Wildflower Hope (The Wildflower House)

by Grace Greene

“I want to finish what he started.” I was struck by those words. Finish what he started. Was that what I was doing with this whole house thing? But this time I was talking about the dead flowers and finishing what my father had started the day he’d died. I couldn’t restore the flowers to how they’d looked before, but I could erase that churned-up area and turn it into something more fitting to my father’s memory.

  Will opened the double doors of the small shed. There was a low ramp up to the opening, and right smack in the middle of the small building was the mower.

  “Key’s in it. Want to do it now?”

  I looked up at the blue sky. Not a cloud in sight.

  “Yes.”

  He looked around. Lifted his cap and raked back his hair before repositioning it. “You could wait for a cooler day, or I can have Derek or Lon take care of it.”

  “I want to do it myself.”

  He frowned, then nodded again. As he drove the mower out of the shed and into the yard, I descended the steps and joined him.

  “It’s simple enough,” he said, climbing off the mower. He stood beside it. “Have a seat.”

  He touched my elbow as if I might need steadying. His touch was gentle but so brief that his fingers had already moved on to the key before I had a chance to process the sudden warmth on my face or even my slight instinctive lean toward him.

  “You’ll turn this key when you’re ready to start, but not yet. The gas pedal is down there. When you want to go, press on it with your foot. When you want to slow, ease up on it. When you want to stop, take your foot off all the way. You can’t get into too much trouble. Any problem—take your foot off the pedal. If you run out of gas, let me know. I’ll show you how to gas it up.”

  He stood there with his hand on the hood, his blue eyes earnest. It reminded me of that day when I’d first declared my intentions to Mel and Nicole. It had been right after Dad’s funeral, and everyone had been curious about whether I’d stay or go. When I’d said I planned to stay and turn the house into a retreat, Nicole and Mel had immediately offered their help with my project. They’d been so excited, but for me the doubts had rolled in right away.

  “You okay, Kara?”

  “Sorry. I was remembering something.”

  “Your father?”

  “No, something else. Just a memory.”

  “Well, don’t go woolgathering while you’re running this machine. That’s about the only way you’ll get into trouble doing this. Or by attempting a sharp slope. Don’t drive it along the creek bank. You could end up in the water with the mower on top of you.”

  “Woolgathering.”

  “Pardon?”

  “I haven’t heard that term in a long time. I don’t even remember where or from whom I heard it.”

  He laughed a little. “My granny says it. Means daydreaming. I have no idea what it has to do with gathering wool.” He pointed back downslope toward Cub Creek. “Remember, stay away from the creek bank. I’ll make sure that gets cut.” He scratched his head. “I know it’s your decision, and I understand why you think you want to do this yourself, but it’s a hot, sweaty job.”

  “It’s symbolic.”

  He nodded. He understood, and that pleased me. But then he added, “I should mention that a mower won’t actually do much good here.”

  “Why? The mud is dry.”

  “Yes, but these blades are only going to cut what’s sitting up more than a couple of inches. Most of the weeds . . . the flowery weeds, I mean . . . got pummeled, and they’re encased in that dried mud. I’d advise a tiller.”

  Blankly, I stared at the field. A tiller? “Do I have a tiller mode on this machine?”

  “It would be an attachment.”

  In a small but determined voice, I asked, “Do you know if I have one?”

  “There isn’t a tiller in the shed. Odds are there wasn’t one available for this mower. You’d need something heavier for this job anyway.”

  I was sitting astride this machine, having steeled myself to this task, symbolic or not, and I was stymied for lack of a tiller.

  Will said, “I have one.”

  “Oh. Why didn’t you say so sooner? Can I borrow it?”

  “Doesn’t quite work like that. It attaches to a tractor. I could bring the tractor and tiller over and till the ground.”

  I shook my head. “I should’ve just told you to do that the first day we discussed it. I never really had a choice about that, did I?”

  Ridiculously frustrated, I wanted to cry.

  “Kara?”

