Author's Note: Though I live in a location where I don't get to experience the changing of leaves or traditional "fall" weather (for the most part!), I love autumn, and I long to experience "true fall" one day. The striking beauty of the season, as well as the sweet potential of Lillian and Sam, inspired me to write this fall story featuring this couple.

In this story, there are some similarities to my other Lillian and Sam story, which I need to go back to ("Surrendering to the Skies, Leaning Into Love"). Like my other Lillian and Sam story, this story is about Lillian stepping beyond her comfort zone (in multiple ways). However, this one is also about her "loosening her reins" on her fierce protection of the children at the orphanage, and it details the "leaps" she takes with Sam on their journey to courtship.

Additionally, I gained inspiration for certain parts of this story (as well as my other "Sillian" story!) from my friend Paths of Lavender Field's gorgeous story centered around Lillian and Sam ("Neither Diamond Sunbursts Nor Marble Halls"). For example, when Sam tells Lillian in this story that he's happy to answer any of her questions, it is a "call to" Ch. 6 of Paths' story, where Lillian states that Sam must think her crazy with all her questions, and he says, "No." [Insert a warm and fuzzy emoji here—I wish those were available on this site!] Thank you, Paths, for the continual writing inspiration you lend me, via your own writing!

Hope you enjoy this first installment of Autumn Leaps and Trust Falls!

Autumn Leaps and Trust Falls

Chapter 1: Tenacious Persuasion, Tumbling Heartbeats

"What do you think, Ms. Walsh? I'd be more than happy to build it and hang it up for the children."

Mr. Sam Tremblay—who had been conducting repairs on and helping maintain New Hope Orphanage for two-and-a-half months now as its new official handyman—glanced at Lillian Walsh questioningly from beneath the blazing canopy of the giant maple tree adjacent the orphanage, which was currently reveling in its fall finery of warm amber, burnt orange, and fiery red. The tree's leaves looked like they had been dyed by the searing breath of the dragon that starred in one of the books Lillian read the children. It was hard not to be mesmerized by their sublime array of smoldering shades; earth seemed unworthy of their vivid exhibition.

Yet, it was Mr. Tremblay's eyes that captured all of Lillian's attention.

His kind eyes, which resembled soft blue sea glass infused with streaks of silver, stood in cool contrast to the flaming foliage above him. Soothingly gentle, they were simultaneously frosted with suspenseful inquisition and anticipation, a combination that captivated Lillian.

Ever since Mr. Tremblay had shown up unexpectedly at the orphanage ten weeks ago, she had continually been struck by those riveting eyes of his.

Time and time again, she told herself that if she avoided looking directly into them, she could successfully circumvent the way they ironically disrupted her sense of balance and composure with their breathtaking beauty, soulful serenity, bountiful benevolence, and exceptional expressiveness.

Since she was proprietor of New Hope Orphanage, it was imperative for her to stay focused, after all.

However, there was a word for young ladies who did not look at the person who was speaking to them, and that word was rude, an unseemly characteristic Lillian Walsh had always fought against displaying at all costs. Being rude to a man whose eyes reflected such kindness would be especially deplorable. And so, she had no choice but to dare to look into Samuel Tremblay's eyes when he communicated with her, as he was doing right now.

Besides, those sea glass eyes of his were entirely too intriguing to ignore.

Focus, and answer his question, Lillian, the little voice inside her head reminded her as she tried not to trip on the pieces of pale blue glass within his eyes, and then struggled to tread those same eyes' seemingly boundless gray-blue waters in an effort to regain her bearings.

"I very much appreciate your offer, Mr. Tremblay," she remarked in response to his proposal. "But…" she hesitated slightly as she observed a wave of disappointment pummel the crisply carved cliffs of his face, "I don't think constructing a swing and attaching it to the maple tree, with the intention of having the children jump off it and into the leaves below while swinging, would be the most prudent action. I am concerned for their safety, that they might injure themselves."

