by Grace Greene
I’d lost him too soon.
He’d come to my rescue after the accident. He’d sat at my bedside and handled all the details of my life, including closing up the town house Niles and I had lived in and packing away our goods for storage. Dad helped me along the journey to regaining my health and putting my life back together.
So I hadn’t hung the frames yet. I promised myself that I would get the task done when the time was right.
If Dad were here, he’d ask me why I was being wishy-washy. He wouldn’t expect or want an answer from me. He’d say, “If it’s worth doing, then go for it. Anything else is a waste of time and energy.”
In a moment I’d get the broom, then go upstairs and bring that folding table down, but for this moment, I sat on the piano bench. I didn’t play. Had never learned how.
The foyer chest, the piano, even the photo of those women belonged here in a way I didn’t. Sue Deale, the Forsters’ heir, had sent these items and more back here—to their former home—because her own home was overwhelmed with the furniture and keepsakes she’d hauled out of here before Dad bought the house.
Belonged. The piano belonged here more than I did.
I sighed. And my sigh sounded like my father’s.
It seemed to me that fate had often interfered with my life. Each time things seemed to be going well, fate would step up and give things a spin. I could feel that it was about to happen again.
It hadn’t been enough that my mother had left when I was young. Fate had had more in store for me, including that accident and the loss of my husband.
I pressed my fingers to my temples. Under the fingertips of my right hand, I found the raised flesh of the scar again—my keepsake from the accident now almost two years past, the accident that had made me a widow, ended my pregnancy, and reset my life without warning or permission.
And in a roundabout way had led me here, to Wildflower House.
CHAPTER THREE
Yesterday, Will Mercer had asked how many parking spaces I’d need. Today, I heard the sound of men’s voices outside, muffled by the foliage-covered windows and occasionally punctuated by the roar of a chain saw or a leaf blower—mostly presumed, since I couldn’t see much through those windows. The rise and fall of the voices and the louder noise of the equipment provided evidence of activity and served as welcome background noise in an otherwise-silent house.
The morning had started slowly for me. My brain had been busy, but good busy, excited about the project moving forward. I’d slept well enough last night after taking the blue pill, and the second cup of coffee this morning worked to get me into gear.
The idea box was now in the middle room. I’d picked out the notes relevant to a project plan and business plan. The decorating samples and product pamphlets stayed in the box for now, on the floor next to the folding table on which my laptop was situated.
I sat. Boldly, I typed Business Plan on my laptop screen and then waited. And waited.
Type something, anything, I told myself. Just do it. Finally, I did, but I produced only random bullets about what I’d want for the creative retreat—things like types of usages, numbers of guests I could potentially house at any given time, and even how many of those pesky parking spaces I might need. I was breaking out in a sweat over it, but I filled most of the page. It was a jumble, but it was a start.
Next I opened the spreadsheet program. In the first column I listed what I considered the most likely expense categories.
It was remarkably exhausting. I knew the process would get better and easier, and I was proud of myself for finally doing something real to drive this project. The plan wasn’t ready for prime time yet, but it would get there.
I wasn’t used to working on a project that I, myself, had initiated. As a project manager, I’d functioned within the parameters set by my employer’s approved practices and the specific requirements of the project itself—all laid out for me and my team by the project owners. I was comfortable working within that framework. As a child, I’d learned to function comfortably and efficiently within the parameters set by my mom and dad. That was natural enough but also essential given our family’s special challenges.
Had I never moved beyond that?
A horrible thought. My eyes stung, and I pressed my fingers against my lashes to stop the sudden tears.
Mom had had problems. Officially. Most of the time she’d sit at the kitchen table and stare at the window. On good days—the days when I came home from school to find her dressed in normal daytime attire—she would order supper in. On bad days, those days when she was still in her pajamas or robe when I got off the bus, I would cook. In between school and bedtime, I sat with her, either telling her about my day or doing my homework.
Mom left us when I was fourteen. She’d run off before but had always returned. Until that last time.
It had hurt then, and it continued to, as unresolved pain usually did.
Together, Dad and I had made our post-Mom lives work. We had our lists of responsibilities. The few tasks he assigned to me, like laundry and dusting and homework, I handled, while he kept his business growing and a roof over our heads. Dad saved me when things had gone wrong in my life, like the accident. Even the one decision I’d made on my own—to marry Niles—in retrospect felt suspiciously like I’d been following the expected, most comfortable path. Meet a nice guy . . . fall in love . . . get married . . .
It had all gone so wrong.
I’d never initiated anything new or bold in my whole life—except for that day soon after Dad’s funeral when Nicole and Mel asked what I was going to do with Wildflower House. Would I stay or sell? And I’d said, “A retreat . . . a place for small groups to come. Maybe writers. Maybe artists.”
Thinking of it still made me breathless.
It had been outrageously impulsive. Totally out of character.
Creative retreat, indeed.
I’d wanted to disavow those words soon after. But Mel and Nicole had been immediately on board, supporting me in my brash plan.
I needed someone to brainstorm with, to chew over possibilities and details. Nicole had offered to be that person, but personality-wise it wouldn’t work. Maybe Seth. At least he would’ve tried. But he was far away.
