. It's been a wonderful summer."

They all unanimously agreed, and the long days of picking up trash or scraping the house were instantly forgotten in favour of sandwiches eaten outdoors, riverbank explorations, and the fun of painting the colours they chose on the walls of their bedrooms.

"Why don't you just keep us here and home school us then, Mom?" Mike asked.

Sofie heard a quiet "No way," from Steve while he focused on the living room floor.

"As fun as that might be," she replied, "I have to make some money. I need to concentrate on getting the greenhouse functional." She saw concern in Steve's eyes, and she knew that he, as the eldest, had the most idea of the struggles she faced as mother and head of household. She desperately longed to take away all their fears. "But don't think about that, boys. Let me worry about the money. You worry about math and reading and writing. Okay?"

They all changed into clean shirts and combed their hair before climbing into the van and driving to the elementary school. Sofie stood in the office filling out papers and showing forms and transcripts, her boys restless but well-behaved in chairs lined against the wall; through the wide open door she heard voices.

"Did you see that van parked outside?"

"Yes," another replied darkly.

"I'm amazed that thing runs."

"Probably powered by the young boys who ride inside it."

"You know the owner?"

"A neighbour, of sorts. She moved in not much more than a month ago, and her boys have been outdoors from dawn until dark every day since."

"Wild?"

With a snort, the dark voice responded, "Terribly."

Sofie struggled to keep her eyes focused on the documents in front of her and the pen in her hand gliding along the paper, but when the two voices neared the doorway, she had to turn and look. One man was of average height, rounding around the middle and balding at the top; the other was tall, had dark hair, and – she noticed when he looked through the doorway and spotted her and the boys – green eyes. She saw a look resembling mortification pass over his face, and he quickly turned his head away from her.

"Who were those men?" Sofie asked the secretary at the desk.

"Mr. Forrest – teaches grade five – and Mr. Darien, grade six."

Sofie glanced at her boys; the younger three seemed involved in their conversation and the toys in their hands and she couldn't tell if they'd heard; Steve looked at her and she thought she could see him pleading with her to say something, to stand up for all of them. Don't worry, Stevie, I'd do it even if you boys weren't here. "Excuse me," Sofie said to the secretary, and rushed out the door with a "Stay put, boys."

"Mr. Darien!" she called down the hallway and she hurried toward the two retreating figures. Both men stopped and turned around, although she fancied the taller man turned more slowly. "Mr. Darien, may I have a word, please?"

She wasn't sure which man had the dark voice and the sharp tongue, she wasn't sure which man was teaching grade six. But Mike was in grade six, and she certainly wouldn't let this episode pass without a warning.

Both men looked at her intently, and after an awkward pause the taller man said, "Please." The dark voice. Here was the "neighbour," the man who had nothing good to say about her boys and their hard work, about their efforts on their house, about...

If Sofie focused on that, she'd get teary. So she gathered her indignation around her and she spoke. "I haven’t had the pleasure of meeting you yet. You say we're neighbours?"

Mr. Darien nodded feebly.

"Well you certainly have a right to your opinions, and freedom to express them. But I would ask you, sir, to be circumspect when doing so at this school. Three of my sons are enrolled here, one in grade six. He may end up in your class. Wouldn't it be terrible for him to know that you dislike him? That you judged him and formed a negative opinion without even having met him?"

Mr. Forrest's mouth was agape as he looked at Sofie, not understanding who she was or what she was saying. Mr. Darien was also shocked into muteness, but from an excess rather than a lack of comprehension.

"Wouldn't it be terrible if the grade six students adopted the prejudice of their teacher, and didn't give my son a chance to show them how great he is?"

"Mrs....uh, Ms. ...That is, I, uh..."

Sofie held out her hand firmly. "Sofie Barnes," she said, with no warmth in her voice. "Mother of the wild boys, owner of the van."

Mr. Forrest's eyes grew round with recognition.

"I can count on you to keep your opinions to yourself, and to welcome my boys to this school?" she said, directing her question to Mr. Darien.

"Absolutely."

"Thank you," she answered, and without a pause she turned and briskly returned to the office, her blood racing through her veins and singing in her ears. As soon as she was through the door, she asked the secretary, "There's another grade six teacher besides Mr. Darien?"

"Yes – Colin Fox. Very good teacher, but they all are."

"I want Mike in Mr. Fox's class," Sofie said unequivocally as she wrote a similar notation on the paper she'd been filling out.

