by Grace Greene
By the time I’d considered those options, the top was already off the bottle, and I was on my way to the bathroom for water.
A good thing about being alone was that there was no one to see me in my weakness and my failure.
One night, one day at a time, I told myself. That was all anybody could ask.
And, I wondered, how many addicts had told themselves exactly that?
CHAPTER EIGHT
Work continued inside and outside of Wildflower House. A few days had passed. Mel had retrieved her food from my freezer. I still hadn’t cleaned the powder from the top step, which was rather embarrassing, but on the upside, Victoria had not returned.
The kitchen was a disaster area. The man who was performing the renovation never spoke but seemed to know what he was doing. Since he came with the Nicole Albers Stamp of Approval, I didn’t worry over it. The plumbers he’d brought in had finished up their work yesterday. Now we were waiting for the new cabinets to arrive. Meanwhile, Mr. Blackwell was constantly hauling in or carrying out paraphernalia and taping heavy paper and plastic to various sections of the floors, and the ladders and buckets seemed to be reproducing behind my back.
Today I sat in the denuded kitchen sorting bills at the table while I ate lunch. The microwave still worked, and I’d heated up one of Mel’s casseroles. As soon as I obtained a file cabinet and a larger, sturdier worktable for the middle room, I’d move bill-sorting tasks there too.
The carriage house roof estimate, bills for groundwork and wallpaper work, and an endless assortment of estimates and invoices were sorted into piles. Dad had viewed writing checks as part of doing business. For me, it was torture. It was depressing to see that bank balance—the money that my father had earned from the ground up by building his own business—go down. I told myself that expenditures were a part of growing a business and to stay focused.
In fact, as of this point I was only making improvements and repairs—what Dad would’ve done just for the renovation project.
I could eventually make a go of this—most of the time I believed that. I could feel the idea, this enterprise, growing in my mind. I could survive without making a profit for quite a while so long as I made enough to cover most of the expenses. Oddly enough, I was becoming more comfortable with the risk as I eased into this . . . this new life path. With each stroke of the pen, each new draft of the business plan, my life was becoming a truer fit. For me. And then the doubts would creep in. Self-doubt, mostly.
Economics-wise, this area was growing, positioned as it was at the rural nexus of three major cities, nearby high-dollar communities, horse farms and stables, the towns of Mineral and Louisa with their amenities and quaint shops, and Lake Anna a few miles beyond that—it all screamed potential.
The one check I didn’t mind writing was to Mitchell’s Lawn and Landscaping. Will more than earned his pay, plus I enjoyed having him around. There was a synchronicity between us. I felt it, and I was sure he did too. He was always good for a friendly laugh, and I relied on him to do what was needed to get this property into shape—a shape that would work toward the end goal.
As I heard footsteps coming up the hallway, I set the enormous roofing estimate on top of the nearest pile.
Nicole walked in as she always did. I could’ve made a remark about it, but despite our little skirmishes, telling her she wasn’t welcome to just walk in when she obviously thought she was would hurt her deeply.
If I cared all that much about walk-ins, then I could shut and lock the door, right? That simple.
Same with this project. It was up to me. I could walk away. Other options were still open. But not to see it through? My brain told me there were no guarantees. My gut said to stick with it.
At any rate, I was glad I was in the kitchen, away from the true heart of the work in progress. I wasn’t ready to show Nicole my efforts in the middle room.
As she entered, she announced that the attorney—a Mr. Browne, whom she’d known forever and who’d done business with and for practically everyone in this area forever and who was thus 100 percent trustworthy and the font of all useful legal knowledge—wanted to meet with me.
“He does?”
“Of course. We discussed this.” She gave me a long look. “He wants to talk about licenses, permits, insurance, and such in a big-picture kind of way and dip into details as needed.”
“Sounds sensible.” But inside I wavered. I’d come so far, hadn’t I? But not far enough. One reasonable suggestion from Nicole was enough to send me into an immediate backslide. “Are you sure about this, Nicole?”
