by Grace Greene
My heart skipped with the thought that it might be Seth. He might’ve made a surprise visit home and chosen to wait outside rather than disturb me so early . . . which made no sense whatsoever. Likely, it was one of the landscapers.
I went to the front of the house, where I could get a good view of the driveway from the parlor window. A truck was parked there, blue and dusty with a large dent on the rear wheel hub. Racks attached to the side held ladders, and assorted paraphernalia peeked over the top of the bed.
Definitely not Seth.
I hurried upstairs and pulled my hair back into a ponytail. I brushed my teeth and washed my face, donned jeans and a shirt, and then went out to the back porch. I stood there for a long moment listening to birdsong and admiring the blue skies high above. The early puffs of clouds that had hung low over the creek at dawn were clearing out, and mist was rising from the grass. It made the scene look atmospheric, much like an impressionistic painting. Today would be a hot one. It was July in Virginia, after all, but more than that, there was an edge to this morning’s warmth that promised high humidity.
As I neared the bench, the man stood and turned toward me. His dark hair was longish and shaggy and pulled away from his face in a loose band low on his neck. The band wasn’t adequate to the job, and his hair slipped out, but his expression was pleasant. His broad, square jaw and wide shoulders gave him a rough look, but he also appeared strong and capable. He wore an unbuttoned cotton shirt with a gray T-shirt beneath it, blue jeans, and dark work boots, and he looked ready for work.
“Morning, ma’am.”
“Good morning to you too. I was surprised to see someone down here.”
“Yes, ma’am.” He held up a thermos in one hand and its plastic cup in the other. “Couldn’t resist enjoying my coffee by the creek. Nice bench. Nice spot. Hope you don’t mind.”
“Not at all. By midday, under this summer sun, it won’t be so pleasant. It’s going to be hot today.” I walked right up to him. “I’m Kara Hart.”
“Yes, ma’am. We met before. I came that day with Jim Mitchell when we were discussing the work Mr. Lange wanted done. Name’s Will Mercer.”
He hardly looked at me. I caught a glimpse of blue eyes before his gaze slid away and down to his thermos.
“I remember that day,” I said. “I know you and Jim already spoke with my father about the work, but I’d like to revisit that discussion. With Dad gone, I’m changing what he’d originally planned for Wildflower House.”
“No problem. What sort of changes?”
“My father was focused on renovation, but I have a business in mind. A retreat for creatives and also a facility for day events. It won’t change the basic work like clearing the front and side yards, but I’d also like the area around the carriage house improved. And the front acreage needs to be particularly inviting. If you have any suggestions, please do let me know.”
He nodded and drank his last sip of coffee, then recapped the thermos and twisted the now-empty plastic cup back into place on top.
I hadn’t seen a genuine thermos in use in . . . well, in years. He saw me staring. He gave me a longer look this time, and with a small grin he held up the battered thermos. “Old fashioned. It was my granddad’s and my dad’s.”
“Sentimental?”
He frowned in a confused way; then it cleared. “You mean because it belonged to them?”
“Yes.”
“No, not that. No point in being sentimental about objects, but at the same time there’s no reason to toss something if it still has use left in it.”
“Oh.”
“How about we go look at the grounds? You can tell me what you’d like done, and then we can discuss where to begin.”
As we walked up the slope toward the house, I waved my hand at the open area of the backyard. “I haven’t decided what to do about that yet. The yard used to be full of wildflowers. The hailstorm we had last month destroyed them.”
The area of devastation was like a huge sore covering most of the yard. Grass grew in two bands as walkways, one on either side between what had been the field of flowers and the tree line. As Nicole had said, that grass needed cutting. There was no hope we’d see wildflowers again anytime soon.
Will said, “Those flowers are done for this year.”
I was startled by his words, which so closely echoed my own thoughts. I insisted, “Some may come back, especially later in the season. Maybe.”
“Doubt it.”
I dug in my mental heels. “They might.”
