by Grace Greene
“I think so. I’ve had trouble getting into rhythm with this project.”
“Sometimes ideas need to simmer awhile. Good for stew, tea, wallpaper removal, and even certain decisions. Each in its own good time.”
“Truth, Moore.”
“Yes, ma’am, Kara.”
CHAPTER TWELVE
Will was bringing his sister’s paintings over this morning. He’d said probably, but I knew it was definite. My heart quickened. After washing up and dressing, I went downstairs for my coffee and paused to consider how those fire screen paintings might look in place.
The paintings could look less compelling in person. Could I be honest with Will? Dad had always said not to do important business with friends or family because it was too damaging to the relationship if anything went wrong.
No, Kara. This will be good. And if it’s not, you’ll be honest with Will. You’ll have to.
Yesterday had been a good day. I was still feeling it this morning. What I wasn’t feeling was foggy. Was that the recipe? Have a good day and fill the empty nights with expectations of more good things to come? I was doing that. I warned myself not to let that become a new trap and an excuse to backslide when days weren’t good.
Will arrived, but in a car this time instead of in his work truck. When I opened the door, he looked up and waved, indicating I should stay on the porch. He opened the trunk and lifted out two wrapped forms about the size of largish paintings.
“Need any help?”
“Thanks, but I’ve got it.”
I held the door wide for him to enter. He set one package down in the foyer, leaning it against the wall. For the other, he removed the brown paper. I caught a glimpse of color and pattern as he arranged the unwrapped painting in front of the parlor fireplace. I moved closer for a better look. At first glance, the tiled effect reminded me of ancient Greek or Roman mosaics, but the subject was flowers—wild, exuberant flowers, with a Grandma Moses feel. The painted white grout between the tiles gave it a 3-D realism look that contrasted oddly with the folksy style. It drew my hand like a magnet; I wanted to touch it. All I could think of was if you mashed Monet with a Roman mosaic, this would be the result.
“It’s lovely.”
“Thanks.”
“Brittany is a talented woman.”
He flashed that smile. “I’ll let her know.” He pointed at the painting. “Imagine that painting in a black iron frame with feet from an antique fire screen.”
“Repurposed?”
He grinned this time. “Yeah.”
“In a gray or blue-gray room with white trim.” I saw them, the colors in the painting, echo right across the hallway. Those bits of bluey lavender would transition right across the foyer from the parlor to the sitting room. I glanced at the second package, suddenly feeling almost hungry in my eagerness to see it.
Will’s large, rough hands delicately unwrapped the brown paper, unfolding it slowly, perhaps hesitantly.
Would I be disappointed? I held back, waiting.
Until he dropped the paper away.
No tiles here. Color, yes, but in a landscape scene. It was done in an aerial view but then pulled into an almost globe shape, but only a section of the globe. The distortion was at first glance almost dizzying, but then as the brain processed it, it settled down, and the landscape became less disorienting but more compelling. Hypnotizing.
The paintings touched a chord in me. I felt a magnetic pull. “I’ve never seen anything quite like them.”
There was that slight glow on his face again, as well as a reserve or hesitation I couldn’t read.
“Does she paint for a living, or is she in school?”
“She isn’t in school right now. She’s . . . in between things at the moment. Living with our mom.” He paused. “She’s had some tough breaks. This could give her a new . . . focus.”
How much could I ask about his sister without being rude? I didn’t know.
“You’ll frame this one too? With the fireplace screen frame?”
“Sure. She paints them to fit the frames we’ve collected at thrift and secondhand shops. We’ve even got one that’s three panels—like an old Chinese screen—that sits on the floor under its own power. Without feet, I mean.”
“I really love these, Will.”
“I’ll get them set up in the metal framing and bring them back over.”
“I suppose it would be overkill to put one at each fireplace?”
“Not necessarily. Also, there are other options. You can do simpler images or cover them in fabric or wallpaper or even combinations like an old-fashioned collage—it could work in the right room.”
“Will, thank you. I think I’ve found my decorating direction, the anchor. I appreciate your ideas and”—I waved my hands at the fireplaces—“these.” I stared at the first one again. “You’ll ask Brittany how much she wants for them?”
“Happy to.”
“In fact, why don’t you bring her over, and she and I can chat about this? I’d love to meet her.”
Will scratched his cheek. He looked uncomfortable. “About that,” he said. “She’s not very sociable. I wish I could say she’d come, but . . .”
“It’s okay. Truly. She’s an artist, and she’s had tough times, as you said.”
“She was in an accident last year. A rollover. It has limited her physically in some ways. She has trouble getting past that.”
I wanted to cry out, I understand. I was in an accident too. I’m still getting over it. Remembering my own trauma, I nodded. “Then we’ll give her a little space for now. Maybe later, after we open, we can feature her along with local artists and artisans? I don’t know what kind of event that would be, but I’m open to what makes sense. Perhaps she’ll even get to the point where she’ll teach a workshop for guests who want to paint.”
Will drew in a quick breath. “I hope so. I don’t know.” He added, “I told her about you.”
“About me? You mean about wanting to see the paintings?”
