Wildflower Hope (The Wildflower House)

by Grace Greene

  Seth asked, “Which poems?”

  “That I love? Offhand I’d say ‘Tintern Abbey’ and ‘Hamatreya.’”

  “As in Wordsworth and Emerson, respectively?”

  “You’re familiar with them?” A tiny, pleasant spark warmed me. I turned my face up to the sun filtering through the boughs overhead.

  “Of course. I write, don’t I?” He paused and added, “Give me a moment while I calculate.” He made deliberately funny clicking noises in the receiver, then stopped and said, “Well, I’d say you are a combination of romantic and philosopher.”

  I responded in a flirtatious tone, “I didn’t know my preferences were so revealing.”

  “We reveal ourselves in all that we do.”

  Too true, I thought, suddenly uncomfortable. Revealed by what we do and don’t do . . . my flirty mood evaporated. I said, “That’s true, assuming there’s someone around to notice.”

  “Ouch.”

  “Not directed at you,” I said too quickly. I amended my words. “Well, maybe it is directed at you, but I don’t blame you. I know you’re working hard, but I don’t know what you’re doing. The few hours you were here seem almost like a dream. Yesterday aside, you’ve been gone forever, Seth.”

  “Not quite that long,” he said softly. “I’m still the newbie on the job, Kara. They seem pleased, though. It’s only been a month. A hectic, crazy month. I thought I was pretty darn good at wrangling words before, but the most consistent lesson I’ve learned in all my years of word craft is that I’m smarter than I used to be and often embarrassed by how little I knew before.”

  “I feel the same, at least about life and this project.”

  “The retreat?”

  I sighed.

  “Wow. That was loud. I just heard that halfway across the country.”

  “Ha ha. Funny.”

  “Did you ever run a creative retreat, Kara? Or an event site for weddings and such?”

  What could I say? The truth? “No. Never.”

  “But you’ve dreamed of doing something like that?”

  “Not in a million years.”

  The long silence that filled the phone connection came from Seth. I was waiting, prepared to be told I was foolish. That I’d stepped way beyond my capabilities and was doomed to fail. To become a laughingstock. And then Seth laughed.

  We weren’t on a video call. I was deep-down glad. He couldn’t witness my humiliation as he laughed at me. I stood abruptly, ice spreading in my chest, fire starting to burn in my head. My stomach roiled.

  Seth said, “I am impressed. I don’t understand it . . . why you decided to do what you did, but Kara, you have way more guts . . . no, courage and—what’s the word?—audacity. That’s it. I never suspected. You have audacity.” He lowered his voice. “Meanwhile, this area of the airport is pretty empty, but the family sitting a few rows over are looking at me suspiciously. I guess I got a little loud. But Kara, you have made my day.”

  He had laughed. Maybe not at me, but in admiration?

  Suddenly my defenses were down again. “Do you think I’m crazy, Seth?”

  “Crazy? No, why would I think that?”

  “It’s a big risk. Dad left money, but I could sink it all into this . . . enterprise . . . only to see it fail. Perhaps I should’ve taken the safer road.”

  “The road back to the city and a regular job? That’s what I expected you to do. I stand amazed by you, Kara.”

  “The retreat idea wasn’t some cherished, long-held dream, but it feels like a real thing to me. As if this can really work. I’m excited, but I’m also very scared.”

  “Go for it, Kara. Don’t let anyone, including yourself, tell you what you can or can’t do.”

  “Don’t tell Nicole, okay?”

  “What?”

  “Don’t be obtuse, Seth. Don’t tell her it was a decision without forethought. Without substance.”

  “Nicole is thrilled. Don’t worry about her. She’ll help you in any way she can.”

  I watched a leaf flutter to the ground and land in the soggy mass of old dead leaves accumulating in the small, neglected pool. Had they kept fish in it? It was more like a shallow, long-forgotten wishing well.

  “Kara?”

  “I’m here.”