A forbearing compassion washed ashore in his eyes.

"I do understand your concern. You never know what can happen when gravity is involved," he added knowingly, his words unhurried and measured.

"Precisely," she concurred. A faint fidgeting emerged in her limbs, stemming from his deep gaze.

Lillian sensed that Mr. Tremblay had experienced some rambunctious run-ins with gravity himself and wondered if, sometime soon, he might tell her more about those memorable instances when gravity had taken him down. She chuckled internally to herself at the pun while maintaining a straight face and poised exterior. Well, as poised of an exterior as she could maintain in his presence.

She found her typical imperturbable equilibrium rather undermined by Sam Tremblay, and the feeling was quite unusual for her. A tree swing would only exacerbate that teetering feeling her heart was experiencing, seeing that its installation would make her keenly worry for the children's safety. She couldn't possibly say yes to the idea...

"Combine gravity with excited children who will likely try to become Karate masters in the air as they fall into the leaves," Lillian continued, trying to clearly present a tree swing's possible pitfalls, "And we may very well have a recipe for disaster."

Genuine worry etched its way across her face, engraving it with fretful ridges. Mr. Tremblay also noticed her slender, willowy hands scrunch up into tense fists, as if she was readying herself to fight against the potential peril that could befall the children.

"Karate masters-in-the-making certainly add another layer of difficulty to the situation," he conceded, striving to remain solemn and straight-faced, but Lillian noticed his eyes do a little jive, like jellyfish were dancing beneath their depths.

And...was that a smile, singed with the slightest bit of warmhearted teasing, that lurked below his lips? Though he endeavored to hide it, glimmers of it sparked, like a firecracker, near the margins of his mouth and reflected in his eyes, prompting them to swing and sway still further.

An eccentric, off-balance rhythm, similar to cantering hoofbeats, suddenly came to life in the corral of Lillian's heart. Her thoughts rocked with equal parts vexation and intrigue at Mr. Tremblay's underlying mischievous merriment, and her mixture of reactions frustrated her to no end. She wished she could just be irritated at the man for the playful twinkle in his eyes and furtive grin that loitered on his lips; yet, they piqued her curiosity, attracted her attention, and made her second-guess the rigid clause her anxious brain had set forth that the swing couldn't, mustn't be.

After all, it would just be a swing, Lillian, the more logical side of her conscience reasoned. A staple of many a childhood. Plenty of children have swung on swings without even acquiring a scratch.

But this tree is so tall, her conscience's inner worrywart interjected. Attached to this tree's high branches, the swing's ropes would be so long, and as a result, the children could fly so high in the sky.

She pictured them launching from the swing, like diagonally flying missiles, and coming to a violent, fiery end in the tangerine and maroon jumble of leaves situated below them. In response, the hidden eyes of her heart flared in alarm inside her chest. She was far from fond of heights, and her fear of them was certainly not helping her think of the swing in a positive, peaceful manner.

"Hear me out, though, Ms. Walsh. With this swing, instead of a recipe for disaster...you'll likely have a recipe for fun," Sam contended, hoping to assuage her worries.

Under their surface, his silvery ocean eyes continued to jive with jellyfish, and the smile he had attempted to suppress earlier now easily corkscrewed its way around the corners of his cheeks. All of a sudden, Lillian's heart responded to his growing smile by squeezing in her chest, and breathing required much more effort for her than it should.

"We all need some fun and leisure from time to time, don't we?" he added, his grin having reached its full scope. All Lillian could do was nod, her ability to form coherent words deflected by the arc and radiance of his smile.

This is absolutely ridiculous! Lillian thought to herself a few moments later, when her brainpower began to return and her mind's wheels started to spin again, albeit slowly. For the love of all that is good, pull yourself together, Lillian Walsh.