“Not again.” She shook her head. With a sigh, she sat in the chair next to mine and put her hands on the table. “Honestly, Kara, you seem all good to go one moment, and the next you’re shrouded in doubt. What’s bothering you? Is it being alone?”
“I’m fine alone. I’m an adult. Heaven knows I should be used to being alone by now.”
Nicole rolled her eyes. I could hardly believe it.
I leaned forward. “I am. Truly. Maybe my uncertainty is about whether I want to be alone here.” I looked away. “But I love this house. Maybe I’m crazy. Or maybe doubts are normal. Have you considered that?”
Nicole’s eyes lit on the estimate that Will had given me that morning. She picked it up to examine it.
She asked, “Is this the problem?”
“No. Yes. It’s a lot of money. I think those roof tiles must be gold plated.”
Nicole ignored my weak humor.
“It’s a lot,” she confirmed. In a calm, even voice, she said, “Let’s consider it this way, Kara. You are trying to make reason and emotion mesh neatly. You want to add them together like a basic math problem—two plus two equals four—believing you can then move forward with certainty. But that’s impossible. Reason and emotion are distant cousins. Sometimes total strangers. They are supposed to argue. That’s what keeps life and sanity in balance.”
“Dad didn’t torture himself with doubts. He knew exactly what he was doing in his business every step of the way. I’m not the businessperson he was.”
Nicole raised her hand. “You never saw your dad go through doubt when he was building and managing his business, but that didn’t mean he wasn’t. He was schooled to hide it. It was there nonetheless—I promise you.”
She was speaking as if she knew my dad better than I. It annoyed me, but what she said made sense.
“So this”—she held up the estimate—“is a lot of money. But that’s not the question. The question is whether it’s reasonable. You can get other estimates, but we know this contractor. You were happy with the repairs he made to the hail damage on the roof, right?”
“Yes.”
“He’s local and available in case you need follow-up work?”
“Yes.”
“So let’s consider your options.” She spoke dispassionately. “Let’s say you don’t continue with repairs and you decide to sell the Wildflower Property—”
I interrupted. “The wildflower property?”
She smiled. “I know you and Henry named it Wildflower House, but everyone”—she waved her hand in a general sweep encompassing the world—“is now calling it the Wildflower Property. Capital W. Capital P. Used to be called the Forster property, but you’ve made a mark. A big enough mark to rewrite how this place is known locally.”
“Wow,” I said. Pleasure warmed me. Pride, maybe.
“You betcha. Wow, indeed. There’s value inherent in reputation. Now back to your choices. If you stop the repairs and improvements, you’ll have to sell it for less because people will regard the house as having problems, feeling skittish about why you are abandoning a worthwhile restoration midwork. Or”—she held up a finger for emphasis—“or you finish the work and then sell it. The improvements you’ve made to the house and land will be persuasive, and the carriage house, being such a unique feature of a uniquely vintage, recently restored estate, will increase the value in the eyes of buyers for this type of pro
perty.”
The power of words, I thought, impressed, especially when spoken with confidence. With Nicole as his real estate agent, Dad had never had a chance.
She continued, “Or you decide to stay here. You pursue your plans. If at any time you decide operating a creative retreat is not for you, then you tell me. I’ll represent the property for you. It will sell, without doubt. The executives at the tech firms on the west side of Richmond are moving out this far. In fact, I sold a large property in Charlottesville to a CEO last month. Honestly, nothing is without risk, but I don’t see how you can lose with this as long as you stay focused.”
“You’re good,” I said with admiration. “I can see why Dad was so eager to buy this place.” I meant it as a semi-joke, but the words fell flat.
Nicole frowned. “I assure you he wanted this property. It was his choice.”
Crap. “I’m sorry, Nicole. I just meant that you are very persuasive.” That sounded even worse.