  In a calm, even tone, devoid of his earlier teasing, he said, “Ultimately, you can go for it or not. It is risky. But there’s no guarantee in traditional employment either. Businesses go bankrupt or downsize. The only thing you don’t have a choice over is whether to be in charge.”

  I was trying to figure out how to respond when he added, “It’s your life. You must always be in charge of your life, Kara. You can’t default on that responsibility to anyone. Ever.”

  I closed my eyes and leaned forward. I was grateful. Not for his words but because he wasn’t here to see me. The ice and fire I’d felt when he’d laughed had melted into slush inside me. Seth wouldn’t have laughed if he’d known how ill equipped I was to be in charge of anything other than project process steps or laundry.

  “Kara?”

  Deep breath. “Yes?”

  His tone was clear and kind. “I’m going to share my best advice. Remember it when you are in doubt. Only make decisions in the morning. In the bright new light of morning. Too many doubts linger in the afternoon and turn to swamp water by night. Those hours that follow the morning are for work, not for supposing or decision-making. Late in the afternoon or even at night, when doubts arise—put them aside until morning. You are in charge. Tell them they have to wait. You’ll see the truth most clearly in the morning light.”

  “Okay.”

  “Repeat it back to me?”

  “What?”

  “Tell me. I need reassurance sometimes too.”

  I smiled and wished Seth were here to share smiles with me in person. Hold my hand, even. Maybe put his arm around me. We might finish our interrupted kisses . . . instead, I recited, “Morning light is for making decisions. Work the rest of the day. At night, when the doubts get loud, tell them to shut up until morning. They belong to the morning.”

  “Close enough.”

  “Thank you, Seth.”

  “My pleasure. I need to walk over to the new departure gate. Are you okay?”

  “I’m fine. And I’ll be finer.”

  “I wish I could be there. I’d like to wrap my arms around you and reassure you. I’d like you to realize that you are the most capable person I’ve ever met.”

  “Not me.”

  “You. When you smile, and even when you’re pretending you don’t care what other people think—you are like a bright light. I know that doesn’t make sense, but it’s true.”

  I sniffled and pressed my fingers to my wet lashes.

  “See you soon, Kara.”

  I told him goodbye and knew he could hear the rough emotion in my voice. It was a little embarrassing, but maybe it was also a good thing since I couldn’t quite come up with the words my heart wanted to say. Maybe the unmistakable emotion helped convey the message.

  We hung up, and I sat there, my hands and my phone unmoving on my thighs. Dad’s gazing ball was on its pedestal. It reflected the leafy branches above and the abstract pattern of sky between the boughs. That space between moved and shifted as the breeze swayed the branches. I missed Seth. I rubbed at the fingerprints on my phone screen. My phone missed him too.

  As I sat there feeling gloomy, a gnome grinned at me. He was half-hidden behind a pile of leaves at the base of a pine tree. Mary Forster, the former owner of this property, had created these forest nooks, and many were populated with garden gnomes and elves and assorted other yard decor. You never really saw them until you did, and then you couldn’t miss them. While I might be lonely, I wasn’t so far gone that I was ready to commune with small plastic statuary, colorful or not. Feeling a slight stiffening in my spine, I rose and brushed leaves from my pants. I had work to do.

  And what had Seth told me?

  He’d said I was audacious. T
hat I was a bright light. The words tingled all the way down to my toes.

  He’d also agreed that the project had risks.

  And he’d advised only making decisions in the light of morning. After that, the day must be devoted to work. And play. I added that last bit myself. When I next spoke to Seth, I’d tell him he’d left that critical part out. Play was important, and he still owed me a date. The birthday party didn’t count.

  I returned to the house. I had a new idea, one that I hoped would help me grow my project and business plan. I would take some of the leftover paper from the roll Seth had used to protect the floors on the day Dad and I had moved in. I would spread it out on the middle-room floor, where it could stay without being on display to everyone who walked in, and I would draw a layout of the property. Not specific—not a technical survey—but a summary of the main nooks, including Seth’s grotto, as well as the carriage house, the woodland paths . . . an idea paper. A page of dreams that could engender more ideas, and I could translate those ideas into specifics to augment my plan.

