by Grace Greene
Kara, whose good opinion, once lost, could never be regained.
Pride and Prejudice, right? Hadn’t Darcy said that?
Okay. Call me Darcy. I felt the smile trying to twitch up the corners of my lips.
Admit it, Kara. You’ve gotten so lost in ugly you’ve also lost sight of common sense and fair play. And forgiveness.
Was it as simple as that? Really?
Maybe. But it was risky. People hurt people.
I’d survived hurt thus far, hadn’t I?
Mostly.
Maybe the biggest question wasn’t about forgiveness itself but rather about who needed to forgive whom.
Overwhelmed again, I limped along to the sound of the creek and the birds and thought about the bench—much more pleasant to think about than other recent events.
The path followed along the creek for a long way before it diverged and turned inland toward the old Lange property where Dad grew up. I was pretty sure Will’s crew would not have cleared the path that far. I wouldn’t want them to. Dad had owned that property and had left it undisturbed for personal reasons—not all of which he was able to verbalize. Now I owned the property and had no idea what to do with it, but I didn’t want it as part of the retreat. For the guests, it would be no more than a curiosity—a fallen-down house they had no understanding of, no respect for the personal history around it. I should clear the land, I thought. Clear it out and erase its past. Maybe salt the ground or something. Maybe pray over it, wishing peace to the memories made there and forgiveness for the mistakes of those who’d dwelled in that spot.
There was that annoying word again—forgiveness. I swatted it away like a gnat.
All of that flitted through my mind. I saw a few butterflies lighting on bushes along the side of the yard and dragonflies touching down on the surface of the creek, on the sides of the creek, and on a fallen, half-submerged branch. With the people gone, my walk was peaceful.
Along the path, I saw obvious cuts to greenery where branches and sticker bushes had been trimmed back and other improvements. The larger trees, the oaks, were farther back from the path, but their branches arched over, crowding much of the overhead view with only peeks of blue between the boughs. Near to the path and back with the oaks, the pines with thick trunks rose high. The heavy layers of bark were decorative.
Where the rocks nearly blocked the creek, I stopped to consider. There’d be space for a bench here if we cleared away some of the scrubbier brush. Perhaps room for even a discreet gnome or two?
This was the farthest I’d gone along the path before. And I’d never gone alone. I was pleasantly surprised by the feeling of peace and of quiet that wasn’t silent. I heard a gobble in the woods. Maddie Lyn’s turkeys? I’d always been a city girl. Turkeys, living and breathing and gobbling in my woods, instead of beheaded and frozen in the grocery store, seemed way too exotic.
Signs of path clearing ended abruptly. The path beyond, the woods ahead, had a different feel altogether.
Was it the quality of the light? The accident, now close to two years past, had left me with an extreme sensitivity to light; bright light, especially artificial light, could give me a vicious headache. Oncoming headlights in the night brought up the fear and horror of the accident. My response to light had been so much better since we’d moved out here, as if that wildflower field, bathed in light and color, had rewired my brain’s perception of—perhaps fear of—bright light. I’d been overwhelmed, in a dazzled way, by the sunlight, the flowers, the colors, the reflections on the creek that first day. Strains of music had found their way out of my memory and had played in my mind as naturally as breathing. The experience had been euphoric, like standing in the midst of a colorful rhapsody—or maybe existing as part of lyrical color itself. As I stood here now, on this path, I remembered that first day, and I tried to hug the memory, the joy of it, to me, because I sensed that I must be near the Lange house now.
I thought of the day when Dad, only a kid himself, had come home and the twins hadn’t been there. Laura and Lewis. Old Mr. Lange had refused to explain. Only said the little ones were gone and not coming back.
As bad as that was, my guess was that the worst part for my dad, a teenager at the time, had been the helplessness, the actual inability to force his father to acknowledge or explain. No power. No ability to force or punish. Dad had been an outsider in school and in the community. No wonder he’d left.
By the time he’d been an adult and had had some means of looking, he’d hit dead ends. And speaking of dead ends . . . I cringed, remembering how it had hurt him to tell me that he’d borrowed cadaver dogs to search the property, afraid that his father had gone too far and committed an unspeakable crime. He’d even hired a private detective, but no luck.
The old house must be near because the shadows hung more heavily. I heard no birds singing or squirrels in the boughs overhead.