She prided herself on her clearheaded thinking, on her ability to conscientiously and critically respond to others' questions, assess situations, and make everyday decisions. And yet, here she was, her brain struggling to function on a baseline level, all because of Mr. Tremblay's jiving eyes and gleaming smile.

"And you'll actually have an activity that is pretty safe, all things considered," he assured Lillian, his eyes stilling and smile retracting back into a neutral expression.

The stark metamorphosis of his facial expression—which seemed to transition from sunlit summer to shady late autumn in a matter of mere seconds—conveyed and confirmed to Lillian that his first priority was the children's well-being. Deep down, from observing him interact with them over the past several months, Lillian knew that he was just as invested in their welfare as she was and deeply cared about their security and safety, just as she did...even if his idea for a giant tree swing was a more daring one than she would have come up with for them. Day in and day out, he had interacted with the children with sound, firm guidance; endearing empathy; and respectful, kindred affection, along with a heap of patience.

"We can sweep all these leaves together to shield their falls," he went on, gesturing to the stunning coverlet of foliage that generously enveloped the ground, embellishing it with elegant splotches of dandelion, dark marigold, and burgundy.

"And, you've seen my work over the past few weeks. I always do my very best to leave no stones—or should I say leaves?— unturned.

"Rest assured, Ms. Walsh, I will fashion a seat for the swing that is so sturdy that it will be unchoppable by your Karate masters, and a safe vessel for their journey in flight. And I will secure the swing to the maple tree so firmly that the tree will be unable to recall ever not having it as part of its branches," he pledged persuasively.

He spoke in a mock, exaggerated fashion, like he was a job candidate desperately trying to sell himself and his skills. Concurrently, he moved his arms dramatically, pretending to furnish the swing and then attempting to chop it in half, only to have no luck whatsoever. Then, since he couldn't actually reach the maple tree's branches that hung above him without the assistance of a ladder, he securely faux-tied the imaginary swing to an invisible tree branch.

His over-the-top tone of voice, word choices, and gestures all combined to incite a spry, yet unseasonably warm autumn aria of laughter from Lillian. This lighthearted gale blew over Sam's heart, refreshing him and setting him at ease, as some of Lillian's anxiety seemed to vanish with her giggles like a kite lost to the wind. Her laughter was more soothing to his soul than the satisfying crunch of leaves compressed by adventuring boots and the consoling, sheltering warmth of an October bonfire. He stuck the song of her laughter in the back pocket of his brain, and then made a pact with himself to do whatever he could to elicit that mirthful, memorable melody more often.

"And, again, I will make sure the children always have a thick mound of leaves underneath them when they use the swing, to blanket their fall. You have my word," he vowed.

Curiously, his eyes were now one-part serene seas and two-parts electric thunderclouds. They were still brimming with a vast kindness, but they were also igniting with sparks of determination.

Lillian quite liked observing their many evolutions and trying to decode the infinite stories they chronicled. The chores she needed to help her housekeeper Eleanor with—which awaited her inside the orphanage—were not nearly as interesting as studying his striking yet soft storyteller eyes...

She blushed, aghast at herself. Since when was she someone to delay chores on account of a man's eyes?

It was a rhetorical question, but Lillian's inner voice answered it anyways.

Since Sam Tremblay's eyes graced the orphanage—and your life—with their mesmerizing presence...

"You do trust me, Ms. Walsh?"

Mr. Tremblay's question interrupted Lillian's thoughts. It hung in the air like a persistent September rainfall, bringing her back to the present with the echo of its pressing pitter-patter of single-syllable words. At the same time, a slight drizzle of doubt materialized in his eyes.

Recalling his promise to fashion an exceptionally sturdy swing, and to adjoin it incredibly firmly to the tree, Lillian thought about his strong arms and hands for a few fleeting seconds. Beautifully shaped and aesthetically weathered by the current handyman work he always completed to an exceptional standard, as well as by past prospecting work he had done, she couldn't help but notice them over the last few months. She knew they were—and he was—more than capable of the task in question.