Frustrated, I closed the laptop lid. I picked up the idea box to set it on the table, and it fell. Paint swatches and pamphlets of window coverings and bathroom and lighting fixtures hit the floor and slid in every direction.
Seriously?
As I stared at the scattered papers in dismay, I realized I wasn’t hearing work noise from outside.
What were the guys doing?
I peeked out front and saw another pickup. This one was tan colored, dented, and scratched up, but it was clearly a truck that meant business in life and play. I also saw a pile of branches, sticks, and lots of green stuff near the right side of the house. I went to the side windows. These would need a major cleaning after the jungle had been tamed. Despite the grimy film on the glass, I could already see a difference in terms of the amount of daylight filtering through.
A pitcher of ice water with sliced lime and strawberries was in the fridge. The kitchen cabinets were mostly empty, but I had a few glasses and plates stacked on the counter. I could offer the workers something to drink. I stepped out to the back porch and saw no one, but the heat hit me. The house, especially the lower floor, stayed so cool inside I could forgo the air-conditioning most mornings. But outside? Ugh. Outside was just plain hot and muggy. Iced tea weather. The workers would probably prefer iced tea to lime-and-strawberry water anyway.
Back inside, I shut the windows and doors and turned on the AC. I put water on to boil and took tea bags from the tin. Honey hibiscus lemon. Perfect. I left the tea bags on the counter while the water heated and returned to the middle room to gather up the samples, pamphlets, and paint chips from the floor. As I worked, I heard new sounds coming from the side of the house.
Even the windows in this middle room were b
asic, without the elegance of the tall windows at the front of the house. It was a plain room, and between the grime on the glass exterior and the leaves of the vine trying to secure its grip out there, there was no view. As I looked, the vine shook and its leaves shivered. I felt a rush of excitement. Soon, I thought. Soon there’d be a view and lots of sunshine.
Next to the middle room, between it and the kitchen, was the narrow hallway with the enclosed servants’ stairs. That hallway had a door that opened onto a small porch on the side of the house. Its door was blocked by the same vines and vegetation that obscured these windows. We’d lived here for three months, and I’d never opened that door or stepped onto that porch. Making it usable had been on Dad’s to-do list—a long list he’d enjoyed refining, tweaking, and adding to. His whole idea for moving here had been for the fun of renovating—and not just the house. He’d had such plans for the grounds. He’d even mentioned wanting an orchard. But his time here had been too short, and the list had stayed long.
I retrieved the last of the fallen pamphlets. My computer and the in-progress business plan needed my attention. I should get back to work instead of worrying over iced tea and what the work crew was doing outside. Was it procrastination? Avoidance? Or simply the fact of living, breathing people doing interesting stuff outside my house? Regardless of why, I didn’t resist the lure. I could always find quiet time to tend to business. Right now there was life and activity going on at Wildflower House, and I gave myself permission to be part of it.
I fetched the key ring from the kitchen drawer and went straight to the dark, narrow hallway. I gripped the doorknob and twisted. The knob didn’t turn, so I fidgeted with the assorted keys and chose one.
The first key I tried worked, but the door itself stuck. I grasped the knob with both hands and pulled. The door moved, but it wouldn’t come free of the frame. I tugged again, harder, and it moved on its own, pushing in toward me with force. I flew backward, not trying to catch myself but using my arms to shield my head from hitting the floor or the close walls.
“Ma’am? You okay?”
I thrust my hands forward defensively, moving them against the threat, ready to protect myself.
“Kara?” Will caught my flailing hands, but gently. “I saw the door was stuck. I pushed . . . but only a little. Are you hurt?”
By now, I’d made it to a full sitting position and had caught my breath. Will had released my hands but now reoffered his to assist me up. Before I could accept or decline, he pulled it back abruptly, apparently shocked by the dirt. He wiped both hands down the sides of his khakis.
“Sorry. Working outside and all, well . . .”
Meanwhile, the perspiration—sweat—that soaked his hair and T-shirt dropped from his face onto my shirt. Will saw the wet spot, and if his red face could possibly get any redder, it did. He looked utterly embarrassed.
I said, “I was pulling so hard I overbalanced when the door opened.” I did a quick assessment. Nothing hurt except my butt. I laughed a little, trying to defuse his embarrassment and my awkwardness. “I’m okay. I just wasn’t expecting help with the door at exactly that moment.”
He stared. He pushed the sweat-drenched hair off his forehead. “Are you sure?”
Honestly, it bothered me that his state troubled him so much. He was working in the yard in July, for heaven’s sake. Sweat and dirt were inevitable.
He frowned slightly and met my eyes, asking, “Is something burning?”
Was that a euphemism? Some sort of reference to his flushed face and my own discomfort? Was my face red too? I almost laughed and agreed with his joke, but then my nose noticed what his already had.
It was a hot smell. Not smoke. But directed heat—too much of it.
“The stove. Boiling water,” I said.
I moved quickly, aware of Will’s hands on my arms helping to propel me upward and onto my feet. I moved as if I’d never had a serious injury, had never needed a cane. Adrenaline fueled me, no doubt.