“So you want to wait and see?”
“What? No. I just meant . . . never mind.”
“Weeds will come.”
“Weeds? They aren’t weeds. They are wildflowers. Were, that is.”
“No offense, Ms. Hart. I meant actual weeds. Weeds are opportunists. They’ll take advantage of that empty area. It’s what they do. Dandelions. Crabgrass. Spurge. Nature’s ground cover. And it’ll happen pretty quick in this climate, this time of year.”
“Of course. Weeds.”
“They’ll get a head start on any flowers that might try to return and choke ’em out.”
“Then what do you recommend?”
“Up to you, ma’am.”
Not very helpful. If his work style was to feed me worries but withhold solutions, then this wasn’t going to work. I didn’t know what bothered me more—his unwillingness to exchange ideas or his strange refusal to meet my eyes for longer than one fleeting second at a time.
I crossed my arms. “I’ll make the final decisions, but before I do, I’d appreciate your expert guidance.”
There was a long silence, during which we both stared at the area in question. I could observe him, though, from the corner of my eye. Finally he nodded and said, “I’ll give it some thought and let you know. For now, I recommend cutting the grass. Other decisions can wait.”
I pressed a hand to my face and shook my head. “I’m sorry. I sounded like a bully. Truly, I didn’t mean it like that.”
He looked at me—a longer look this time. His eyes were very blue. “No worries. I know it’s a sensitive subject given what happened.”
Dad’s death. That’s what he was talking about. Will Mercer was trying to show respect and extend sympathy. A shudder seized me as I recalled finding my father lying in the flowers and already beyond help. Without the barrier of the house or even the screen door or the kitchen window between me and the memory, it rolled over me. I called forth every iota of steel inside me to control it. I squeezed my eyes closed and focused on putting that steel into my spine. Pulling my shoulders back and standing straighter, I said, “Thank you, Will. I’ll give this more thought, and we can revisit the subject later.”
“Are you okay?”
I kept my face averted. “I’m fine.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“Not ma’am. Please call me Kara.”
“I meant no offense.”
“Of course not.” I managed a small smile. “I know it’s southern courtesy. I’m born and raised in Virginia myself. But I prefer you to call me Kara, if you will.”
He nodded.
The tension between us seemed to have passed. We walked together more comfortably as we discussed how to handle the side yards, the front yard, and the carriage house. Will’s words about my discomfort over the erstwhile wildflower field were spot on, and I gave him points for discernment. Plus extra points for consideration because he didn’t refer to it again.
By the time we arrived at his truck and he stopped to put his thermos on the front seat, I had decided that we could work together well. He’d grow comfortable around me. I didn’t doubt it. With a little familiarity between us, he’d grow more confident about offering ideas.
He said, “I have a couple of guys coming. Lon and Derek. They’ll be here soon. We’ll work in the side yards in the morning and in the front acreage in the afternoon. Should stay nice and shady under those pines out front. We’ll do the same tomorrow, then as
sess where we’re at.”
“Hot work.”
“Yes. Pretty much expected this time of year.” He was already turning away. My pleasant smile was wasted. Again.
“Are we clear on which bushes and trees to keep? Some of them are ailing or too overgrown, I know, so I’ll trust your judgment, but I don’t want everything cleared out wholesale.”
“Yes, ma’am.” He coughed. “Kara.”
“I’ll need space for parking too. If you can recommend an area that will be convenient for visitors but also able to be landscaped with a professional, businesslike appearance, I’d appreciate it.”
“How many vehicles?”
“I don’t know. Maybe ten cars?” I laughed a tiny bit. “I’m sorry. I’m still working out the details.”
“Is the parking area for that retreat thing?”
“Yes. A creative retreat.” I shrugged. “It was an impulsive decision. I’m not normally that person. I’m usually better prepared before I take on a project.”
Will smiled. “You’ll figure it out. Meanwhile, I’ll get on with the rest. Plenty of work to be done. Any questions or concerns, let me know.”