Nicole pulled her shoulders back and lifted her chin. “You may be surprised to learn that I argued against it.”
Surprised was an understatement. I almost didn’t believe her, but this was Nicole. She wasn’t given to careless words or claims. “What?”
“I considered not telling Henry when Sue Deale said she was ready to sell.”
“Why?”
“In fact, had I not helped Henry get his offer in quickly, I could’ve sold it for a larger commission. I warned Sue that she could make more if she let me work the market a bit. It was my responsibility to be candid with her.”
I was shaking my head as I spoke. “But you told him anyway?”
“Of course. That’s what he wanted. It’s what he’d asked of me.”
“And Sue was willing to take a loss?”
Nicole shrugged. “That was her choice. I read people pretty well, but I don’t second-guess anyone, including myself.” She touched my arm. “As for Sue, I understood what motivated her. She retained some control by selling to the person of her choice rather than to some wealthy executive from New York or California who was relocating for a year or two to Virginia, who wouldn’t care about the house’s history and its place in the local landscape.”
“Dad cared.”
“He did, indeed. He had good memories of this place. It was his escape from a sad childhood.”
I looked away. “I miss him. He and I didn’t always communicate well, but we worked things through together. We became a team after Mom left. We balanced and supported each other.”
Nicole’s voice grew softer, gentler. “Is that really true?”
“What?”
“Henry was a clear-sighted, objective businessperson. His decisions were usually sound. He was confident in them. He rarely invited opinions . . . other than from experts. How much did you really discuss with him?” She rushed to add, as if our conversation might be cut short, “How often did you just go along? Only trying to influence him when you felt strongly enough about something to risk a disagreement?”
I couldn’t speak. I was stunned into silence.
Nicole added, “Disagreement tends to divide. Isolate. But it can be truer and healthier than pretending—”
Shock brought me to my feet. My chair rocked behind me. “I disagreed plenty. Did I want dissension? No. You think he and you were so close, so in sync, but I was his daughter. He and I were a team. You have no idea how it worked between us. We exchanged ideas, and we discussed . . . we . . . he was always willing to . . .” I shook my head. “We made it work. Over time we learned how to make a good team.”
Nicole nodded. She sighed, and her voice took on an unaccustomed gentleness. “Get mad at me. It’s okay. All I ask is that you think about it, Kara. You aren’t accustomed to making decisions like this on your own. Few people are, really. It’s tough to step out and trust your choices. Be kinder to yourself, Kara. Give yourself credit.” She stood, too, and we faced each other. “You are doing an amazing thing here. Few would have the guts to try it. Sometimes I wonder, I really do, why you want this. But as long as you do, I’ll help you in any way I can. Even if you get angry. I loved your father, Kara. I’ll do this for him and for you.” She added, “Just think about what I said.”
She left. I wanted to fight. To yell. I’d never been able to do that with my dad. Certainly not with my mother. I’d yelled at Niles, and we’d had the accident. He’d died. I’d yelled at Victoria, but I’d found no satisfaction in it and had lost my closest friend.
The shaking began in my gut and spread up into my chest. I crossed my arms, trying to hold myself together.
I left via the back door and walked to Seth’s grotto. I descended the stone steps that led down into the hideaway where trees dropped their leaves forever, where the small pool was covered in them, where the concrete stand stood showing off its brand-new gazing ball. Dad had purchased this one to replace the missing ball. I’d found the new one still in its box near his chair soon after he’d died. He’d bought it because I’d mentioned, in jest, that the grotto used to be called the gazing ball grotto, but the stand had lost its shiny bling.
I missed Dad. I missed my mother, too, and she’d been gone for more than half my life. There were things I would have liked to have said to her, to him. Maybe even to have yelled a time or two. But they’d been doing the best they could. Now I was left with gazing balls and garden gnomes. And Nicole.
She was annoying, but she was honest. She saw the wall I kept in place against most of the world. I disliked that she saw it and kept pecking at it anyway. I appreciated that she kept pecking at it. I was insane. Like my . . .
