by Grace Greene
When had I started sleepwalking? If that twig and leaf were part of this, I might have even walked outside.
A mild wave of nausea swept me.
I’d heard that some sleeping pills could cause sleepwalking. I didn’t take any of those. But maybe the pills I did take could contribute to such . . . nighttime activity.
I rubbed my face and dragged my fingers through my hair.
Why would I suddenly be doing something so crazy? And how incredibly dangerous might it be to me? These stairs . . . not to mention the hazards on the main floor with all the work going on. It was a challenge getting around all the work paraphernalia without injury as it was. And with woods and a creek outside, I could wander. How far? Where might I wake up?
I’d survived a terrible accident; gone through more than a year of surgery, rehab, and recovery; and never—to my knowledge—ever had more than a restless, wakeful night.
I knew the answer. My cache of pills—white for pain, blue to take the edge off my anxiety—was playing havoc with my brain and my body chemistry. The kindest thought I could offer myself was that I’d been irresponsible. Suppose something awful had happened while I’d been under the influence? Who would have known?
The risk was huge. Anything from breaking my neck to reinjuring my thigh or . . . the list was almost endless.
I’d taken these pills before, and nothing untoward had happened, but that had been early in my recovery, and as soon as I’d been feeling better, I’d stopped taking them regularly. The doctor had kept prescribing them. I’d continued filling the prescriptions because . . . well, just because. Just in case. I went back to taking them again after Dad had died. Not every night, but most.
Irresponsible. I’d traded the crutches after the accident for the crutch of the meds cluttering my nightstand drawer—because . . . because I couldn’t quite part with them.
Now what was I supposed to do?
What had Seth said? Only consider questions requiring decisions in the bright light of morning. I was going to amend that to Only consider decisions in the bright light of morning after coffee.
I cleaned up the powder that morning. I hadn’t accounted for the problem the wood grain of the stair tread would present. It was now filled in with white. I found a bottle of lemon oil furniture polish and used that, working the rag into the tread and thinking I was getting rid of the powder but creating one extremely shiny, very slippery stair tread.
Life was full of risk. I seemed to be exchanging one problem for another, I thought, as I used a little detergent to remove the worst of the polish.
The first floor of my home was a no-man’s-land of plastic sheeting, tarps, and general chaos as Moore Blackwell and his helper, Chip—or sometimes more than one helper—proceeded with the wallpaper-removal/repair component of the project. Everywhere I went, I seemed to be tripping over something. The contractor remodeling the kitchen worked according to his own idea of pacing, but as long as the microwave and fridge were operational, I could manage. My day, unless I was tucked away in the middle room working on my business-related plans, was a constant iteration of apologizing or being apologized to. For lunch, I usually took a sandwich out to the porch to eat. Today, though, there was little peace and quiet out there. The roar of saws seemed incessant, and the thuds of severed trunks slamming the ground were a little unnerving and sad.
Unnerved and sad . . . kind of how I’d felt at the start of this day, seeing the powder disturbed and realizing I might be in more trouble than I’d imagined.
I sat on the front-porch bench during a break in the tree cutting. The tree cutters were settled in a shady spot eating their lunch and rehydrating. Will and Lon were clearing away a pile of debris. Will saw me on the porch, waved, and headed over. I stood.
Did I want to talk to Will? I’d come out here where he was bound to see me, so maybe I did.
He walked past the dump truck and a mulching machine and brushed at the bits of dirt, bark, and greenery clinging to his jeans and his bare arms. His expression spoke of satisfaction.
He said, “They should finish removing the trees today. Tomorrow we’ll clear the stumps and grade the lot.”
“I was sorry to see those trees go.”
“Too late for regrets now.” He stopped and gave me a second look. “I meant that as a joke. Have you changed your mind?”
“No, I’m sorry. I’m a little off today. We need that parking lot.”