On their way out of the office Sofie noticed a posted job listing for a lunch supervisor, someone who would come only during lunchtime while the children ate and played. It isn't much, but it is a reliable source of money, she thought. And it fits right into my schedule. She turned the boys around and marched them back to their seats while she filled out an application for the job. School began, and Sofie threw herself wholeheartedly into repairing the greenhouse during the day while the boys were gone. A kindly neighbour named Sam Jardin took pains to introduce himself to her and compliment her on the amazing transformation she and the boys had effected in such a short time. "We all worried that this house was going to become the next hangout for teenagers wanting to get drunk; from there it is a short trip to drug pushers and squatters." He heaved a sigh of genuine relief. "We – all of us – are so pleased that a family moved in here."

"Not all of you," Sofie said under her breath.

"Pardon?"

"I met Mr. Darien the other day, and he didn't hold me and my boys in much higher esteem than he would drunken teenagers and drug pushers."

Sam chuckled, and before long he was fully laughing. "So you've met our Stewart Darien, have you? Don't mind him, Sofie, his bark is much worse than his bite. I've heard him telling people what a difference you and your boys have made."

"Well I heard him telling someone that we live here like wild people."

Again Sam Jardin laughed, but he spoke no more about Stewart Darien.

Sofie didn't ask why Sam had so much time on his hands, but when he said that he had worked with a former owner in the greenhouse and he offered – just out of neighbourly concern – to help her get the place up and running, she didn't turn him down. "I don't have much to give you in return, though," she said.

"How about a real paying job when the greenhouse is producing and you need an employee? And dinner sometimes with your family when I don't feel like cooking?"

Sofie smilingly conceded, although she wasn't entirely comfortable trading a day of hard work for an occasional meal and the promise of future payment for future labour. She resolved to invite Sam for dinner very often, and to find some other form of remuneration when and if she could.

Together they cleaned out the old supplies from the greenhouse, sifting through and throwing away most of them. They replaced and repaired the plastic cover. Sofie looked through catalogues and websites, researching which varieties of flowers she should grow. She spent lunchtime at the school with her three youngest boys, supervising the playground. The school children all thought she was "cool," and the teachers were impressed with the diplomatic way she handled disputes among the children.

She even found time to resume her painting on a limited schedule. She had to – painting was her emotional outlet. Some people kept a diary, she painted. She put everything she felt onto her canvas and what she saw now were bright, cheerful, sunny landscapes with colourful flowers kissed by the morning's dew holding a day full of promise and hope. They were far different than her most recent paintings, the ones she had done before her temporary break from the hobby. The ones that followed her husband's desertion -– those were dark, dreary, full of grey hues. She kept them in the back of her closet, facing the wall.

One day as she was driving home from school – making a mental list of chores that awaited her that afternoon – she saw a quaint little art store with a sign in the window: We take consignments.

Sofie smiled, then shook her head as she began to drive past. At the last moment she impetuously turned her van into the tiny parking lot. She walked in and noticed the various paintings and prints that filled the store. From a tiny studio at the back of the room, a thin, pale, young man emerged. He extended a friendly hand and introduced himself as Andy Berg.

The next day Sofie delivered her first painting on her way to the school and promised a second within the week. When she dropped off the next one a few days later, Andy grinned as he told her that the first had already sold, and for more money than any other first-timer's painting.

She smiled at the thought of her painting hanging in a nearby home. Something she had created – a part of her – now had a place in someone's life. Her circle of friends was expanding, and she felt like she belonged in this community. For the first time in a long time, she finally felt like she was home. The only thing that still gave her discomfort...

Well, not a thing, but a person: Mr. Stewart Darien, grade six teacher. He rarely spoke directly to her, but whenever she looked at him he was staring at her intently. She imagined he was only trying to find flaws, but all the students assured her he was a great teacher, and not at all the sort of person that is always searching for weakness. He had even earned the respect and admiration of her own son. Mike really liked his teacher Mr. Fox, but also enjoyed the time he spent with the others in grade six – and their teacher. "He's a great guy, Mom," Mike assured Sofie. "He's really funny, but he never laughs at his own jokes. In fact sometimes when you look at his face, you're not sure if he even knows he's making a joke! Yesterday when we had traded classrooms for science, he said..."