Most importantly, she knew Mr. Samuel Tremblay was a man of his word. He had consistently proven that in promptly following through on the tasks she had given him to complete each day, as well as additional tasks he himself had proposed.

As an accidental extension of her thoughts, her eyes fell briefly toward his right arm—which was shielded from the cool currents of autumn by a powdery blue button-down long-sleeve shirt, and now resting reposefully at his side after its flurry of gesticulations—and she blushed softly again.

Though the idea of a tree swing still triggered fear for the children's safety within her, she had no doubt those strapping arms and hands of his, and the principled and hardworking man behind them, would create a sturdy swing. She also knew he would do everything in his power to make the apparatus safe and to guide the children in using it.

"I…I do trust you, Mr. Tremblay," Lillian asserted, conviction copious in her tone. She caught sight of the way his eyes glinted in gratification in response to her disclosure, and, taking note of how he seemed to place great value on having earned her trust, her heart took an abrupt tumble in her chest.

Refocus, Lillian. Just speak to him candidly, her conscience guided her, attempting to set her overturned heart on its own two feet again.

"It's just...what ifs always find their way into my mind and stubbornly like to stay there, when it comes to anything involving the children," she noted, feeling safe to be completely straightforward and honest with him. Even as his kind eyes turn my heart into a tumbling bale of hay, she mused to herself.

"And that's admirable, that you're always looking out for their safety," he expressed earnestly. "Your deep care and concern for the children and desire to protect them clearly shows the magnitude of your love for them." The tenacious thunderclouds in Sam's eyes softened and then fled, and tenderhearted compassion and commendation took their place.

Enveloped by his unexpected praise, Lillian suddenly renounced her valor and forfeited her etiquette in sustaining eye contact with him as her cheeks swapped their light pink for a deep cranberry. She swiftly shifted her focus toward a crimson leaf on the ground whose color, she surmised, couldn't be far off from the rich red that had assaulted her face.

When someone complimented her about how she cared for those nearest and dearest to her in her life, she always felt the compliment cut straight to her heart. And this someone, well, his compliment had the strange added effect of reshaping her heart from a tumbling hay bale into nothing other than an extraordinarily soft autumn squash.

You've only known this man for two handfuls of weeks, Lillian...why can't you better manage the effect he has on you? her conscience asked. She perceived it rolling its eyes at her struggle to stay composed whenever Samuel Tremblay was on the scene, and she wanted to shrug back at it in sheer befuddlement.

Though generous empathy and a soft, yet potent grace filled every cell of her body, she was also typically a levelheaded, no-nonsense woman who made note of the day's tasks, got them done with fierce fortitude, kept the children—and herself—on schedule, and shielded the children from potential harm as fervently as a mama bear protects her young. She felt as if the tightly knitted yarn of her nearly perfectly structured life was starting to unravel at the seams with the unforeseen advent of Mr. Tremblay, and all she could do was stare at the loosened thread, with faltering fingers that were suddenly incapable of weaving it back together.

If she was being honest, though, maybe there was a part of her that didn't actually want to weave it back together. Perhaps there was a part of her that liked this novel unraveling and the potential lovely new adventures it could bring, which could prove to be as invigorating as an inaugural autumn breeze.

After all, she was starting to think that a tree swing could be a wonderful source of respite and enjoyment for the children, even if the thought of them bounding off it still made her unduly nervous.

And she was truly beginning to believe that chores, sometimes, could wait a few minutes for meaningful conversations with a man with gracious yet frolicsome storyteller eyes.

"Thank you for your kind words," she responded after a few moments, finally regaining enough of her nerve to acknowledge Mr. Tremblay's compliment about her deep care and concern for the children. Yet, she still found herself unable to meet those eyes of his, a splendid synthesis of sea glass and sea water.