“That you’d been in a serious accident. I don’t know much about your accident. You don’t talk about it, but I know you were injured and hurt your leg. To look at you, no one would ever know.”
I almost laughed. In a sudden, unexpected rush of warmth, I reached out and touched Will’s hand. “That’s because you didn’t know me before, or even during the recovery. I’m only just now becoming Kara Lange Hart again—but a better, upgraded version, I hope.”
Will was staring at my hand on his. Self-conscious but feeling oddly unrepentant about it, I slowly withdrew mine. I’d been about to make a joke about being Kara Version 2.0 and thought better of it. Better to drop the chatty stuff and stick with business.
“I’d love to meet her if that’s good with her, but only if she’s okay with it. As for the paintings, does she have more? I mean, just in case I decide to use one or two upstairs?”
“She doesn’t always finish her paintings, but if she sells some, it might encourage her. These are the two I thought would work best.”
He’d paid attention. And had shown excellent taste. My hands wanted to stray again. I clasped them together.
“Will, you are a puzzle.”
“In what way?”
“You work hard out there in the heat and the bugs and the ‘cautions’ that could be hiding anywhere out there in the wild—in the wilderness—and yet I’ve seen creativity in what you do. An instinct for design. But interior design suggestions? You surprise me.”
“I like physical work. Not knocking down trees for the sake of knocking them down—but making the most of outdoor living space and trying to do it in a way that’s healthy for the plants.”
“I never realized all that was going on in your head when you were hacking at the overgrowth.”
My words sounded awful, judgmental, and limiting—I cringed even before I finished saying them—but Will just grinned all the broader and stood a little taller.
He said, “People who work outside are usually mo
re in touch with nature than they get credit for. It’s our workplace. Can you imagine going into an office every day, year after year, if you despised it? People tend not to get that. I’m used to the attitude. As for the inside stuff—even a guy can have an opinion on paint colors.”
As quickly as I smiled, Will looked aside. I thought of that shyness. We’d seemed to be past that. Maybe not.
He stepped away, and then suddenly he turned, asking, “You like the idea about the garden in the backyard, right?”
“The medallion garden? Yes, I love the idea.”
“If you don’t mind me suggesting something else?” He grimaced. “I hope you don’t think I’m trying to run up the bill.”
“Of course not.”
“When we’re done cleaning the front acreage and getting the parking area the way you want it, would you be interested in walking paths? We can improve the path along the creek. Make it a better user experience, plus safer. You might consider bike paths too.”
He must’ve seen the instant resistance on my face. Walking paths? Maybe. Bike paths? Sounded like a huge insurance liability to me. This was a retreat, not a . . . a . . . I couldn’t think of the right word. A resort? A health club? Well, it kind of was. But in a quieter, more cerebral, creative way.
“Just a suggestion.”
“It was a good suggestion. Sorry, I went away again . . . woolgathering. I’m not sure about the bike-path idea, but improve the walking path? Yes, that would be good. In both directions along the creek, I think. We can talk about it more later?”
“Sure. I’ll get back to work.”
“Thank you, Will.” I walked out to the front porch with him.
“No problem. The tractor and tiller will be here this afternoon, and we’ll do a proper job on the backyard.” He nodded, grinned, and turned away and strode off across the yard and around the side of the house.
That grin was different. He was more comfortable with me now.
And me? Yeah, I was comfortable. Too much so?
I laughed. I was, in truth, alone too much. And I was too grateful for Will’s presence to risk screwing that up.
I felt reenergized. By the evening it had faded to a warm, fuzzy feeling—the belief that I could do this. Not overnight, and not without worry, but so long as I didn’t let it overwhelm me, I could. I gave Will credit for that thought. Just as I gave Seth credit for the good advice he’d given me about making decisions.
I was sitting in a chair on the front porch in the growing twilight.
The phone was on the armrest—for once near at hand—and I checked the time again. Could I call Seth and not risk interrupting an important meeting? I wanted to hear his voice. Sometimes I missed him more than usual . . . and tonight was one of those times. It was probably late enough, and, I reminded myself, he’d let it go to voice mail if he couldn’t take the call now.
I wouldn’t mention Will to him. No need. This was just about me and Seth.
He answered the video call right away. He looked good, as usual. A bit distracted but smiling as he greeted me with, “Hey, Kara.”
“Hey, yourself. Is this a good time?”
“Perfect time.” He squinted at the phone screen. “Are you sitting in the dark?”
“On the porch.” I asked, “Are you busy?”
“Not at the moment. I’m waiting for a couple of coworkers. We’re having dinner with a client. Until they come to get me, I’m all yours.”
All mine. The warm fuzzies continued.
“I wanted to thank you. What you said about making decisions only in the morning? It was brilliant. You are brilliant, Seth.”
He laughed. “Not brilliant, but occasionally I learn from my own mistakes, at least well enough to share it.” He paused, then added, “I hope you’ll remind me of my own words of wisdom when I backslide.”
“Do I hear tension? Maybe a little stress? Is it the job?”
“The job has challenges. I’ve always worked on my own, even when I wrote columns for the newspaper. As long as I met my deadlines, I could work any time of the day or night. Jobs like this—very office centric—tend to blur that line between job time and personal time.”