“Did you decide whether to pave it? I don’t recommend it. Asphalt isn’t permanent, and it’s a bear to tear up. There’s still lots of trees out there, and they’ll keep growing roots. Gravel is a better choice.”
“I like the idea of asphalt. I understand why you’re recommending gravel, but I don’t like how it feels underfoot or rolling wheeled luggage through it. If I go with gravel for now, let’s make it fine . . . like pea gravel. Also, I’d like to define the parking area with some planting beds. Nothing too fancy, but to make it look . . . I don’t know the right word. Stable? Secure? I want people to park here, and as they bring their stuff in, I want them to feel as if their needs have been anticipated and provided for. Does that make sense?”
“Definitely. And your timing is perfect. We’ll get the beds in ahead of fall and winter so they’ll be all set to bloom in spring.”
He’d moved closer as we were talking. Without thinking I picked a dried bit of leaf off his shirt. Will stepped back with a surprised look. Instead of mumbling a weak apology, I kept my eyes on his face.
I wanted to tell him I was worried—to say I’d just discovered I’d been sleepwalking and confess that I was a little afraid. I bit my lip. I couldn’t possibly say this to him. Or to anyone. Because anyone I told would think I was asking for help, and maybe I was, but none of them could help me. Not Will or Mel. This was on me to solve. The ultimate on me.
“Thanks, Will.”
He looked confused. “Are you okay?”
I opened my mouth. For a split second I thought the wrong words might fall out—maybe even a full-blown confession of my fears and flaws and mistakes—and embarrass me and Will both beyond recovery. He was a good guy and a hard worker. I valued his presence, and I didn’t want to spoil that.
“I’m fine, Will. Thanks for asking.”
That night I didn’t take any pills. I held the plastic cylinders with their childproof (but not Kara-proof) tops and knew I could do this. I could do it this once. That was all I asked of myself. Once. Tonight.
I wanted to take a book to bed with me for a little light reading. There were only a few books in this house, and I’d already finished them. Other than the newspaper, Dad hadn’t been a big reader, certainly not of fiction. My books had been put into storage along with the other things Niles and I had had in our town house in Northern Virginia. For two years those boxes had been stored there, and one of these days I’d have to go through them, but that didn’t help me tonight. I sorted through the small stack of books I had with me, thinking one of them might be worth rereading, and saw the small plastic photo album.
The album was one of the few things my dad had saved for me after Mom had left. The photos were of Mom and me from the time I’d been born and shortly thereafter. When I’d found the album while unpacking the boxes, I’d been overwhelmed and even angry with Dad for not telling me he’d kept it. I hadn’t stayed angry, though. How could I? It was as if a bit of my mom had been returned to me.
I hugged that photo album. I didn’t take it to look at the photos—I knew those by heart because I’d viewed them over and over—but I cradled the album in my arms and eventually fell asleep.
When I awoke in the morning, I felt a tiny thrill of triumph because the book was still snug in my arms. There was no sign that I’d gotten out of bed or raided the bedside drawer, much less taken a nighttime trip in or out of Wildflower House.
One night wasn’t a victory. It was, after all, only one night. But it was a sign of progress. Maybe even a sign of healing. I had hope.
CHAPTER TEN
The trees had been felled yesterday. Today, I took my lunch out to the front porch again, this time to watch the earthmover clear the stumps and large rocks away from the area of the parking lot.
Will was keeping an eye on that work and also on his crew, who were finishing up their work along the drive from the main road to the house. Wildflower House needed an impressive and orderly approach—one that would inspire confidence in the guests who would come here and pay money for the privilege. That prospect sent a shiver down my spine, a shiver of anticipation, not apprehension.
The emerging parking area seemed like an invitation in and of itself. It made the idea of a retreat and special event venue feel like a real thing. I would need signs up by the road and in front of the house. Something that said Welcome to Wildflower House. I had my samplers, of course, but those would be hanging in the foyer.