She then stirred the crimson offspring of the maple tree into motion with her foot and wondered if Mr. Tremblay was alarmed—or perhaps even amused—by her still cranberry-infused countenance. However, she had no way of deducing his reaction, as she couldn't yet bring herself to bravely lift her eyes again to his.

"Mr. Tremblay," she piped up once more, still not daring to detach her eyes from the crimson leaf, "May I ask why you are so intent on building this swing for the children?"

"Any questions you have, please know that I am always happy to answer," he responded amicably.

Don't be rude, Lillian; make eye contact with him! her conscience exhorted her. Though she lifted her focus from off the ground, she decided to continue to spurn propriety—a rare course of action for her—and look past Mr. Tremblay, at the trunk of the maple tree. She still did not trust herself to tread the waves of his eyes as she had earlier.

This was an odd sensation, this shyness that had swiftly seized her. Suddenly, the gravity that would be involved with a potential tree swing—which would simply pull the children into the mound of leaves, only for them to pop out again and again without much trouble—seemed significantly less disconcerting than this gravity of feeling that threatened to pull her into the infinite ocean of Mr. Tremblay's eyes, leaving her transfixed and incapable of escaping.

"Some of my favorite childhood memories involve swinging on the tree swing my father built and put up for me during the autumn when I was eight years old," he began.

Lillian's prior jumble of thoughts became a blur as her brain focused in on what he was saying, even as her eyes continued to avoid zeroing in on his for the time being.

"Whenever I swung on that swing, I felt like I was flying, and my childhood cares seemed to disappear. I took flight on that swing throughout all the seasons—even during the freezing winter months—and enjoyed challenging gravity by jumping off it mid-flight," he went on, his voice a mosaic of sentimentality, sincerity, and wonder.

Aha! My guess about him having his own rambunctious run-ins with gravity was correct, Lillian mused. He'd been taken down by gravity on a tree swing of his very own, as a child...

She fought against an earnest yearning to reattach her eyes to his. His inner child was emerging through his wistful, joyous tone, and she imagined his eyes displayed a compelling, far-away look. Their already engrossing gray-blue must have been flowing with a fresh nostalgia from and appreciation for years past...

"My favorite time to swing on it was always the fall though, because there was something especially satisfying about jumping off it and into the soft, but crunchy mound of leaves below. The mound of leaves was like a miniature volcano that the swing—and gravity—would drop me into the center of, and it was so much fun to be submerged into that volcano and escape the outside world...even if only for a short time."

He makes such gravity-filled experiences sound enjoyable, rather than threatening, Lillian observed.

With the awe in his voice reaching a marked crescendo, Lillian's curiosity to see the emotions his eyes were relaying and her desire to reconnect with him suddenly cut through her shyness, and she finally refocused her eyes on his.

Just as she expected, his eyes were flooded with a fondness for the unfiltered fun of his childhood. They also looked brighter, as if the sunshine of his memories had unfurled across his eye's formerly slate-blue seas, making them reflect the more luminous blue of the sky.

It also seemed that Mr. Tremblay had not felt put-off in the slightest by her former breach of etiquette in momentarily suspending eye contact with him, nor by her face that had parodied the cranberry sauce that would soon grace the orphanage's dining table on Thanksgiving. Instead, his eyes continued to transmit their trademark gentleness and ease.

"Safety is critical, Ms. Walsh, no question about it...but kids also need adventure. Us adults do, too," he added, a hint of a wink hurtling across his right eye. "After all, if every single breath we take in life is one of complete calm, at the end of our lives, will we really be able to say we lived to the fullest?"

Lillian let his story, points, and concluding rhetorical question settle within the alcoves of her mind and extend to the hardest-to-reach places of her heart. His words about the necessity of adventure were like candles casting new light upon the deepest corners of her brain and heart, where sticky cobwebs of well-meaning, but excessive coddling of the children—and even herself—had built up over time. Yes, it would demand courage on her part—a willingness to dare to step beyond what she deemed comfortable—but perhaps some adventure would do them all a world of good.