With a nod, he dropped the truck’s tailgate and started unloading equipment.
I walked away but stopped on the porch. Will didn’t look up, so I went on into the house and watched from the window.
His voice and words had sounded respectful. But his body language, his refusal to sustain eye contact, made me curious and a little suspicious.
I thought back to when I first met him in early June—only days before my father died. I’d gone out to the yard to join Dad’s conversation with Jim Mitchell about the landscaping. Will had been there, but I’d hardly noticed because my thoughts had been about Seth. Seth had almost kissed me moments before in the kitchen. Almost. I’d been floating on air, or so I’d felt, as I walked outside. Dad had made the introductions, and he and Jim had done most of the talking. As far as I could remember, Will hadn’t uttered a single word.
Within days, Dad was gone. And right after the funeral, Seth left for LA. Not long ago at all, yet so much had happened.
Was Will shy? Could that be the answer?
A small smile settled on my lips.
Adults could be shy. A man who liked working outdoors, who preferred physical labor . . . that occupation could be a good fit for a man who was an introvert. Physically, he was built for that kind of work. Those shoulders . . .
So I had a reasonable explanation. Will was shy.
It didn’t matter. He had his work to do, and I had mine. Yes, mine.
Will’s question about the parking lot had been simple and obvious, and I hadn’t known the answer. Not knowing had sparked something in me.
How many parking spots?
I should already have figured that out, and so much more. That said, this creative retreat idea of mine had been voiced publicly less than three weeks ago, with very little conscious thought applied before that.
Impulsive, indeed. What had possessed me?
What did they say? Those wise sages people often quoted? Don’t make important decisions after a big life event like death or divorce?
But the idea must have been taking root in my brain. I must’ve seen something, heard something, at some point in time. And at the right moment, it had just sort of bloomed in my conscious mind. I’d declared my intentions to Nicole and Mel. If I’d realized they’d take those words as a commitment, would I have thrown them out so boldly?
Yet in retrospect I was glad I had—that I had put that commitment on myself with the crazy declaration. I could still change my mind about the project, but those words . . . well, they sort of kept me on course.
I had homework to do after my shower and another cup of coffee.
What else was it those sages said? Today is the first day of the rest of your life? Maybe it could be true.
After my shower I was ready for a restart on the day. When I went downstairs, I saw two other vehicles, a truck and a battered SUV, parked next to Will’s. His crew had arrived.
In the kitchen, I picked up Nicole’s folder with the permitting and building info. I carried it with me as I decided where to set up my work space. The kitchen wouldn’t do. The contractor was coming early next week to tear it apart.
The dining room table was huge—plenty of work area—but I anticipated that Moore Blackwell, the man Dad had hired to remove the wallpaper and replaster the walls, would be starting work soon, too, possibly next week.
The sitting room? There was space for a desk in the corner alcove. But even aside from the wallpaper-removal question, this was the room everyone saw first when they entered the foyer. That was why I’d put Hannah Cooper’s blue vase squarely in view on the fireplace mantel. Nicole had given the vase to Dad and me as a housewarming gift. Hannah was an artisan in clay and something of a local celebrity, at least as far as her pottery went. I’d never met her, but Nicole said she had clients far outside our little community. From what I could see, her celebrity was well earned. There was something about the vase that begged to be touched, as if the glaze itself might give way and let your fingers reach right into its heart. Depending upon the angle and the light, you could pick out the form of a girl shadowed in the glaze and in the shape of the clay, and she seemed to have wings.
Dad and I had positioned Hannah’s vase on the mantel below my needlework—the blue delphiniums. After my accident I’d taken up needlework almost compulsively and had found comfort and distraction in it. Dad had suggested framing and hanging the delphiniums in precisely that spot. Then, after Dad died, I’d stitched a couple of sampler-type pieces about wildflowers and Wildflower House and had had them framed, but I hadn’t hung them yet.