  Seth had brought the paper rolls into the house just before Dad and I had moved in. When I’d met Seth, he’d already been laid off from his newspaper job and was doing odd jobs for his sister, Nicole, related to her real estate business while also helping to care for Maddie.

  Walking home yesterday evening with Seth and Maddie had brought back memories from my first visits to Wildflower House, of standing in that field in the middle of flowers and hearing music in my head, Appalachian Spring, and then of being in the house, where the floors, though dirty, had seemed to stretch for miles through the open area of the sitting room, hallway, and foyer. That day, I’d pulled up the music on my phone. I’d wanted to hear its melody fill the rooms, soaring and swirling into the high ceilings and the alcoves. Alone that day, I’d lifted my cane above the floor, and putting most of my weight on my good leg, I’d twirled. I’d twirled because I could perform that limited movement on one good leg, and I’d done it because the music hadn’t just been in the room around me—it had been in me. It had lifted me above my woes and out of my flesh-and-blood self.

  I’d twirled. I’d danced because I could.

  I hadn’t seen Seth walk through the house delivering the rolls of heavy brown paper intended to protect the floors from the movers, but he could not have missed seeing me twirling. When I’d seen the first paper roll he’d left and realized a man, a stranger, was in the house with me, I’d been embarrassed—more embarrassed than afraid.

  I’d known Nicole was Dad’s real estate agent but hadn’t met the other Alberses yet. Seth had introduced himself. He pretended he hadn’t noticed me or the music. He let me keep my dignity. I was grateful for that.

  What I’d never told anyone, including Seth, was that the day he’d seen me twirling across the floors, that night I’d dreamed of a dark-haired man—not Niles—and I’d felt awkward about it, as if I should be mourning my husband still. The man had walked into my dream and held out his hand, inviting me to dance with him. He’d been wearing immaculate blue jeans and a shirt so white it had hurt my eyes. Seth, of course.

  I’d kept that dream to myself.

  Now in my project room, I tried another spin, but constrained so as not to trip over the idea box or knock my computer off the table. It wasn’t quite the same.

  I wanted to be that Kara—the woman who twirled. The dancing child I’d never been. I wanted to free her, to see her more clearly and more often. I wanted to be a bright, audacious light in my own life.

  That night as I climbed the stairs to bed, the leaf came to mind. I paused at the top. I’d never felt unsafe here at night. I’d had no sense of any intruders. If I had, even once, how on earth would I ever get any sleep?

  But.

  The dirt on the floor could be easily dismissed, but not the leaf. And what of the twig I’d found before? Did it mean something or not?

  I looked back down. My view was broken by the turn of the stairs, but it was mostly a well of darkness, especially on cloudy or moonless nights, when there was no light to pierce the large stained glass window on the landing. I had locked up the house as per my habit and had turned on the outside lights, front and back. Not that that was terribly meaningful. It was private out there. People could be dancing ring-around-the-rosy naked beneath the stars, and unless they made sufficient noise or I happened to look outside, who would know? Or unless they littered . . . but even then I’d notice bits of trash strewed about come morning.

  Apparently I was still capable of being amused. That reassured me.

  I stood there, tapping my fingers on the handrail. Outside was one thing. Inside was a different situation altogether. And the leaf and twig had been inside.

  Tracked in by me, I reminded myself. But I still felt uneasy.

  I remembered something I’d read or maybe seen in an old movie. I went to the bathroom and took the container of body powder back to the stairs. The stair tread was dark wood, but it would be in shadow at night, and a light coating wouldn’t be noticeable unless you were expecting it.

  Done. I returned the powder to the bathroom. Back at the stairs I stared down and sighed. My peace had been sullied, and likely over nothing. Maybe I needed an alarm system. Probably security lights outside, too, with motion sensors. It would be a pity, though, to disturb the deer.