The water had boiled away. The bottom of the pan inside was discolored. Not burned too badly, but it was probably ruined. Not thinking, I reached for the handle. Will stopped me. He’d already found the dish towel and used it to grab the pot and carry it to the sink.
I turned off the burner. Despite the protection of the dish towel, after he set the pan in the sink, Will waved his hand in a quick cooling motion.
“Are your fingers burned?”
He grimaced. “No. Just hot. No damage done except to the pan.”
“I’m glad. Thank you,” I said. “I was making tea. I was distracted.”
“I’m sorry.”
“You helped. What are you sorry for?”
“Because of the door—”
I interrupted. “It was my fault. I wanted to see what you and your crew were doing. I should’ve walked outside the usual way.”
He looked taller and broader in my kitchen and uncomfortable. His presence stymied me for a moment. I offered, “Would you like some water?”
“No, thanks. I’ve got a cooler outside. We bring our own. Important to stay hydrated in this weather.” He looked down at his wet T-shirt, then nodded. “Excuse me while I get back to work.” Without another word, he exited by way of the back door, leaving me standing there with a ruined pan in the sink and the noxious smell of hot metal in the air around me.
They’d brought their own. Of course. Why had I thought I should offer refreshments? Because it gave me an excuse to interact? I groaned. Was I that lonely?
The screen door closed behind Will, but he’d left the door itself open, and I knew the side door was surely open to the heat and insects since neither of us had stopped to close it. The breeze wafting through the kitchen felt humid, but it diminished the burning smell, that hot metallic evidence of distraction. I went to the front door and opened it wide to keep the air flowing through, then returned to the side door.
I’d walked through the side yard many times and had caught glimpses of the side porch through the green overgrowth, but standing at the open door, I was now seeing it as a whole unit, small and weathered but intact. This small porch could be attractive after it was cleaned up, painted, and decorated. I stepped out, and a man yelled.
I froze midstep. Will again. He was standing a few yards away.
He said, “Some of those boards look iffy. Be careful until we check them out. You don’t want to fall through.”
I satisfied my curiosity from the doorway. “It’s the first time I’ve really seen this porch.”
He nodded and gestured toward several rangy bushes crowding the railing, saying, “Those bushes don’t look like much.”
Wanting to be agreeable—after all, he’d practically saved my house from burning down—I said, “You can pull them out or cut them, however you think best.”
“I suggest keeping them.”
“Why?”
“They’re lilacs and camellias. We’ll prune them. With better sun and air, they’ll probably come back next year. They’ll smell good outside the windows and next to the porch when they bloom.”
“Oh,” I said, and I felt that oh inside, kind of warm and soft in my chest. I said it again deliberately, wanting to repeat the feeling. “Oh, that sounds lovely. We’ll give them a chance to make a comeback.”
Will smiled, and his face brightened.
I smiled back. After a long, awkward moment in which I felt foolish because I couldn’t think of anything clever or pertinent to say—and Will didn’t say anything at all—I settled for, “I’d better get back to work.”
“Same here.” He nodded and walked away.
I returned to the kitchen. The ruined pan went into the trash. Never mind tea. As I was putting the tea bags back into the canister, the doorbell rang, quickly followed by a solid knock and a voice calling out, “Ms. Hart?”
I’d left the front door open, so Mr. Blackwell must’ve knocked on the house itself.
Moore Blackwell was the wallpaper expert. It was hard to mista
ke his voice, which ranged from deep and smooth to gravelly and matched his tall, thin, somber appearance. His skin was olive, and he seemed to have a permanent five-o’clock shadow. I imagined his beard had defeated many a razor. But while his appearance was imposing, he was actually a very kind man. I knew because of how he’d responded with my on-and-off-again plans in the weeks following Dad’s death. Death. I said the word silently, testing it. Yes, it still hurt.
“Come in, Mr. Blackwell,” I said as I walked down the hallway to the foyer.
He stepped into the foyer. He was holding a jar with a decorative top, and he offered it to me.
Brown liquid. “Honey tea?” I asked.
He nodded. “My Sheryl sent it. Told her you sounded kind of rough on the phone. Your voice sounds better now, though.”
I’d been grieving and doing a lot of crying when we’d spoken. I said, “It comes and goes.”
“Well, I hope it stays gone, but regardless, I expect you’ll enjoy Sheryl’s tea.” He brushed his now-empty hands against each other. “You said you want to make changes to the project?”
“I have some ideas I’d like to get your thoughts on. As you know, Dad planned to strip all the paper, but is it possible to save some of it? Not in the parlor, and probably not in the sitting room. But what about the dining room? It’s in better shape than the other rooms. If that paper can be cleaned, I’d like to incorporate it into the overall decor. A blending of old and new, along with incorporating the house history. If you think the idea of saving the wallpaper is unworkable or impractical, please say so.”
“Comes down to expectations.”
“As in?”
“If you want to keep the wallpaper, then I think it’s doable. When I was here before, talking to your . . . well, when I was here before, I checked the adhesion. The dining room paper seemed good. It’ll never look new again, but that might be your expectation if you’re wanting an antique look.”
