by Grace Greene
“She did. She’s a neighbor girl. Young, but I thought she could handle keeping an eye on Maddie Lyn for an hour or two. She—Maddie, I mean—is pretty independent and self-sufficient, but Annie doesn’t have any younger siblings. No practice with little ones.”
“Maddie indicated to me that she thought she didn’t need a babysitter—‘not a baby,’ she said.” I smiled.
“Babies. They grow up so fast—way before they are actually grown.”
Mel’s eyes were wet—it alarmed me to see her so discouraged.
“Mel. All you can do is your best, and your best is pretty darn good. Maddie is fortunate to have you. Don’t blame yourself because you had to run an errand. Kids get left with sitters all the time.”
“Mostly I take her with me, but not to this appointment. That doctor can keep you waiting forever. Seemed better to leave her here with a sitter since Nicole couldn’t stay.”
I could help. Even the offer might help. Everyone needed a backup. Or someone to have their back.
“Listen, Mel, if you ever need to leave her with me, you are welcome to. Just call. The sad truth is that Annie probably has a better understanding of children than I, but I’ll do my best.” And I won’t be distracted by my phone.
“Well, that’s sweet . . . but you have your own life, your own obligations. Still, I might take you up on it if it ever comes to that.” She dabbed her eyes with the back of her hand. “I don’t know what’s wrong with me.”
“You love her.”
“Well, again, I know that’s true, but I’m also old.”
“Not that old. I’ve seen you work.” I was trying to cajole her past this distress. I wanted her to be the woman I’d met the day she’d come to restore the dining room furniture after Sue Deale had sent it back to Wildflower House, to where it had started.
“Come on in, Kara. Join Maddie and me for that snack. I could use a bit of sugar and caffeine myself.”
“Oh, I don’t want to bother you.”
“Stop that. Just cooperate and come on in.”
Without Seth, I thought. Just me. I was invited.
“Yes, ma’am. Sounds lovely.”
Mel gave me a doubtful look. “Lovely,” she muttered. “Maybe I better break out the good dishes . . .” She made a noise that may have been a snorted laugh and walked away.
I followed Mel up the steps and into the house. The concrete steps. The black iron railing. The storm door. It looked like many of the houses I remembered from the neighborhood where I’d grown up. I had plenty of unhappy memories, but what I was most struck by was the belief I’d had as a child that the families who lived in those houses had been happy, with smiles and laughter and affectionate hugs—where even the scolding parents wore gently chiding but so very wise expressions. It probably hadn’t been true, but I’d believed it. Now, as an adult, I understood that nothing was all good or all bad. I’d had my tragedies, but I’d also had security. That was more than many had. I hadn’t wasted a lot of time with self-pity, but still . . . there were troubles . . . hurt . . . that I’d never dealt with in a real way. I wondered if Maddie would also carry the seeds of that with her as she grew—into later relationships and even adult decisions about her life.
I joined Maddie in the small dining room at the old maple dinette set, where she was already seated.
“Hi, Maddie Lyn. It’s splendid to see you again.”
She giggled and offered me a cookie.
Mel said, “Want some coffee?”
“Sure.”
“I’ve got one of those machines, so choose the flavor you want.”
“Umm, how about Brazilian roast?”
She nodded at the selection. “Go for it. Here’s the mugs.”
I did. It was a sort of tea party. I’d never had one of those. But this one had coffee and cookies and good company and seemed just about perfect to me.
I sat next to Maddie and accepted a napkin and cookie from her. “Thank you, Maddie Lyn.”
“Welcome, Miss Kara.”
She spoke so sincerely, without the least hint of her adventure and how I’d come to be here. I almost laughed in delight.
Mel smiled but said, “Don’t be thinking, Miss Maddie Lyn, that a little politeness is going to get you out of trouble for running off. You know better.”
“But . . .”
“Don’t ‘but’ me, Maddie Lyn. Your old grandmother can’t take such drama.”