  For the first time since I’d been at Wildflower House, I locked my bedroom door. I placed the key on the dresser near the door, within easy reach in case I needed to get out quickly. I hated to lock it. It was like admitting that not all was truly well here—not safe in the night. Once you admitted that and acted upon it, could you take it back? Ever?

  So be it. I’d figure out the rest in the morning. But I bargained with myself—no sleep aids. Tonight I didn’t want to sleep quite so soundly. Just in case.

  CHAPTER SIX

  I came awake slowly. As consciousness eased out sleep, I remembered.

  I was alive and in one piece, and I’d slept well without any pills—a small victory, and I felt encouraged. Even my morning brain felt more awake and upbeat than it had recently. From my vantage point in the bed, I could see that the key was on the dresser and the door was still closed. I looked at the floor beside the bed. It was clear.

  Excellent.

  What about the powder on the step?

  I took the key, turned the lock, and opened the bedroom door.

  Morning light flooded the upstairs hallway. I stood at the open door, listening and looking. All seemed as it should. The only sounds were the creaking of this old but sturdy house and my own slightly rushed breathing.

  The floor looked clear between my bedroom door and the stairs.

  Carefully, cautiously, I stepped out of my room—still listening hard—and walked to the head of the stairs. I looked down at the powdered step.

  The powder was there, undisturbed.

  Even if I’d been an idiot and now had a mess of powder to mop up, it was good to have the reassurance.

  When I was dressed and ready for the day, I grasped the railing and took a big step over the powdery tread, and then it was easy walking the rest of the way down to the kitchen and the coffeepot.

  Mug in hand, I paused in the sitting room for a quick look out front and recognized Will’s truck. Next to it was parked a truck that belonged to one of the guys on his crew, and another vehicle, a small car, was parked near them.

  Strangers were coming and going around here. Could they or anyone else be entering my house without me being aware?

  No, I rejected that. I was certain I’d sense it if someone else were intruding in my living space.

  As I stood at the window sipping my coffee, I considered fear versus reality. Reality was something to be worked with—or worked around. Fears—I had plenty of them, and that was how I knew it was pointless to treat them as real.

  My dad had tried to rewrite his personal history, his memories, by focusing on the happy parts of his childhood, those he’d experienced he
re at Wildflower House, and forgetting the rest—the unpleasant times with his drunken father and ailing mother. I hadn’t known about any of it, not the pleasant or unpleasant or that it had even occurred in Louisa County, until Dad had bought Wildflower House and had finally shared some of his history with me. My dad had been a single-minded, focused man. I wasn’t as confident or ambitious as he, but I was a survivor, for sure. I was confident of that. Reality was less scary if one simply considered obstacles as the rules of the game. Once you understood reality, it became less intimidating, and you could put the rules to work for you.

  I might have had an intruder. More likely not. I would look into a security system. I also needed to clean up my act when it came to taking those meds. If I was to depend on myself, then I needed to be clearheaded, even while asleep.

  Reality was that mornings were becoming problematic. I suspected that the pills I took most nights encouraged a much deeper sleep, because even though I’d never been an early riser, I’d never experienced sleep hangovers until recently. But a lot of things were different now.

  I wouldn’t take any tonight either. I’d skip the pills. But even as I considered it, I knew I was lying to myself, especially if I was wide awake in the middle of the night as the rest of the world snored peacefully on.

  Maybe Dad had had reason to be worried? Mom had taken medicine for her depression and for other emotional problems. He’d blamed those meds for making things worse. I couldn’t judge that. But I knew it was why he’d discouraged me from taking medications, over the counter or prescribed, unless the need was dire and specific.

  So I took them now to help me sleep, but I wouldn’t be taking them much longer, because the bottles were emptying fast. With that thought, a rush of anxiety hit me.

  This had only been going on since Dad died. He’d always been my fail-safe. My rescuer. I could stop anytime.

  Anytime I wanted to.

  Tonight, even.

  Feeling good about my resolution, I wandered into the parlor, wondering if I might catch a glimpse of Will or his crew. That was when I saw her. She was sitting just outside the window on the porch bench.