Alisa Hall
The live oak reached toward Flora Anne like a handshake and what resembled a giant squirrel in her peripheral was a man on the sturdy branch. He tipped his construction helmet, surprised, as if she was the odd one for sitting on her parents’ roof while glass flutes clinked at a garden party below.
“Is that you, Logan Beckett?” Of course it was him. A memory flashed to eleventh grade, studying with the scholarship boy from the wrong side of the tracks. Now, years later, she would drive detours for a glimpse of him climbing the oaks and magnolias around town. As owner of a tree service business, could he taste the air and guess which wood smoked the catered brisket?
“Flora Anne Jefferson.” He smiled. “Why’re you sittin’ on that roof like a princess who needs rescuing?”
Princess. Her family were Jeffersons and, though not Joneses, society itched to keep up with them. But Flora Anne yearned for a life beyond cultural expectations. To be judged on her own merits. To be authentic. Especially when this coral dress—a gift from Mama—made her look like a swirl of cotton candy.
“I’m teasing you. Don’t look at me like you want to wring my neck.”
“Why are you climbing my tree?” Then a grim thought struck. “You aren’t cutting it down, are you?”
He glanced at the roof and raised his eyebrows—a question. She nodded, and his boots thudded against the shingles. Loose clumps of Spanish moss sprinkled from the oak and onto straw hats bedecked in blooms. Twisted branches hid them from the party’s view.
“Technically, the tree belongs to your neighbor, and she hired me to prune. Was real specific about the time, too.”
“Crotchety Mrs. Hayes? She’s miffed every year for not being invited to this party.”
“Explains the specificity.”
“Mama will tan your hide if she hears one zip from a chainsaw.”
He rubbed a leaf between his fingers. “I believe it. Your mama doesn’t like me. Senior year, I tried to ask you to prom and she all but ran me off your front porch.”
“Wait.” Flora Anne’s heart dipped with the string quartet’s minor key. What did her pearl-clutching mama tell him? “Why—”
“Let’s make a deal. A question for a question.”
They shook hands, smooth skin against callouses.
“Why didn’t you ask me to prom?”
“We come from different worlds.” He pointed beyond the branches. Pastel dresses sprinkled the manicured lawn and white tablecloths blinded in the midday sun. “Y’all are livin’ in high cotton, buying stocks and bonds like breath mints. But I sweat when I work.”
“So you changed your mind because my family is wealthy?”
“I changed my mind because you deserved better.”
She stilled, then steadied her pulse with an inhale. “You and me and all those people down there? We’re the same. Some wear fancier clothes is all.”
“Then why aren’t you down there?”
“Is this your question?”
He nodded. “Why does Flora Anne Jefferson hide on her parents’ roof?”
She wanted to protest, but shrugged instead. “I’m a creature of habit. When I was younger and shy, I’d climb out here during parties and hope those branches were close enough to climb down like stairs. To escape.”
“And you still want to escape?”
“Another question?” She smiled, newfound gumption fighting through stomach flutters. “Maybe. Mama invited a long list of eligible bachelors. But I’m less enticed by men who trade stock and more attracted to men who trim trees.”
Their eyes locked and he glanced at her lips. “The branches are close enough now.” He leaned closer, smelling like the woods. Earth and musk tangled with Chanel perfume. “I have one more question.”
“Yes?”
“May I escort you down the stairs?”
“Let’s make like a tree and leave.”
He laughed. “I never stopped pining for you, Flora Anne.”
Their hands met again and his firm grip led her down the rigid bark. A cello’s hum glided up the boughs, a hint of the world waiting at the bottom. And for the first time, with Logan by her side, Flora Anne longed to join the party.
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Spark Flash Fiction 