Between bites of cookie and sips of coffee, I said, “You come visit me anytime, Maddie. You are always welcome. But”—I waved my hands with my own dash of drama—“only if Grammy gives permission first. Otherwise you’ll get us both into trouble, and we might not get any cookies.”
Maddie’s eyes widened, playing along with my overstated drama, but then she broke out in giggles. Mel and I weren’t far behind with our own laughter.
The tea party was wonderful. Maddie’s solo walk had caused us alarm, but no harm was done except to Mel’s frayed nerves. I dropped a quick kiss on Maddie’s forehead and left. Mel walked me out. I stood with her on the sidewalk and asked about the Daddy Seth reference.
Mel sighed. “It’s new, all right. One of the kids she plays with had a group of girls over. Maddie Lyn came home saying that Uncle Daddy Seth nonsense.” Mel rubbed her face, then looked at me. “I asked her about it. One of the girls was pestering Maddie Lyn about whether she had a daddy or not. Apparently, this was our Miss Maddie’s solution.”
“I see.” I tried to keep my response and my expression judgment-free. Seth had upset a lot of lives when he’d left . . . and I’d played a part in encouraging that. It was no one’s fault, truly. We were all, including Mel, doing the best we could.
“It’ll pass. We talked about it, and I figure I’ll just let it go for now. Put it down to some kind of phase.”
I touched Mel’s shoulder. “I’m sure it’s best not to draw too much attention to it. As you say, with love and support Maddie will work things out. Meanwhile, remember what I said. You can always call on me.”
Mel gave me a hug. After a surprised pause, I hugged her back. She seemed tiny. Her shoulders were thin, and I felt the sharp edges of her shoulder blades.
As I walked alone on the path back toward the bridge and Wildflower House, I paused at that tree trunk. I thought of losses, but mostly of my own, especially of my lost pregnancy—the child I’d never had. Maybe one day I’d have another chance. After all, I was barely in my thirties. But Seth was the closest thing I had to a boyfriend, and he was far away. And we were far from being a couple.
The child. Would the baby have been a boy or girl?
I had reached the bridge. I leaned against the railing, watching the creek flow past below my feet.
My lost child wouldn’t be as old as Maddie. Only a toddler by now. And the child’s hair would probably have been dark since both Niles and I had brown hair. But he or she might’ve inherited my Dad’s hazel eyes, like me.
I rubbed my face and felt the scar on my temple. Did the memory still hurt? Perhaps it was a shade less sharp, and that was why I was thinking about it in a way I hadn’t before—almost envisioning the child who hadn’t been. It was a relief to imagine that child and not feel acute anguish. Was this a step forward in my own strengthening? Was I growing in wellness and confidence?
This bridge, wooden and gray and rough, was the port from which Seth and Maddie had launched their toy boats to sail down Cub Creek. They’d floated past me that day at a serendipitous moment—a moment when I’d been desperately in need of a delightful distraction. That had been the day I’d fallen in the creek and the other two had joined me there with splashing and laughter.
It was a lovely memory.
Seth, when are you coming home? Maddie needs you. I do too.
I believed we could build our relationship into something truly special, but the sense of time passing was strong.
The wooden planks were plenty sturdy underfoot, but as I leaned against the railing, gazing
downstream and musing about things past, I felt a give to it. I stepped back and pushed against the handrail. It wobbled a little. Seemed loose where it was attached to the actual bridge. I didn’t push too hard because I didn’t want to break it. Whose bridge was this, and whose responsibility was it to fix? I’d ask Seth when next we spoke.
Brushing the tiny bits of wood and grit from my hands, I crossed over to my property—back to my side of Cub Creek. I had things to do.
As I walked up toward the house, I saw Will coming from the direction of the carriage house. He saw me and headed toward me. I must’ve had a smile on my face, because he beamed right back at me. I felt that glow. I almost screeched to a halt. How foolish was I? It was an exchange of smiles, nothing more. I pulled my elusive dignity back around myself.
