by Donna Ball
“Spiders,” Derrick reminded him, and Paul, remembering, stepped back.
“Well, we’re going to have to think of something,” Paul said, unscrewing the top of the gas can. “It’s too late to cancel. Stand back.” He started splashing gasoline over the trash pile.
“Y’all be careful and don’t set the shed on fire!” Purline called from the back porch, watching them worriedly.
“That would be one solution,” Paul muttered. “Grand opening canceled due to fire.”
“Don’t even think it. Hold on a minute.” Derrick carefully extracted a piece of lumber from the pile and began to poke through the rubble, turning over pieces of plywood and pushing aside an old lampshade. “There might be something interesting in here.”
“Well, if there ever was it’s in pieces now.”
“I suppose so.” Derrick poked again at the pile, revealing a section of colorfully painted fence boards.
Paul struck a match.
“Wait!” Derrick shouted, and launched himself at his startled friend, snatching the match from his hand and flinging it to the ground, stomping on it until it was out.
Paul cried, “Are you crazy?”
And from the porch Purline gave a little scream and called, “What? What happened? Who’s hurt? I should’ve known better than to trust you with fire!” She started running toward them.
Derrick, ignoring them both, dived into the rubble pile. He emerged, his trousers smudged, smelling of gasoline, stumbling through the debris and holding the painted fence section carefully in both hands just as Purline arrived. “Purline!” he demanded excitedly. “Where did you find this? You can’t possibly have meant to throw this away!”
She looked at him in disbelief, breathing hard. “You mean I ran all the way across the yard over some piece of board that that Harmony woman scribbled on? I thought you was about to set yourself on fire!”
Derrick said, controlling his emotion with an obvious effort, “Harmony didn’t paint this. Just tell me, where did you find it?”
She scowled. “In the shed along with all that other scrap lumber. I’ve got work to do.”
Derrick murmured, “From the outrageous to the absolutely sublime.”
Paul, reading Derrick’s expression, came to look over his shoulder. Though faded and stained with mud and a collection of other unidentifiable substances, the painting could be recognized as a rendering of child with a round face and curly hair. The strokes were broad, the interpretation simple, but it did have a certain unsophisticated charm to it. In the background, with absolutely no effort made at perspective at all, was what might have been the front porch of the Hummingbird House.
Paul said, “I hate to agree with Purline, but it does look like something Harmony would paint.”
“But it’s not,” Derrick said, in his element now. “This painting is at least eighty years old. “You can tell by the paint—pigment boiled in linseed oil. See how the red has held up? The artist was using barn paint. A lot of them did back in the twenties and thirties. They couldn’t afford the expensive vermilions, and cadmium was still new—relatively, anyway—and a lot of artists didn’t trust it.” He held the board at arm’s length, studying it. “I like this. It reminds me of something from the Hogpen Montana school.”
Paul regarded the painting with new appreciation. “In our shed?”
Purline looked skeptical. “Do you mean to tell me you have to go to school to learn to draw like that? My third grader could do better.”
Derrick chuckled. “Hogpen Montana was a famous folk artist during the Depression. A lot of people copied his style, and some of them became famous too. That’s why they call it a school.”
Purline gave a sniff of disdain. “Hogpen is about where it belongs, if you ask me. And don’t you even think about bringing that filthy thing in the house. Wash it off with the hose first.”
Derrick just grinned at her. “Purline, you are a wonder. If this does turn out to be any good, that Christmas bonus of yours might be bigger than you thought.”
Now she looked interested. “Well, I can’t say I mind the sound of that.” She turned to go back to the house, and then looked back. “Speaking of that woman, when you get ready to give her the heave-ho, be sure to tell her to pick up her toys before she goes. She left her painting things sitting out on the patio like she was expecting her mama to come clean up after her, and then tore out of here without so much of a by-your-leave.” She gave a disgusted shake of her head. “Some folks have got no consideration at all.”