“But when you’re able to work from here, that may improve. They promised you could, right? When that happens, you’ll get some freedom back.” I wanted him to say yes.
“That’s true, but things are pretty dynamic around here—ever moving and changing. I confess that sometimes I’m on board with it—like an excitement junkie.”
“That’s a good thing, I guess.”
“How’s it going for you? You look amazing this evening.”
I touched my hair and flipped it back over my shoulder. The evening light was kind to me. I was glad he’d noticed.
“Things are going well, Seth. Really well. I got off to a rough start, but now the project is showing tangible progress. I’m excited about it.”
“Fantastic, Kara. Super. When you have doubts, and you will, remember that’s just a stumbling block. Imagine doubt that way, like an empty can in your way, and kick it—kick it right into the next county.”
I laughed. “Sometimes you’re funny, sometimes just silly. But thank you for making me smile.”
“I hear them in the hallway. I have to go, but listen, Kara: I’m coming home soon to check on Mom and Maddie and all that. When I do, you and I are finally going to have that date.”
“I’ll be here. Oh, Seth, I have so much to show you. Real progress.”
His name was being called, and the voices of several people were audible in the background. They were laughing and chatting.
Seth said, “Gotta go, Kara. Talk to you soon.”
Silence.
“Bye—” I stopped. He’d already disconnected. His face . . . his smile . . . gone in a heartbeat. I was jolted. I didn’t blame him for hanging up, but I was jealous of those people he was having fun with, even if it was for work.
Darkness had fallen now. I continued sitting. I hadn’t turned the porch light on, and no lights were on inside, so the only light available was whatever the heavens cared to share.
I wished Seth were sitting here with me. Tonight, with the insects calling and the fireflies playing hide-and-seek among the pines, this felt like peace. It wasn’t permanent. Peace could never be perfect as long as we humans were so imperfect. I missed Dad. He’d never been much of a conversationalist, but he’d been there for me. At times his lack of emotional warmth had frustrated me, but I’d never doubted him.
I felt similarly about Seth. He had confidence and loyalty. Right now, his absence was disappointing, but I trusted him.
I had encouraged Seth to find a job he could embrace, where he could use his skills. He’d written columns for the newspaper in Richmond until the paper had cut that out of their budget. Since then, he’d been living in Cub Creek with his mom, helping with Maddie Lyn. Even I could see he’d fallen into a rut because he’d wanted to do his part and help his family.
I’d stuck my nose into his business and encouraged Seth to find a job in his chosen field, one that would inspire him. Had I done that because I’d felt I should be getting out into the world again instead of hanging here with my father?
Yeah, I thought I had.
Seth’s job offer had come through while we’d been holding Dad’s memorial service.
The offer had been an exciting one. I’d urged him to take the chance even though I truly wanted him to stay, to help me through that awful time. The employer had wanted Seth in LA immediately. Seth had been caught in a quandary. In fact, he’d offered to put off the new employer and stay here to help me through the grief. I’d told him no. I’d told him to go because it had been the right thing to do. I’d told him to go so he could come back to me all the sooner.
I smiled at the phone and ran a finger along the sleek plastic casing. He’d return. And when he did, he’d be amazed at how much I’d accomplished.
Would Will be gone by then, having moved on to another jo
b site?
That thought made me sad. But the reality was that people came into our lives and left our lives.
Niles. Victoria.
Niles, me, and Victoria. Victoria claimed she’d known him first—had known each of us first. She seemed to think it gave her special status in our lives. Maybe it had for a while. But Victoria had never found her own, separate life. Instead, she’d followed Niles and me to Northern Virginia after college.
Why had I allowed these memories to intrude? What if tonight was the night I gave in to the little voice that whispered I’d already proved I didn’t really need the pills—that I could take them or leave them? I’d already proved I could leave them, so I could go back to taking them anytime I wanted. No problem.
It was a thin line between a poor choice and a good one.
The meds were still in the drawer. I hadn’t disposed of them.
Not all addictions were physical. Maybe certain addictions, or even bad habits and other crutches, were opportunistic . . . like weeds, ready to fill the empty spots and choke out the opportunity for better ones.
There were several vehicles parked in the driveway the next morning. Will’s truck, plus another truck and Lon’s sedan. At least, I thought it was Lon’s. He tended to drive a variety of vehicles. Moore’s van wasn’t here today, but Chip was unloading a tarp from the back of his own truck. He looked up and waved. I smiled and returned his greeting. “Door’s unlocked. Let yourself in.”
“Will do.”
“I’ll be out in the carriage house if you need me.”
Will and his crew were working around the property, but no one was in sight as I followed the path with a light step. I was feeling good about the project and pleased to add another pill-free night (despite some moments of temptation) to several in a row.
The shady coolness of the carriage house, and the sense of mystery and untold stories in its ambience, drew me. Most of the wild growth had been cleared away, the electric line had been connected, and the mustiness was almost gone—I found it enchanting. Full of promise. Plus, Will might be there. I had ideas I wanted to discuss with him.
The doors slid open smoothly on newly oiled runners.