  I nodded but couldn’t bring myself to look up at him.

  “If you don’t mind . . . while we’re here, I’d like to tell you what I see.”

  I frowned. “You see? What?”

  He waved his hand, encompassing the whole backyard area. “We’ll till all this and lay sod top to bottom except for a large circular plot in this upper area. Imagine a huge circle. The outer ring will be the flowers. Any flowers you want. If you want annuals, they can be easily reached and replanted in that spot. If you want perennials, wildflowers . . . whatever. The inner circle will be azaleas. They stay green year-round and will be planted such that the early bloomers will give way to the midseason bloomers and then the late bloomers. We can plant those by quadrants or in rows. Do you follow me?”

  Without waiting for an answer, he said, “Think of it like a medallion in the middle of the yard. English garden type. And around it, the grass lays like a green carpet. We’ll restore some of the terrace effect that’s eroded so you’ll have flat, level areas for chairs or yoga or whatever, but smooth out those terrace-type earthen steps on each side along the woods’ edge. It’ll make for a better walking experience. More user friendly for your visitors.”

  A medallion? English garden type? A better walking experience on the sides?

  “Thank you, Will.” I pushed my hair back behind my ear, trying to refocus. “Maybe with a fountain or statue in the center?”

  He nodded, but not looking at me. He was looking at the yard space, the growing space. Envisioning—I could see that now. Now we were both staring at that spot as if this were a real thing, already done.

  He said, “Got it. Good idea.”

  “Yes.” I could see it too.

  “Whichever you prefer. You might want a sprinkler set up for the garden anyway, so a fountain recycling the water would make sense.”

  I stared, feeling the picture grow in my head and before me, feeling almost like Will and I had some sort of idea pipeline shooting visions back and forth between us.

  “It will be a wonderful memorial to your father.” In a soft voice, Will added, “That’s what you’re wanting, right?”

  “It is.”

  “And it will serve your other purposes too. Art classes, meetings, or whatever—in the same spot. On hot days, you have the more private, shady nooks in the woods.”

  “Yes,” I breathed, my fingers tight around the steering wheel. He saw it. Will understood what I was creating.

  “Will?”

  “Yes, Kara?”

  “Do you mind if I share my doubt?”

  “Not sure what you mean, but go for it.”

  I kept my eyes focused ahead. “I already told you this was an impulsive idea. It isn’t as if it’s been a lifetime dream for me to open a creative place, a retreat for women.”

  “Not only women.”

  This time I turned and glanced at him. “I was imprecise. Men and women. Though I think this will appeal mainly to women, don’t you?”

  He shrugged. “You probably have a better idea about that than I do.”

  “Honestly? I haven’t a clue. Just assumptions. I’ve been working on a business plan and even spoke with a CPA, but I feel like I’m learning on the job—a fairly high-stakes, costly experiment. Failure would be . . .” I faltered.

  “I am encouraged. I’m even optimistic at times, but this endeavor doesn’t come with a guarantee of success. I don’t want anyone to think I’m something I’
m not.”

  “You are tough on yourself.”

  “I try to be honest.”

  Will said, “Honesty is fine, but what you’re really doing is overthinking.”

  I gave a small, slightly rude laugh.

  “You’re alone too much.”

  That jolted me. “Not much I can do about that.”

  “What I meant is when my sister is alone too much, she starts chewing over stuff. By the time anyone knows she’s even close to worried, she’s tied up in knots over a ‘nothing’ thing.”

  “Oh, I see. Seth said I should save big decisions for morning and then spend the rest of the day focused on getting the job done.”

  “Smart.”

  “Do you know him? Seth Albers?”

  “Sure, I know Seth. Not close friends. He was a few years ahead of me in school. But yes, I know him. Good guy.”

  It had felt important to bring up Seth. To put his name, if not his person, right here between us. Between? That was silly. With us, rather. Just to declare that Seth was in my life whether he was on-site or not. Nothing was going on between Will and me except a growing friendliness. Nothing wrong with that.