Paul was nudging the lumber pile with his foot, murmuring, “I wonder what else is in here.” But then he looked at Purline. “On the patio, you say?”
Derrick met his gaze of sudden consternation, and asked Purline, “The one underneath the kitchen window?”
Purline said, “That’s where she paints every day. But she usually takes her things inside when she’s finished.”
Derrick’s expression grew troubled as he turned back to Paul. “You don’t suppose she heard us talking about her, do you?”
A dark flush of embarrassment crept up Paul’s face and his gaze was filled with dismay as he looked toward the circular stone patio that sat directly beneath the open kitchen window. It was surrounded by an herb border, with graceful paths opening up onto the wildflower garden. In the center of the patio was an abandoned easel and a watercolor pad dotted with splotches that might have been meant to represent flowers. But no Harmony.
“I think,” said Paul miserably, “that would be a very good guess.”
~*~
Annabelle seemed tired to Megan. But then again, Megan was tired too, having driven almost straight through from Tennessee to the Virginia border. She had thought her grandmother would like to stop and meander through the Great Smokey Mountains National Park or wander off the beaten path to take in some of the historical sites along the way, but Annabelle seemed to have lost interest in side trips. As they grew closer to their destination—though where, exactly, that was, neither one of them was sure—Annabelle became more focused and more eager. By contrast, Megan could feel the dread rising in her chest with every mile that spun under the wheels of the big old Town Car. The closer they grew to Virginia, the closer they grew to the end of the journey. And Nick. And everything she must face there.
Oddly—or at least it seemed so to Megan—her grandmother had not mentioned the troubled marriage again. In a way, Megan was disappointed. It was almost as though she had expected her grandmother, who had always had the answer for everything, to tell her what to do to make it right, to fix everything with a word or a wave of her hand, just as she had always done. But Megan was clearly too old to rely on magic words, and some things simply could not be fixed.
They stopped at the Virginia welcome station and the rise of Annabelle’s excitement was palpable as she exclaimed over depictions of historic sites she remembered from childhood, flipped through books and brochures, tasted parched peanuts fresh from the shell and even picked up a package of smoked ham, grinning as she hugged it to her chest.
“I hope you get the chance to leave home someday, sweetheart,” she said, “just so you can know what it’s like to come back again.”
Megan watched her indulgently, smiling. “Why did you wait so long, Gram? You could have come back here any time. You’ve flown out to see me a dozen times over the years and Virginia is just a minute away. We could have gotten in the car and taken the tour any time you wanted.”
Annabelle just shook her head, looking wistful. “It wouldn’t have been as sweet back then. There’s only one last trip home.”
Megan drew a breath to say something, but there was nothing she could have said that wouldn’t have sounded silly and inconsequential. Her grandmother saved her the trouble. “We’re going to find a room with a kitchenette tonight,” she declared, holding up the package of ham, “and in the morning I’ll make us eggs and Virginia ham for breakfast.”
“And canned biscuits?”
Annabelle’s e
yes twinkled at Megan’s perfectly deadpan expression. Canned biscuits had been a staple with Megan’s mother, morning, noon, and night, which was one of the first things that had led to Megan’s interest in learning to bake.
Annabelle slipped her arm through Megan’s with a wink. “Come on,” she said. “The least we can do is send your mother a postcard and let her know we made it this far.”
Megan could not suppress a chuckle. “I’d love to see the look on her face when she gets it.”
They spent a pleasant five or ten minutes browsing though the postcards, from the generic “Welcome to Virginia” maps of natural resources to the scenic photos of Virginia Beach to the stately “birthplace of freedom” selections from Williamsburg and Monticello and Carter Plantation. Annabelle chuckled over the humorous cards showing babies in mob caps signing the Declaration of Independence and landing in Jamestown, and Megan became absorbed in a rack of historic black and white photo cards from the late eighteen hundreds and early nineteen hundreds. There were pictures of miners and farmhouses, cattle shows and county fairs, tin Lizzies and show horses. Megan, intrigued, realized that the postcard series had been created from old newspaper photos from around the state. She started to look through the rack, occasionally taking one out and turning it over to read the headline. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw her grandmother move toward the check out desk with the package of ham and a couple of postcards, and Megan started to follow. Then she stopped, her heart in her throat.