Sofie, whose initial anger had not allowed her to evaluate Mr. Darien at all, had since realized that he was...well, gorgeous. He had a head of dark, thick hair, and only when you were standing close could you see that there were a few strands of grey. His eyes were as green as a lawn in summer, and they glimmered like an emerald; on a woman they'd be beautiful, but in him, in a man so completely, totally, and thoroughly masculine, they were simply mesmerizing. If she allowed herself to look at them at all. Which she didn't. (Very often.)

And now everyone, from Sam Jardin to the kids on the playground to her own son Mike, was singing his praises. Am I the only person on earth who sees he's a jerk? she asked the blue autumn sky. And though she knew the sky couldn't speak, she nonetheless sensed the answer was yes. Yes, she was the only person on earth who thought he was a jerk. Everyone who really knew him thought he was great. Hmph. Sofie turned back to the playground of children.

"Sofie! Sofie!" One of the girls approached her, calling her by the name she had insisted on. She didn't want to be known as Mrs. Barnes here. "Sofie! Will you climb this tree with me?"

Sofie beamed. "Of course. You go first Libby, I need to stay low in case I have to hurry down."

So the grade three girl scurried up the trunk and into the branches, and Sofie – who was famous for her tree climbing skills – deftly followed.

"Have you always loved to climb trees, Sofie? You're so good at it!"

"I've been climbing trees for as long as I've been walking," Sofie replied, chuckling. "I climbed chairs, tables, bookcases, and counters until my mother let me outside and I found trees." Sofie's ever-vigilant eyes scanned the playground; she knew that she needed to descend soon and walk around the playground, but when she saw Mike walking in her direction with Mr. Darien she couldn't decide what to do. Did they know she was there? Were they coming to find her? Should she stay aloft and hide until they'd passed?

Libby laughed. "My mom always gets so frustrated with my brother when he climbs up the drawer pulls in her bedroom! I bet your mother was so angry sometimes!"

The inclination to share a girlish giggle dissolved with the knowledge that Mike and Mr. Darien were definitely within hearing distance.

"Hey, it's Mike!" Libby said. "Does he like to climb, too? Should we call him to join us?"

When Sofie spoke, her voice betrayed her by whispering rather than speaking out confidently. "No, let's be quiet and see if he thinks to look up the tree for his old mom." And then she held her breath and sat perfectly still, hoping they'd pass beneath her quickly.

"Wasn't lunch great, Mr. D? I love pizza."

"Delicious."

"But my mom's pizza is ten times better than anything you can buy," Mike boasted.

Mr. Darien cleared his throat. "But from what I've seen, your mom is good at everything she tries."

When she heard this, Sofie had to fight to keep her seat on the branch. He's not criticizing my van or my "wild" children?

"Yeah, she is." Mike said it with a shrug, but Sofie could hear the suppressed pride in his voice. "She's pretty wonderful."

"Yes, she certainly seems to be." Mr. Darien playfully messed up Mike's hair as he said, "I'd think that even if I didn't know how great her kids are."

Teacher and student had passed under the tree and were now far enough beyond that she couldn't hear anything after Mike's responding chuckle. She didn't even know what she said when she excused herself from her climbing partner; let herself down from the tree as quickly and quietly as she could, and then jogged to the playground without looking behind her. If two pairs of green eyes were following her, she didn't want to know.

She finished the lunch recess in a daze, unable to interpret Mr. Darien's apparent approval of her no matter how she thought about it. As she climbed into the van after lunchtime she saw Mike's coat on the seat behind her; she wanted him to be warm during the walk home, so she grabbed it and jogged to his classroom. As fate would have it there were no grade six students in the room, and Mike's teacher Mr. Fox was also gone. Standing alone at the chalkboard, writing a timeline for a history lesson, was none other than Mr. Darien.

Sofie gasped.

Mr. Darien turned around, and a faint smile covered his face. He hurriedly put the chalk down and turned to face her completely. "Hello, Sofie."

She had never conversed with him since their first emotionally charged encounter. She realized, standing there with him looking at her expectantly, that she had always turned and walked away before he had a chance to say anything substantial. She nodded and said, "Mr. Darien."

"Stewart, please," he asked, stretching a hand toward her in invitation though a classroom of desks separated them.

"Stewart," she said quietly.

He looked at her a few seconds more, tilting his head first to one side, then the other. "Are you going to stay?"

My tendency to walk away has not escaped his notice, she thought. "Would you like me to leave?"