I spied a path—or the hint of a long-ago path. I stepped over a downed tree, avoided getting my foot caught in a hole, and then ducked to pass under a low-hanging branch. I could see the debris from the house, maybe even a slice of roof through the greenery, and tried to move forward. Something tugged at my shirt. I turned in a rush, and it snagged my sleeve. It was a sticker bush, huge and grabbing at me. I felt a burning pain as a thorn penetrated the fabric and cut my flesh.
“Ouch,” I said and struggled to escape until a voice behind me froze my movements.
“Stop. Hold still.”
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
Arms wrapped around me—real arms. I knew instantly that they were friendly, and in the next heartbeat I knew they were Will’s.
I tried to turn toward him. The thorns dug into my arm more deeply.
“Hold still, Kara. Let me untangle you.” He proceeded to do exactly that, carefully disentangling the thin green branches with the big nasty thorns from my arm and my shirt.
“Ouch,” I said again. “Sorry. Thanks for helping.”
He shook his head and grinned. “I’d say my pleasure, but . . . ouch,” he echoed. “That one got me.” He held the longest branch aside, saying, “I think you’re free now.”
I stepped away from the bush. “I am. Thanks again. How’d you come to be here?”
“Pure chance. I came to check on the work and heard you yelping.”
I frowned. “Yelping?” Didn’t sound very dignified. More like a needy puppy.
“Calling for assistance, then?”
“Yes, that’s better. Thank you for responding.”
Will looked beyond me and then around us, curious. “We didn’t plan on clearing the path this far out. Did you want us to? I’m not sure where your property line is out here.”
“Not this far out, no. We’re somewhere near the property line between Wildflower House and the old Lange property.”
“That house I see back there? Is that where your dad grew up?”
I was surprised. “You know about that?”
He shrugged. “That day when your father was telling Jim Mitchell about the yardwork he wanted done, he mentioned growing up out here. Jim made some kind of connection between his last name and a Lange family that used to live out in this area.”
“Seriously?”
“It wasn’t a big thing. Just a short piece of a longer conversation, and then you came outside and joined us.” He looked aside.
That quick look away reminded me of how Will had been around me early on. I didn’t want to go back to that. I wanted to see his eyes and his smile. I said, “Thank you for telling me, Will. It’s a complicated thing—my dad’s early life.”
He nodded in the direction of the collapsed house. “This place has a sad feel. Like a shadow over it. If he grew up here, then I don’t wonder that he wanted to forget it.”
Will Mercer. Hearing him, being so near to him, made me a little breathless.
“Will you walk me back to civilization? In case I need to be rescued again?” I said it lightly. I wanted to keep this improved mood wrapped around me.
“So,” I asked, trying to sound casual, “are you familiar with the Lange family?”
“No, I’m not. But everyone around here—other than the newcomers—seems to be related to everyone else in one degree or other.”
“Really?”
“Yes. That’s a hazard, or blessing, of living in the country. Everyone knows everyone else’s business, but likewise, they tend to keep it all between themselves. It’s a great place for secrets.”
I wanted to think about this. Maybe when everything settled down, when Victoria had finally moved on and the renovation was closer to being done, I’d ask around. But how would my dad have felt about me discussing his family business with strangers?
Will and I stopped to discuss the bench location, but otherwise our walk was mostly silent. When we reached my backyard, I thanked him again, but the heaviness in my heart seemed to have returned. I had to go back into my house whether Victoria was there or not.
As soon as I entered the house, she saw me. “There you are. I wondered where you’d gone. Kara, please wait.” She followed me down the hallway. “I’m sorry,” she said. “It’s bad news.”
I swung around. “What now?”
“My car. It needs a part. The service guy explained what was broken, but . . . well . . . I hate to say I don’t understand cars and engines, but I don’t. Whatever the thing is, he needs to order one. It will take a day to get to his garage. I need a place to stay tonight.”
That feeling I’d shared with Will . . . I wanted it back. I couldn’t continue to argue. No more for now. My unyielding stance seemed foolish anyway.
“Okay. Stay.”
She rocked forward on her feet in a movement I interpreted as relief or even encouragement. I didn’t want her to read too much into my concession. But I also was starting to feel like a bully, belaboring our differences when, in the end—after my pride and ego were out of the way—how much did they matter anyway? Would I show kindness to a stranger? I hoped so. Did I have to keep this going with Victoria? Being kind didn’t mean that I forgot she’d made a grave error as my friend—or that I had to pretend I’d forgotten. Allowing her to stay another night didn’t mean we would go back to our old relationship.