“Oh ... my goodness,” she whispered.
She took the postcard out of the rack and tried to hold it steady, hardly believing her eyes. It was a black and white photo of two bearded men in top hats standing in front of a sign that said, “Wayfarer Inn,” holding up a piece of paper between them. Behind them was a long low log building, and behind that in the distance was a range of mountains, one of which looked from that angle remarkably like a Tyrannosaurus Rex.
She turned the card over and read, “Shenandoah Railroad comes to Blue Valley.”
“Gram,” she said. But her voice was barely above a squeak so she cleared her throat and hurried over to the checkout desk, and her grandmother. “Gram, look!”
Her grandmother, who was engaged in a pleasant conversation with the clerk, turned to her. “Good heavens child, what in the world?”
Annabelle took the postcard that Megan waved and Megan, breath suspended, watched her grandmother’s face change as she looked at it.
“Well I’ll be,” she whispered. “I’ll just be.”
“That’s it, isn’t it?” Megan demanded excitedly. “That’s the place, and I think you and your mother were standing in front of that very same sign! Look at the building, look at the stone steps. That’s it, it has to be!”
She turned to the clerk. “Excuse me, do you have a map? And …” She turned and took the postcard from her grandmother. “Do you happen to know where this place is? And if it’s still standing or open for tours or anything?”
The pleasant young woman took the card and glanced at it. “I’m sure I can find out for you. It will take just a minute.”
Megan was practically dancing with excitement as the young woman went over to a computer station. “Gram, can you believe it? Seriously, can you believe it? We found it! What are the odds, but we did!”
Her grandmother looked stunned, a little shaken, and suddenly frail. “My goodness,” she said unsteadily, fanning herself with the postcards. “What are the odds indeed?” She touched Megan’s arm lightly. “I think I’ll just go sit down for a minute, dear. You find out what you can.”
“Gram, are you all right?”
“Yes, yes, I’m fine. It’s all just a bit much, you know. I need a cup of coffee.” And she drifted off toward the plastic tables by the window, leaving the smoked ham and the postcards on the counter.
Megan waited impatiently until the smiling clerk returned, a sheaf of paper in her hand. “You’re in luck,” she reported. “The place is not on our registry of historic places, but I was able to pull up a website and it is still open to the public. Here’s the map and the information from the website. You’ll just follow 81 practically the whole way. It’s a little over an hour outside of Staunton.”
“Thank you,” Megan said, clutching the papers. She felt as though her grin would crack her face. “You have no idea what this means. Thank you so much. Gram, did you hear that?”
She turned just in time to see her grandmother, clutching a cup of vending machine coffee, crumple to the floor.
~*~
“Her things were packed, her car was gone, absolutely no trace,” Paul told the ladies as he helped unload Ladybug Farm gift baskets from the back of Bridget’s SUV. “I feel wretched. Just wretched.”
“Of course, we ran her credit card immediately,” Derrick added, his voice coming from a forest of cellophane and ribbon as he carefully made his way up the steps, his arms filled with oversized deluxe baskets. “It cleared with no problem.”
“Well, that’s something, anyway,” said Cici. She held open the door and backed out of the way as the two men, heavily laden, made their way through.
“Unfortunately,” Derrick went on, “the whole thing was completely unnecessary. We made some calls to friends back home, and it turns out this fellow with the food truck is legitimate. He serves fine dining cuisine out of a food truck, can you believe it? He was not only featured in the Post but in Food and Wine and won the City Life Sustainable Living award two years in a row for his use of local, artisanal ingredients … in other words, perfect for our grand opening.”