"No!" He hurried around the teacher's desk and halfway down the row toward her before stopping. "No. I've never wanted you to leave, not even after our conversation."

Sofie noticed he didn't say first conversation or only conversation, though it had been both. She looked up at the fluorescent light fixtures on the ceiling and sighed. "You know, I've never understood why you said those things without knowing us."

Stewart stepped closer to her, and for a moment it appeared he didn't know what to do with his arms; it almost looked like he was reaching out for her before he dropped them back to his sides. "Though I know it is exactly the wrong thing to say, I...I don't know what I said that day that upset you." His eyebrows tugged together and his countenance revealed his concern.

"You insulted us!"

Again his hands rose faintly from his sides before he let gravity pull them back. "My memory isn't perfect, Sofie, but I think I only said that your sons had enough energy to power a car, and that I'd seen them outside through all the daylight hours." He swallowed and screwed up his lips before he spoke again, and Sofie marvelled at how boyish he looked when he was discomfited. "It was actually my colleague that commented on the car. I would never..."

"You called us wild!"

He shrugged his shoulders diffidently. "He said wild; active would have been a better choice of word, but I was trying...not to... have that conversation right then. You know, in the school."

Sofie was speechless. He was right. Mr.Forrest had spoken of her vehicle with a sneer in his voice; Stewart had only responded to him, and not in a way meant to encourage conversation. She had admonished him not to talk about the students in school, and that was exactly what he'd been trying to do.

She was mute in contemplation, and Stewart felt the necessity of filling the silence before it grew uncomfortable. "I've always admired you, and your boys. I know I couldn't have accomplished what you did in so little time, and with four children to take care of." He swallowed and regarded her. When it appeared she still had nothing to say, he turned to glance out the window and continued. "I remember the first time I saw you, at the grocery store with a smear of blue down your cheek and your hair pulled into a ponytail. You were... And your boys were sitting out in the van in the parking lot, listening to some rock 'n' roll song – I think it was Simon and Garfunkel – and singing at the top of their lungs." His voice changed when he spoke again, almost as if he forgot she was there. "I knew then that you must be an exceptional mother, if you could keep your sons occupied, focused, and happy even with that much work to do, even in a new place."

Sofie softly cleared her throat, and Stewart inhaled quickly and then turned back to face her. "Anyway, when I drove past your house on the way home, I saw the front door was blue, and I knew where the smear on your cheek came from."

"Mr. Dar...Stewart, I..." Sofie was overwhelmed with all of the new information she was receiving; Stewart Darien was exactly as everyone had described him, and not the jerk she'd always thought him to be. Furthermore, he'd always admired her. "I apologize for everything I said that day. It wasn't you who jumped to conclusions about us, it was I, in Mother Lion mode, who accused you of things you hadn't done. And all this time, I've... Anyway, I hope you'll accept my apology." She stuck out her right hand in a gesture of conciliation.

Stewart took her hand gently between both of his and quietly said, "I'm just glad it's behind us, Sofie. I hope we can be friends as well as neighbours now."

Sofie couldn't stop thinking about the conversation with Stewart as she drove home. She could hardly comprehend that he had liked her all this time, while she had been harbouring an irrational dislike. She smiled as she realized what a decent guy he really was. Never in her life had she been so happy to be wrong about someone. She was finally distracted from her thoughts about him when she arrived home to a ringing telephone. She fumbled with the keys as she hurried to answer, her heart pounding at the thought, the possibility that it might be him. When she answered it was only Andy and she laughed at herself for being so silly. He had good news: her second painting had sold. She worked happily all afternoon, pleased with her sale; but her thoughts kept wandering to Stewart Darien, and it was her conversation with him earlier in the day that brought a smile to her lips.

In the weeks that followed Sofie and Stewart had many more conversations. She learned that he was divorced with no children. Her sons told him all about their father and their old house on the mainland. He went to Mike's final soccer game of the season, and ate homemade pizza with them after Mike's team won. Sofie baked him a pie when he gave Jim a science fair idea. He cooked dinner for her and her sons, and she was astounded to find the bed she'd been searching for – the one that would be perfect for her – in his bedroom. He helped pick and carry in the Christmas tree, then played carols on his guitar while Sofie and her sons sang and decorated. And when he finally gathered the courage to ask her to go out with him, she said yes.