“Will, hi.”
“Kara. What’s up?”
“Not much. I was just over at the Albers house and walked back by way of the path. Her granddaughter, Maddie, was here visiting.”
“Nice. Not that I know them all that well, but she’s a cute kid.”
I touched my hair despite myself and ended up smoothing it back over my shoulder. “As a matter of fact, I crossed the wooden bridge. You know the one I mean?”
“Sure.”
“The railing was loose. Maybe you’d be willing to take a look? See if it’s an easy fix?”
“I can do that.”
“Thank so much. I don’t know who’s responsible for the upkeep. If Seth was here, I’d ask him, but he’s not. Thanks for helping.”
“No problem.”
His words sounded good, but his smile had dimmed. I gave him an extra look as he walked away. With his eyes, strong facial features, and imposing figure, Will was naturally handsome. With his black hair tamed and his face shaved . . . well, it paid off.
Had I offended him in some way? He’d seemed fine until I’d mentioned Seth.
I reined in my overactive brain. I was putting way too much thought into this.
I just didn’t want to toy with his feelings if he . . .
Whoa, girl. Exactly who do you think you are? Some sort of hot babe? One real boyfriend in your whole life—Niles—a relationship that ended disastrously, and a potential sweetheart in Seth, who moved about as far away as he could while staying in the country . . . and suddenly you’re worried you might be irresistible to any guy who happens to cross your orbit? Ha. I laughed.
I felt light again. Even the messed-up yard didn’t give me pause this time. It would all be handled in time.
Seth’s voice echoed in my head . . . Remember this, Kara. When you get discouraged, remember, you’ve got this.
I spent the afternoon online checking into potter’s wheels and easels and such, looking at details of quality and pricing. I knew the internet wasn’t a definitive source, but I needed a basic understanding if I was going to be talking to those who did know. Art and the stuff used to craft and create it had never been part of my life. Not really surprising, considering my childhood. I’d had the standard coloring book and set of crayons, but I’d been taught to color between the lines, and that was where I’d stayed.
Until now.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
No more hiding my work in the middle room—it was time to examine the details that must be considered for this business I was creating in a real-world setting. As I drove to meet with the accountant Nicole had recommended, I expected to be blown away or plowed under by those details.
I felt ill prepared as I walked into the accountant’s office with my paperwork in hand.
Ben Hanson put me at ease right away. He reminded me that this was my enterprise and my timeline. That people might help, but that ultimately I was in charge. Seth had said I must be in charge of my life. I couldn’t default on that to anyone else. He was right, and so was Ben.
He provided me with lists of usual expenses in this type of industry. They were long. I didn’t look at them too closely, as my brain felt like it was filling up quickly. I listened, though. I would digest it all later in the quiet of my project room.
I thanked Ben and shook his hand. He walked me to the door. I made it into my car before allowing myself to fully react to the meeting. I was pleasantly surprised to find that I’d survived and could still smile. I could do this.
At some point during the meeting, I’d realized that it wouldn’t be long before I hit the point at which my choices of improvements would pass beyond those I might choose to do for me alone or for resale, and they would move into expenses that would directly serve the business.
It felt like a critical milestone.
I started the car and headed home.
Decisions, many seemingly obvious but hard nevertheless, would need to be made. Yet something was working in my favor, because I hadn’t taken any pills in several days despite some sleeplessness. Instead, I used that time in the night to envision good things, like the beauty of the dining room wallpaper under the masterful hands of Moore Blackwell, the otherworldly peace inside the carriage house, and even my activities in the middle room. I was proud of my progress on the business plan and on my map. Maybe all that was part of being an artist. Perhaps I did have some creativity within me.
Of course, overcoming or becoming wasn’t that simple. The brain noise, the doubts—they wanted to roll back in. I would continue to find ways to see beyond and through them.
How had my father done it? He’d built his own very successful business, and he hadn’t had a lot of charm or social skills to rely on. It had been determination and good decisions. Probably some luck had been thrown in there too.