No, not like my mom.
I’d had to be careful with my mom. Most days she’d been remote. Removed. Some days she’d been better. But I’d always been careful not to tip her over into . . . what? Going poof? Leaving?
She’d left more than once. Sometimes teachers had asked me why my parents never came to the parent-teacher conferences, and I’d had a list of excuses ready for them. My life, my family, had existed within a delicate balance. But it was my family. It was what I knew. They were all I had when I was a child. I’d done what I’d needed to do to protect us.
Now I wondered, though . . . what if instead of making it possible for Mom to stay cocooned in her own world . . . what if I’d shaken her and yelled at her and forced her to be a mom? I shivered. She might’ve left for good even sooner.
The day Mom left, she’d seemed her usual quiet self. I’d packed my lunch and checked to make sure my homework was in my school backpack. I’d kissed her on the cheek, then hurried to catch the bus. By the time I returned home that afternoon, she was gone, leaving only a short, polite note wishing Dad and me well.
Looking back, I imagined she had awakened that day—had really awakened—and hadn’t liked what she’d seen of her life. I’d never know. Some questions had no answers.
Dad had stepped up. He’d helped me adjust to the new situation. He’d done his part. I’d done mine. And we’d managed.
All my life, I’d gone along to get along and had made the best of things. That’s what Nicole was saying.
And maybe she was saying not to judge myself and my capabilities on the past. That was then. I was working on a new future right here and now, and I wouldn’t wake up one day and find myself where, and who, I didn’t want to be.
CHAPTER NINE
It took some stretching and yawning to get myself going the next morning. I had taken a pill last night. Only one. I’d been unsettled by my conversation with Nicole. That less-than-cozy chat had stirred up a lot of old unsatisfactory memories. I’d needed a little help to sleep and had given myself permission to seek it. No harm done.
The key was on the dresser where I’d left it, but when I gripped the doorknob, it turned. Without the key. The door was unlocked. I froze, body and brain. I forced myself to breathe.
I glanced back at the floor beside my bed. No sticks or leaves. I opened the door as quietly as possible, listening as I
peeked around it. Daylight flooded the hallway. All seemed as it should. The only sounds were the natural creaking of a huge old house and my own rushed breathing. The floor from the stairs to my bedroom door was clear of any debris.
So I’d forgotten to lock the door. I was sure I’d locked it, but I hadn’t. It was that simple.
After a quick stop in the bathroom, I headed to the stairway. I needed caffeine to clear my head. At the top of the stairs, I stopped, my foot hanging in the air, my hand clutching the banister, dumbfounded by what I saw.
Not only had the powder been disturbed, but there was a clear print, as if a bare foot had stepped in it and twisted slightly. The toe prints . . . the toe end of the print was near the edge as if in the act of descending the stairs. The powder on the other end of that same step was also disturbed, though fainter and harder to interpret, but it was clear that it had pushed into, had disturbed, the edge of the going-down print.
So the going-down print had happened first.
I glanced back toward my bedroom door. With the light from this angle, I saw a slight powdery residue on the hallway floor, very faint and disappearing altogether as it got closer to my room.
Certain that I must be misreading this, I stared down the flight of stairs.
The going-down prints had left smears and bits of powder on the next few steps below the top one. The coming-up print on the top step had been made last, and there wasn’t even a trace of powder leading up to it.
Clearly I’d descended those steps.
I. Me.
And my feet had been clear of powder by the time I’d come back up, so I must’ve walked it off before returning to bed.
My knees went weak; my legs folded as my stomach lurched. I clutched the railing as I lowered myself to the floor, my eyes going back and forth between the prints on the step and my bedroom door.
I examined the soles of my feet. Were there traces of powder there? Maybe.
One thing was certain: if I’d cleaned up that powder in a timely way instead of putting it off, I would never have known.