  I said, “Maybe your sister and I have that worry thing in common. For me, though, I think I’m not busy enough doing physical work. I hire people to do the actual labor. I am writing the project and business plans, but”—I flexed my hands—“it’s not the same. In fact . . . this will sound foolish, but I’m drawing a layout of the property, like one of those maps they sell in tourist areas with landmarks and restaurants and such on them.”

  “Yeah?”

  “If I like how it turns out, I’ll hire someone to execute the final work.”

  “That’s a great idea for your guests. For advertising and promotion too.”

  “I agree, assuming it turns out, but what I really want to do is . . .” I looked at my hands, palms red from gripping that wheel. “I want to do something.”

  “Like what?”

  “Mr. Blackwell is working on the wallpaper. You’re handling the yard. Nicole is working with the attorney and the county, getting all that together. I feel as though I’m on the outside looking in.” I shook my head. “I’m sorry, Will. Didn’t mean to share all that.”

  “No problem.” He held out his hand. “Let’s take a walk.”

  My hand reached toward his automatically, and our fingers touched. I froze. “A walk? Where?”

  “Show me what’s going on inside.”

  “In the house?”

  “Moore’s working in there now, right?”

  “He is.”

  “Then let’s go see.”

  “Why?” What was Will up to?

  “Show me what he’s doing.” He held his hand palm up. He didn’t grab my extended hand but waited for me to complete the connection. I did.

  I clasped his hand and immediately moved to climb off of the mower. We were holding hands for a purpose. Courtesy on his part. Convenience on mine. I refused to acknowledge how natural, how right, it felt to hold his hand. As soon as I was off the mower and onto my feet, I released his hand and took mine back.

  “Thank you,” I said.

  “You’re welcome,” he answered.

  We walked together up to the porch and into the house. I was rubbing my hands together. Nervous? But why?

  Mr. Blackwell heard us coming. He looked up. “Hello, there, Will. How’re you doing?”

  “Fine, Moore. How are you?” He gave the wall a close look. “Cleaning this paper? Looks good.”

  Mr. Blackwell nodded across the foyer toward the parlor. “Chip’s in the other room prepping that paper for removal.”

  Moore. Will called him by his first name so easily. We were all adults here. Why was I having such a hard time moving this older man into first-name status?

  I tried again. “It’s looking really good—” I stumbled before giving in and finishing up with, “Mr. Blackwell.”

  He fixed me with those dark eyes and heavy brows. “You should call me Moore, too, miss. Simpler.”

  “Of course. And you’ll call me Kara.”

  Will and I exchanged some sort of glance. I was tempted to look longer, but he’d already broken eye contact. He was scanning the foyer and the parlor and the area around us.

  “So it looks like that paper over there is coming down. Dining room paper stays. What about the living room?”

  “Sitting room. I use it as a living room, but it was introduced to us as a sitting room, so that’s what I call it.”

  “Sitting room.”

  “That paper is coming down.”

  “Paint?”

  “Yes. I haven’t decided the colors yet.” I shrugged. “So many decisions to make.”

  Chip passed us with a nod and went out the front door. Will walked into the parlor. He stepped over a roll of plastic and stared at the wall and at the fireplace.

  I said, “The fireplaces are all blocked. The work looks clumsy, poorly done, in my opinion.”

  “What are you going to use this room for?”

  “The parlor? A place for guests to sit and read. Small group meetings.”

  He gestured around the room as he said, “I’d paint the walls gray. A light to medium gray. Install bookshelves on this wall. White with white trim. Keep the rest of the room simple—gray and white—except for the books on the shelves, and maybe a nice rug. If you like murals and want to improve the look of the fireplace, I have a suggestion for that too.”

  “What?”

  “What for which part?” he asked.

  “Both. What’s the suggestion?”

  “A fire screen painting.”