This was truly happening. This whole thing. I had lots of work yet to do, including nailing down manpower needs and where the extra bathrooms would go and all that stuff, but it was just a matter of getting it done. Occasionally it felt overwhelming, but it no longer seemed impossible. One day and one step at a time.
Will saw me on the porch and came over. He walked with a light step, despite the heat and humidity and the fact he was wearing the evidence of his hard work.
He said, “Looking good, right?”
“It is.” I was excited and gestured toward the pile of rocks. “We could use those in the beds bordering the parking area.”
Will grinned. “Great minds. I was going to suggest the same thing.”
I smiled in acknowledgment.
He said, “Those rocks—small boulders, really—will look good. I’m thinking that given the trees and the preponderance of pines, we’ll stick with an understory of shade-friendly, acid-loving plants like azaleas and rhododendrons. They’re also easy care. We’ll keep them mulched with the pine tags the trees contribute. Hard to get it done any easier than that, and it’s easily sustainable too.”
I nodded. I heard his words and agreed, but I was still stuck on the preponderance of pines. I loved the phrase. I was a lover of words—Mel had called that out. Will’s hair had been trimmed, but he still had that rough look, yet he’d said the preponderance of pines, and it had rolled off his lips as if he spoke in poetry all the time.
Will was a puzzle. A nice one.
I said, “I called the roofer and told him to go with the dimensional shingles instead of the tiles.”
“Makes sense. As good as those tiles would look, with all the trees around the carriage house, it’s just a matter of time before they get damaged again.”
Trees . . . yes, lots of trees on this property. In fact, we had a preponderance of pines. I didn’t speak it aloud, but I felt the words on my lips. I smiled, and Will smiled back.
I hadn’t seen or heard from Nicole in a few days—not since our chat in the kitchen. I didn’t know what to call that chat. Not cozy by any means.
When I tried to pin down specific words to hang my anger on, I couldn’t. Maybe she was right about Dad and me not being a team. Maybe I was mistaken in the notion that we had been. But that didn’t mean she had the right to say it out loud to my face.
When she arrived later in the afternoon, I met her on the front porch. Neither of us mentioned our last meeting, and I invited her to walk out with me to the carriage house. As we left the porch, I explained my decision about the tiled roof.
“I told the roofer to go with dimensional shingle instead of the red tiles. Shingles are less costly and more practical.”
“But that style of roof, the red tile, is so striking out here. You don’t see it much in this area of the country. It’s quaint and unusual.”
“Come see.”
We walked along the path that Will’s crew had created around the side of the house and into the woods. When we reached the carriage house, I waved at the building and the forest that all but surrounded it.
“Face it,” I said to Nicole. “With all these trees around, it’s a matter of time before the roof is damaged again. I’m keeping the trees, so I’ll keep the roofing more practical too.”
Nicole nodded. “I can’t disagree with your logic, but I think the tiles give the building a charming appearance.”
“We’ll go in a different direction to achieve charming. I’ll have the exterior woodwork painted in an upbeat color. Maybe a light teal. It should contrast and complement well with the stone walls.”
“That would be inviting.”
“I give credit to Will. We discussed the issues of the trees and the cost, and he suggested this course instead. Said he’d seen something like it in a landscaping magazine.”
Nicole gave me a surprised look. “Nice. I may consider bringing Will into other projects. Sounds like he’s an idea guy in addition to being a doer.”
With a mock frown, I said, “Not until I’m done with him. For now, he’s mine.”
I was startled by how those words sounded. Nicole lifted one of her perfect eyebrows but didn’t remark on it.
“I just meant that he’s good to have around. Very useful.” That felt like a dodge. My cheeks grew warm, and I turned away from Nicole to snag the dangling light cord.
Nicole inhaled a quick, audible breath.
Will had run a temporary electrical line to the building until the roofing was done. A big bare bulb dangled from the ceiling beam. It lit the rough old wood and the generous proportions of the building.
