SARAH RABB’S FARM

BEALLSVILLE, PENNSYLVANIA

“Penny for your thoughts,” Harm said from behind her.  Mac turned around to find him standing behind her, a glass of water in each hand.  Coming around and sitting down beside her on the porch swing, he handed her one of the glasses.

“Is that all they’re worth?” she joked, taking the offered glass and pressing it against her cheek, sighing as the chill cooled her face.  Although in getting away from Washington, they’d escaped the August humidity and the mosquitoes, southern Pennsylvania was trapped in the same heat wave as the rest of the east coast.

Harm leaned back, draping an arm over the back of the swing as he pushed off with his foot, setting them gently rocking.  “Well,” he said with a shrug, “maybe with inflation you could get a nickel for them.”

Mac elbowed him in the ribs.  “Hey,” he protested, the grin on his face taking away any sting from his words, “that’s mean.  Don’t I get credit for wanting to know what you are thinking?”

“It’s not that easy, Flyboy,” she retorted, resting her head against his shoulder.  “I’ll make you a deal.  I’ll tell you what I’m thinking, and you do the same sometime.”

“Sounds fair enough, I guess,” Harm replied.  Mac could sense the slight hesitation in his voice.  It was barely noticeable, and the average person might not have recognized its presence.  She’d known him long enough, though, that she could sense even the minutest fluctuation in his mood.

Before, she might’ve been hurt by his reluctance, but it’d been different since they’d gotten together.  Now, she knew that she was one of a select few who’d ever been granted insight into the enigma that was Harmon Rabb, and she’d learned to value each scrap of openness.  She understood now how hard it was for him to lay bare his heart and rejoiced that he’d finally been able to do so with her.

“So?” he prompted, interrupting her woolgathering.

“Just thinking how nice it is out here,” she said, returning to what she’d been pondering about when he’d come out onto the porch.  “I think I want one of these.”

“A porch swing?” he asked.

“Sure,” she replied.  “Can you imagine coming home after a long, hard day at work and just sitting out on the porch swing, enjoying the peace of the evening?”

“In D.C.?” he countered.  She sighed, resisting the urge to elbow him again.  He could be romantic; she knew he could be.  You just had to dig really deep beneath the surface to find that part of him.  It wasn’t something that came naturally to him.

“You can find peace anywhere,” she said.  “You just have to know where to look for it.”

“And you know where to look?” he asked.  Mac turned to face him, finding an intent look on his face, as if his entire world depended on her answer.

She reached over and took his free hand in hers, resting her head against his shoulder.  She could feel him relax against her as their fingers entwined.  As the swing began to slow, Mac pushed against the porch with her foot.  Closing her eyes, she heard him sigh and thought that he understood.