Four sons left her very little time for formal dating, but Stewart Darien was content just to be with them – to put away groceries, to watch a basketball game on television, to help water the plants in the greenhouse. He lent a hand when Sofie finally painted murals on her sons' bedroom walls, but he was far more talented with a guitar than a paintbrush and she was content to just listen to his playing while she painted.

"You play really well." "You paint really well," he replied, attempting to wipe a smudge of paint from her cheek but only smearing it. "It reminds me of a couple of paintings I have at home that I bought at a shop down the road from the school."

Sofie stared at him in disbelief. "Not Andy Berg's shop?"

"Yes. Have you been there?"

"A couple of times. Tell me about these paintings you bought."

Upon hearing his description, she could have no doubt the paintings were hers. He told her, "When I saw them, they just spoke to me of such happiness...the way I feel when I'm with you."

She smiled.

"I couldn't believe the artist would part with them, they seemed to contain so much feeling, so much expression. I had to have them. I felt they belonged with me."

A tear escaped one of Sofie's eyes as she turned back to her mural on the wall, and he understood. He was just surprised he hadn't realized it before.

They both experienced real contentment during the moments they spent together. For the first time in longer than she remembered, Sofie felt like a real family. And Stewart felt it too. When he was with Sofie and her sons he experienced a liveliness and cheerfulness he hadn't known before. He never pushed, but he hoped. He had grown as fond of the boys as he was of their mother.

He kissed her for the first time very early on New Year's Day, after they had all blown their horns, yelled their cheers, and sipped their soft cider. Sofie sent her boys to bed with a kiss on the forehead, and in the wee small hours of the morning Stewart couldn't miss the opportunity to bid her an extended goodnight in a similar way. "Do you want to hear about my resolution?" he asked, his arms around her, his breath tickling her cheek, his voice low and intimate.

"I...I'm not sure," Sofie said, her head a whirl of joyous confusion.

"It involves you and four other people you know, but perhaps that's all the specificity..." The rest of his sentence evaporated in the cold night air as he enthusiastically kissed her again.

One afternoon in the late spring Sofie sought a few moments away from the boys' din and her ever-present list of chores and never-ending responsibilities. She left her sons with directions to finish their homework and then play with their Lego, and then she slid her stocking feet into her grubby rubber greenhouse clogs, grabbed a warm jacket, and escaped out the back door. She inhaled deeply; though the air was cool and moist from a rainstorm the day before, there was also more warmth in it than there had been the previous week and she knew summer was coming.

She stood beside the ash tree for a few moments, and then kicked off her clogs and scurried up into the branches in only her socks. So many things had changed in the months since they'd moved into this house. Steve, Mike, Jim, and Phil were thriving – they had friends and school and were getting good grades. The greenhouse was repaired and in working order, Sam Jardin was a full-fledged employee drawing a paycheck, and she had flourishing flowers and ornamentals inside that would be ready to sell in time for outdoor planting. The house was cozy and comfortable, and had kept them warm all winter. The breeze stirred the new leaves on the tree and she marvelled at how everything about this place, about her life, felt right. Everything including...

She heard the back door open and through the tracery of branches and leaves realized that the figure that stood on the steps was much taller than any of her boys. Stewart Darien walked into view, his dark hair a mass of unruly curls, his guitar case in his hand. Sofie held back an urge to call out to him and instead pulled her legs up and sat very still, keeping her eyes on him. He was tall and had to stoop under low branches, which he did with a graceful and yet casual air. He came to stand under her tree, but instead of looking up, he looked down.

"Someone appears to have misplaced her shoes," he said. "I wonder if she's in the greenhouse in only her socks?"

Sofie bit down on her curled fist to stifle a laugh, and her heart beat faster just at the sight of him.

Stewart sat down on the wet grass beneath the tree, and then leapt up again with a muffled yelp. "That grass is wet!" he said, his voice heavy with mock desolation; but Sofie thought she could see his shoulders shaking in the half minute before he said, "Well, I suppose these shoes, though they aren't as big as my posterior, may at least keep some of my seat from becoming sodden." He placed Sofie's two shoes together and sat on them.

Once he was settled on the grass he took his guitar from the case and began plucking chords and tunes. Sofie heard hints of REM and Counting Crows melodies before Stewart impulsively strummed and crooned, "Lady, come dooooown..."