I was pleased at her reaction. The air was still a tad musty but much better. Nicole was reacting to the light streaming in through the small windows, which highlighted parts of the open interior—the well-aged raw wood and the old iron nailheads—while the backlight coming through the open doors was like an invitation to visit an older time. A time long gone.
I broke the spell deliberately by saying, “Imagine a couple of potter’s wheels in here. Plenty of room for easels and paint tables. Tables for clay work too. Opening these massive doors allows in a lot of light and air.” I pointed above us. In this central section, the ceiling was the roof itself. “I wish we could put skylights up there, but the tree problem remains. I think, instead, I’m going to have some large spotlights—industrial type—hung up there. And large fans in a couple of the corners, since it won’t be practical to install AC.”
“There are options for that. We can discuss them. I do think we should ask Hannah Cooper to take a look and weigh in on the pottery aspect. She’s our clay expert, and she’s very interested in this project. We’re lucky about that. She’s gifted and a businesswoman in her own right.”
“Regarding business, Nicole . . .” I cleared my throat. “There’s something I’d like to show you.”
“Yes?”
“Not here. In the house. Do you have a few minutes?” Suddenly I was nervous. Silly me, making something big out of a small thing. Maybe that wall inside me was finally cracking. At some point I had to share the project work I was doing—the business plan and all that—with Nicole. She was an important part of this project, sort of a friend, and also one of the potentially scariest people I knew. Why scary? Maybe because I couldn’t bluff her the way I could most people. She saw through my bluster every time. And maybe, because of that, I could trust her judgment on whether my efforts were worth my . . . effort.
“Sure. Lead the way.”
I did. I led her to the middle room. My project room and my room of dreams. I opened the door and stepped aside.
Nicole cast me a questioning look. I nodded, indicating she should go in. “It’s early days still—remember that.”
She frowned but moved inside. “What’s this, Kara? You have a workroom—an office—in here?”
My laptop, the brown paper map, stacks of paint chips, markers, and a myriad of stray papers were spread across the table. Nicole picked up the legal pad where I’d scribbled notes, along with heavy doodling, and gave the first page a quick read.
She
looked up at me. “Is this your business plan?”
I joggled my computer mouse and hit the enter key on my laptop. The screen came alive with the Word document displayed. Nicole sat down and scrolled silently through the pages.
I held my breath. I didn’t want this to matter so much, but it did. That fact was undeniable.
She scrolled more quickly through the next pages, where I’d laid out, sweating and stressing over each of those words, my view of the present state, my long-term goals, and the interim steps.
“Not bad, Kara. We can work with this.”
I bit my lip.
“Not bad at all.” She saw the spreadsheet icon. “May I?”
“Yes.”
She clicked, and it came alive on the screen.
I said, “It’s rudimentary. I have a tab listing actual expenses. I tried listing other anticipated expenses, but there’s too much I don’t know. You said you could recommend an accountant? I presume someone who’s familiar with small business and the hospitality industry?”
“Yes. I can do that.”
“And I’m ready to meet with the experts. The local people we’re hoping will want to participate. I need to pick their brains for details too.”
Nicole sat back and looked at me. “The plan is rudimentary, but it’s a very strong starting place, Kara. We all start at the beginning. Remember that. And we can work with this.”
Her expression was pleased. She looked . . . optimistic? Excited? Her eyes were even glittering a little. She stood and noticed the paper spread across the floor.
“What is this? A map or a picture or . . . ?”
“Both. It seems silly seeing it as it is now, and even when I was working on it, I knew it wasn’t what I was supposed to be focused on. But somehow, putting it all down on paper—not in words but drawing it out with pencil and markers—was . . . I don’t know. Satisfying? It seemed to help unlock some of my resistance.”
Nicole laughed. It was a small laugh. A light laugh. A goodwill laugh with a touch of amazement. “It explains so much.”