No, the sitting room wasn’t the place to set up my work area.
The parlor on the other side of the foyer was also out of the question. That cabbage rose wallpaper was definitely coming down. The smell of old cigars was so strong in there at times that I could almost see mustached men in vests with dangling watch fobs sitting and puffing away.
There was a reality to my situation that was both good and bad. Dad had been successful in business. As his sole heir I’d inherited money, but not enough that I could spend it without regard. If I chose the wrong course, I would find my funds had vanished along with my big plans. On the other hand, if I’d had to seek financing, I would’ve had to run the numbers and apply for loans. My impulsive decision might well have ended as abruptly as it had come. I might have packed up my belongings and scurried back to the city and a nine-to-five job. I’d been successful in my old project-management job, and even though I’d been out of the workforce since my accident, I was confident my former employer would give me an excellent reference if I asked.
None of that mattered now. That was the past. I was here and moving forward, but I owed it to everyone, including to Dad’s years of hard work and his legacy, to do my due diligence.
I almost walked past the room I needed. The middle room. It was on the right, between the grand staircase and the closeted hallway with the servants’ stairs. It was the least interesting room in the house. No nooks or crannies. No turrets. I tended to forget that room existed.
The room had two windows, both presently covered with ivy and other green growth, and the air inside was stuffy and dusty. I fanned myself with Nicole’s folder.
Dad had stored an old four-legged folding card table in the attic along with the unpacked boxes. I could use a kitchen chair or a cushioned one from the dining room. With a little sweeping and a few sprays of air freshener, this space could work.
Before fetching the broom, I set the folder on the foyer table. It was more of a chest, really, with large, deep drawers. On impulse, I opened the top drawer and lifted out the large framed photograph of the girls and young women who’d attended school here when the Kinney family had built this house. Some had boarded at the house. Girls in knee-length white dresses with big bows in their curls stood in the fron
t row. Young women with longer gowns and hair done up in buns were behind them, and two older women in heavy black dresses, whom I thought must be teachers, flanked the ends. They were all posed on the front porch. This front porch. My front porch. The first time I’d seen this photo, I’d felt like each set of eyes had a story to share. I didn’t know their stories, but women’s opportunities had been limited at the turn of the prior century, so I could guess.
This photograph and the samplers I’d stitched about wildflowers and welcome had seemed so important to me in those days following Dad’s death. Yet by that point, the real-life flowers had already been beaten down by hail and encased in mud. I hadn’t been able to do anything to prevent Dad’s death or the loss of the flowers. But this photo of the female students had called to me, and it continued to. It seemed to have some meaning that tied into my feelings about my father and the flowers. My life. And this house. This project of mine.
I struggled to define how those faces might’ve inspired this retreat idea but failed to put real words to it. Maybe it had to do with permanence—or the lack thereof? Or biological frailty? Of trials endured and hopes lost? Things we’d wanted to do but hadn’t and how our missed opportunities often morphed into “never dones”?
I’d stitched:
Wildflowers are tough. They root in unlikely, often hostile environments, yet they manage to grow and bloom.
Wildflowers are fragile. Careless or deliberate acts can easily destroy them.
Wildflowers grow where the seeds find themselves. They must succeed or perish. If they don’t grow, no one notices. It’s as if the seed or the flower never existed.
Wildflowers are beautiful for a season. Some may be beautiful for seasons to come. The wildflower will never know the difference because it either is or isn’t. Only the bees and the butterflies—or a human heart—may feel the lack.
—Stitched by Kara Lange Hart at Wildflower House
I had intended to hang them, all three frames, but every time I picked up a hammer and nail, the memory of my dad would grow strong. I’d hear him striding down the hall. I’d look up, expecting to see him walk into the room. A couple of times I thought I heard his voice or the loud sigh he’d sometimes give when faced with an unwelcome or perplexing problem. I would pause, almost like a compass unable to find its true north.