The other day Nicole had asked, “How much did you really discuss with your dad? How often did you just go along to avoid disagreement?”
I hadn’t liked the question, but it was true enough. Dad hadn’t intended to shut me out. It simply had never occurred to him to ask my opinion. But after we’d moved here, he’d made an effort. He had tried. He’d even opened up to me about his history. His father. His broken family and dreadful childhood. Even about my mother’s history of depression and how she’d enjoyed dancing when they’d met. That he’d loved her laughter and her mercurial moods when they’d dated and married, but that those shiny times hadn’t survived the dark times, the depressions. Until finally that was all there was.
The stories had seemed shattering when he’d taken me to that broken house where he’d been raised and finally opened up to me. But now the facts felt incomplete. Surface versions. The obvious sad stories with hints of darker stuff dwelling in the shadows, like the nooks in the forest edges. Dad was gone, and I couldn’t cajole or guilt him into telling me more. Would he have told me more? Maybe not. I’d never know. Maybe there really wasn’t more worth telling. Tragic was tragic.
When I thought about Nicole’s question, I didn’t hear it as a criticism now. I heard it as acknowledgment of a protective device. We protected ourselves. We held back. Either a piece of our hearts or parts of our stories. Our histories. We brushed the surface and called it done and packed those darker parts away for safekeeping. By means of civility and courtesy, we allowed them to stay buried. No one wanted to upset the applecart.
Disagreement upset the balance. But it was hard for me to blame anyone, including my dad, for wanting to avoid reliving unpleasantness.
In my childhood I had learned loyalty—absolute loyalty to our family and our family problems—and I had learned the stoic perseverance necessary to manage despite them. I hadn’t learned how to draw or paint, or even how to dance, and I’d never learned how to confront someone in a positive way, and I’d never learned forgiveness. Not even how to forgive myself.
Here at Wildflower House, when Dad had finally opened up to me and revealed what he’d hidden for decades, our world hadn’t ended. We’d gone on just fine. Better, in fact. I’d learned that dark secrets weren’t always damaging when exposed to the light of day.
Other than the one trip to the Lange property with Dad, I hadn’t gone back. I o
wned the property now as part of what I’d inherited from my father. I had no idea what to do with it. The smell of failure and forlorn hopes was too sharp and overbearing there.
Closing my eyes, I pictured a better scene—the one in front of me. The slope, the creek, the woods, and that great dried-up mud pie in the middle. I could throw down more seed and wait to see what would return . . . or construct something more deliberate. Imaginings flitted through my brain half-formed. Some took shape and form and seemed almost real.
I opened my eyes slowly, half expecting to see a fountain. A sculpture, maybe. Nothing huge, but striking and surrounded by flowers. Wildflowers. Colorful and bright, though a much smaller plot than the original wildflower field. The centerpiece—the sculpture or fountain—could echo the sundial already in place down by the creek.
There would be more lawn space. Lush and green, it would enhance the earthen terrace effect. It would be a lovely area for small group meetings outside, maybe yoga. Maybe en plein air painting.
Will’s crew had mowed around the edges to keep the grass down at the perimeter of the wildflower field. The field itself was now sprouting all sorts of green stuff, mostly unsightly.
The churned earth that used to be the field of flowers needed help and resolution.
I called out, “Will?”
He’d been in the carriage house, and he now stood at the open doors with the shadows behind him and the sun on his face. He walked toward the house and me. “Yes?”
“Do you know how to drive a riding mower?” I waved my hands. “Silly question. Of course you do.” By now he was nearing my perch on the porch. “What I mean to ask is, Can you show me how to drive one?”
He frowned. “If you need anything cut or mowed, just let me know.”
I gestured toward where the wildflowers had grown. “I’d like to do this job myself.”
He nodded and waited.
“The mower is in the shed. It was my father’s.”
“Yes, ma’am,” he answered softly.