“Wait a minute,” said Lindsay, “I’ve heard about him. They say the line for his truck is two hours long. People on Capitol Hill send their interns down to wait in line at 10:00 in the morning.”
“Thank you, my darling, as if I could possibly feel any more foolish,” Paul said. “Three months in the country and I’ve completely lost my touch. Not to mention my contacts, my networks, and soon my credibility.”
Derrick’s expression was pained as he added, “And to add insult to injury, I finally heard back from Patty McClain’s agent. It seems she just finished a tour and is taking some time off in Hawaii or somewhere. She’s not taking any new engagements.”
“Fortunately,” Paul declared with grand exaggerated irony, “we have Purline’s cousin to step in.”
Bridget shared a meaningful look with Cici as she followed Paul through the door, her iPad in hand. Lindsay, bringing up the rear with a handful of hand-painted gift tags, each one an original work of miniature art, said, “Where’s the painting?”
The entrance to the B&B, which had once been a dark and cluttered foyer that masqueraded as a reception area, had been transformed under the new owners’ direction into a stylish, open gallery entrance, brightened by the addition of skylights, uncurtained windows and photographic gray walls. The oak floors gleamed and bright copper kettles held extravagant bunches of wildflowers and grasses from the garden. The reception desk, a tall mahogany marble-topped piece with scrolled griffons down the front and a brass kick-bar at the bottom, was original to the house, but now highlighted by a gilt-framed mirror behind it and recessed lighting overhead, it was a showstopper. On the walls, each one individually lit, was a small but eclectic collection of art that ran the gamut from primitive to modern extremist, with Lindsay’s realistic wildlife and landscape paintings—which had been called “sweet” and “charming”—bridging the gap. The newest edition was not hard to spot at all. While Paul and Derrick lined up the gift baskets along the wall for distribution to the proper rooms later, Lindsay absently handed Derrick the stack of hand-painted tags and went to stand before the fence-board painting, examining it critically.
“Lindsay, these are stunning,” Derrick said, looking through the gift tags. Each one was a different scene from one of the Hummingbird House gardens, which he intended to frame in 24-carat gold, personalize, and attach to a gift basket with silk ribbon.
“My invoice is e
nclosed,” she murmured, folding her arms and pursing her lips thoughtfully as she scrutinized the painting more closely.
“And Bridget, these are lovely,” Paul said, indicating the baskets. Then he sighed heavily. “Although I have to be honest, it’s starting to look as though we might not have any choice at all except to cancel. We trusted everything to Harmony—the florist, the decorator, the caterer, the wine vendor, the musicians … And she left without leaving the contact list. We have no idea if she really made arrangements with all those people, and, if she did, what those arrangements were; what she ordered or when she ordered it ...”
Cici stared at them. “I can’t believe you trusted all that to a stranger. Didn’t you keep records?”
“Well, we were a little busy,” Derrick defended, “what with the meals, and the animals, and frantically working the phones to try to get the press out here. And you have to understand, she never really asked us about anything, she just did it. And,” he admitted, “we let her.”
“But it’s not as though we turned over the checkbook to her,” Paul said. And then he added bitterly, “Although I suppose we might as well have. How could we be so naïve?”
Bridget looked at them both almost apologetically, and then she said, “Actually, your checkbook was probably the one thing you didn’t have to worry about.” She brought up a document on her iPad and handed it to him.
“Your invoice?” Paul took it curiously.
“Worse,” said Derrick, reading over his shoulder. He added softly, “Oh, dear heaven.”
Paul turned curious, reluctant eyes to the document, read a few lines, and groaned. “No,” he said, reading further. “No, no …”
“I know we shouldn’t have interfered,” Cici said apologetically. “But you have to admit the whole thing was a little odd.”
“I kept asking myself who would name their baby Harmony Haven,” Bridget added. “So I looked it up.”
Paul glanced at Derrick. “Something that might have occurred to us to do.”