Sofie let out a spurt of laughter and then immediately covered her mouth. Stewart looked up, one eyebrow lifted and a sly grin on his face. She felt her heart lurch and she had an amazing revelation. He had made her angry, made her laugh, discussed her problems, and been attentive to her sons, but his presence had never elicited such a response before.

"Are you just going to sit there and stare at me all afternoon?" asked Stewart, his grin growing broader. "If you have no plans to come down here to me, then I'll have to join you on your branch."

"I'm not sure it will support both of us!" Sofie cried as he took hold of the branch and hoisted himself up.

"I'm not terribly heavy," laughed Stewart. "But if it does break, you'll probably land on top of me, breaking your fall and my ribs. And I'll have to stay here on the sofa in the living room until you've nursed me back to health." He wiggled his eyebrows impertinently.

Sofie laughed and her gaze didn't waver from Stewart’s face. He was so close to her now that the feeling she had was almost overwhelming. His leg was touching her knee; his arm was reaching behind her for support from a branch above.

"I've known you eight months," he said softly as his face sobered, "but we've only been friends for five."

"But what a friendship, eh? Five for the price of one."

"You have a hole in your sock. And you have cute toes," said Stewart inconsequentially.

"I do?" asked Sofie looking down at her foot and quickly covering it with her other one.

"But that isn't what I climbed up in this tree to say," Stewart continued. "On New Year's Day I almost told you something, but I was afraid you weren't ready to hear it, even if I was ready to say it. Sofie, I..." Stewart raised a hand to stroke her cheek, and then let it fall to the branch again. "You mean the world to me. I didn't think I'd ever feel this way again. I didn't imagine I could ever feel fatherly feelings so quickly. But I do. I enjoy the time I spend here with you and your family, and I'd enjoy it even more if...if I lived here, too."

Sofie looked at his sincere face, and though she knew he was suggesting something permanent and honourable, she didn't have the words to respond.

"Steve took me aside one of the first evenings I visited here. As the man of the house, he executed his duty to warn me and let me know my place. 'My mom might never get remarried,' he warned me, 'and you'll never be our father.'" Stewart paused and looked through the canopy of leaves into the sky. "'But you are a good guy, and as long as you take care of my mom, I'm okay with it.' So you see..." Here Stewart dared to look in Sofie's eyes. "...I have Steve's stamp of approval."

"They all like you," Sofie said softly. "Love you. You’ve seemed to strike the perfect balance between friend, mentor, and idol."

Stewart shrugged. "They're great boys."

Sofie nodded at him. She didn't dare look away – she didn't want to miss a single one of the emotions playing across his face.

"But I'm not entirely sure I have the approval of their mother. What I'm trying to say here, Sofie, is that I want to spend the rest of my life with you. May I? Will you have me?"

Again Sofie nodded mutely, her emotions so close to the surface that she didn't trust herself with words.

"Can we climb down now? I want to hold you and maybe make out a little but I am afraid of us falling out of the tree."

Sofie's wide-ranging feelings steadied with a clear shower of sunshine laughter. "What about Stewart and Sofie, sitting in a tree, K-I-S-S-I-N-G?" she said in a sing-song voice.

Her suitor leaned toward her with a boyish grin on his face. "I've always loved that song." He kissed her slowly and awkwardly, hitting his head on a branch beside Sofie's head. "But right now I'd settle for some regular ground kissing." Stewart slipped down from the branch and then turned to Sofie with his arms held out. "Jump!"

Unhesitatingly, Sofie threw herself into his waiting arms. He caught her in a firm grasp and held her closely to him with her feet still off the ground. Her arms slid easily around him and she gazed laughingly at his face, which was at eye level. "I've always wanted your bed," said Sofie smugly. "That's why I'm marrying you."

"I knew it," retorted Stewart. "That's why I asked you."

"Aren't you going to put me down?"

"You're not wearing any shoes – I have to think of your socks."

"Yeah, right. You know they have holes and were already stuffed inside dirty clogs."

"Do you really want me to put you down already?" asked Stewart as he strengthened his hold and brought her even closer to him so that their noses were almost touching.

"Not yet," said Sofie breathlessly.

Steve, Mike, Jim, and Phil peered through the window as Mr. Darien kissed their mother. Though the pair seemed unfaltering in their task, the boys soon tired of watching. Phil was first to turn back to the toys spread across the floor, and summarized all their thoughts when he said, "I think Mr. Darien will be great with Mom. I can't wait 'til they get married."

The End

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