  Will’s appearance might be a bit tamer than when we’d first met, but he didn’t even vaguely resemble my idea of an interior decorator. Puzzled and curious, I gave him a long look, saying, “You’ve surprised me.”

  “Why? Because I have an opinion about whether to paint or paper?”

  “It’s more than that.” He was being deliberately obtuse. “Your suggestions were so specific.”

  “I probably saw a picture of a room like that in a magazine ad or something. It stuck in my head. No mystery.”

  I felt his mental or emotional pushback. I’d trespassed, but he’d invited himself into this, hadn’t he? Had, in actuality, invited me into his imagination. I respected that. I knew these walls would never be gray. Maybe a grayed blue, or a bluish lavender. But I wouldn’t say it while Will was in the act of imagining. That would’ve been about as rude as a person could get.

  I prompted him to continue. “And in that magazine picture, a scene of some kind was painted on the fireplace?”

  “I didn’t explain it right. I saw the white bookcases on a gray wall with the wall showing through. You have to build it right, though, or the shelves won’t support the weight of the books . . . anyway, the fire screen paintings weren’t in that picture. That’s something different. It’s not painted on the actual fireplace, but it’s a painting framed in an antique fire screen that sits in front of the blocked area.” Suddenly, he was patting at his pockets. He pulled out his phone. “Here it is.”

  He was scrolling through his photos in no time—no awkward fumbling for apps or hitting the wrong thing and blowing it up. He said, “Here. This.”

  He handed the phone to me. I took it.

  The photo was small and hard to see in detail, but the painting was situated in front of the fireplace. I could barely make out the fire screen frame that held it, but the intent seemed clear. The painting itself was abstract—a mishmash of colors and textures.

  “Beautiful,” I said, handing the phone back to him. “I’d love to see them in person.”

  “I can arrange that.”

  I nodded. “Are they done locally?”

  “Yes.” He looked a little embarrassed. “Actually, I have a personal interest.”

  A personal interest? In what? Who? My breath caught in an odd way, but Will didn’t notice.

  “My sister, B
rittany, paints them. Your interest will give her a real mood boost.” He waved his hand. “But don’t feel committed or anything. There’s no obligation. I appreciate you being willing to consider them.”

  “Is this the same sister that overthinks things?”

  “It is.”

  Will and I walked through the foyer and down the hallway. My brain was busy. Dad had said something about choosing our color scheme based on one special or unique item. Dad had suggested using the blue vase or even my delphinium needlework piece to build the rest of the decor in the sitting room, and that would help guide the decorating throughout the foyer and into the parlor. Decorating had never been Dad’s thing. He was just being logical and using the process to reduce the world of possible choices.

  “Thanks for sharing your ideas.”

  Will nodded. “Not sure I did anything much, but if so, I’m happy it helped.”

  “I think you did it on purpose.”

  He smiled. A shy smile. He brushed his hair out of his face. I recognized a defensive gesture—and just like that my hand shot up, and my fingers pressed against the scar on my temple. The thin ridge of flesh was in my hairline and not terribly noticeable, but . . . I pulled my hand back. Maybe Will wasn’t just shy. Maybe he had damage too. Most of us did. Some people dealt with it better—or hid it better.

  I added softly, “You tried to help me think, instead of just operating on feeling. Is that what you do with your sister? When she gets lost in overthinking?”

  “No credit here.” He started toward the kitchen door, then turned back. “I’ll let Britt know you’re interested in the fireplace screens. Maybe I’ll bring a couple with me tomorrow?”

  “Perfect,” I said.

  He nodded. I let him go without me.

  His eyes had been bright and interested, and I’d almost touched his arm but had pulled my hand back quickly.

  It occurred to me that I knew very little about Will. He had some mystery about him. And a pleasant sense of humor.

  “You okay?”

  Moore was up on a tall ladder. A sponge was in his hand, like he’d paused midaction as he cleaned the paper. I was standing in the foyer, staring at nothing.

  “I’m fine. Yes.”

  “You look relieved. Must’ve made some decisions?”