Victoria said, “Mind if I fix us a bite? I don’t want to push you too far, but we both have to eat. I noticed there were a lot of frozen casseroles in the freezer.”
“Sure. Okay.”
“Do you have a preference which?”
I shrugged, a hard shrug that may have warned her I was struggling with this.
“Never mind. I’ll choose. They all look good.”
I walked out.
That feeling of unreality seized me. A shift. Like a shift in time, in thought. I’d felt it the day I’d walked around the side of the house and had seen the wildflowers. It had been a permanent shift, and I’d known, even if I hadn’t acknowledged it in that moment. The same thing—that moment of shimmery reality change—had happened on the day Dad had died. No going back. I’d blamed the whims of fate. Why was I feeling it now?
I was in the middle room. The door was firmly shut, and I was staring at the framed photograph of the turn-of-the-century women posing on my porch.
Time. It recurred every second. On and on. And each new second was an opportunity to do life better. Or worse. Unless you were too busy mourning the past seconds to see the opportunity—or the danger.
There was a wall in my mind. A barrier. It kept me safe—the basic me—when life tried to throttle me. But sometimes it was hard to see around it. To see life on the other side.
I exited via the side door, the one that was next to the servants’ stairs, and walked along the path to the carriage house. I paused in its dim, cooler air, but it didn’t speak to me. I wandered down toward the creek, keeping to the woods’ edge and the shade. I slipped into one of the nooks that Mary Forster had created.
A short path led to a narrow bench. There was room for only one person to sit here. This nook was simple and solitary. An unsullied carpet of leaves from autumns past indicated that it was seldom, if ever, visited.
I emptied my mind. I needed to cool my brain. I needed to not care so much about things because that caring cast me into turmoil, and I kept losing my way forward.
Breathing deeply and slowly, I closed my eyes. I concentrated on the feel of my breath coming into my lungs and going out through my nostrils. Over and over. I kept the rhythm and focus going for as long as I could and then opened my eyes.
Everything looked the same—the same trees and low-hanging boughs, the green leaves thick and varied from the many different types of trees that grew in my woods. My woods. I didn’t feel it as ownership but as more of a caretaking. The bark on the larger trees created an amazing texture. I’d noted that on the path earlier, especially regarding the pines. The oaks had a shallower, tighter bark, and . . .
I choked, then smiled. One of the oaks had a nose . . . eyes with heavy brows . . . a smiling mouth. And nearby was another.
The features fit in so well it took me a moment to translate what I was seeing. It was one of those plastic sets that could be purchased anywhere and attached to trees. I’d always thought they ranked on the tacky meter near pink flamingos and garden gnomes—a tackiness level I admired and appreciated more each day.
Mary had left her mark on the grounds of Wildflower House. I’d been trying to leave a mark, too, but I felt surrounded now, invaded. Victoria. Seth, who wasn’t here. Will, who was.
I made excuses for him, but I was disappointed in Seth. I would have liked to have a frank conversation with him, but I’d never learned how to criticize or complain in a positive way.
“Kara.”
Victoria.
“How did you find me?”
“I called you from the back porch. You didn’t respond, but I saw you go into the woods here.” She went silent, then started again. “I wanted to tell you supper was ready.” She rushed forward, gripped the armrest of the bench, and dropped to kneel on the ground. “I’m sorry,” she said. “I never meant to hurt you. I know I did, and I wish you’d forgive me. I could promise never to mess up again, to be the perfect friend, but you know me—I am that bull in the china shop, and so often I don’t think things through. Forgive me, Kara. I won’t be underfoot all the time—I promise—but I need you to forgive me so I can forgive myself.”
Her entreaty hurt my heart. I wouldn’t sob. I had no tears left after all those that I had shed for my father—and years before for my mother—and yet my face was wet. So was my shirt. The salt taste was on my lips. I stretched my sleeve to reach my eyes and mopped at them, at my cheeks.
“I’m sorry, Victoria—” I nearly choked saying the words, but I meant them. I did.
“No, you have every reason to be angry. I don’t blame you, but I need to fix it somehow.”
I shook my head. “No, I mean I’m sorry. I don’t have the right to withhold forgiveness from you—to prevent you from being able to forgive yourself. That wasn’t my intention . . . not on purpose, anyway.”
“Oh, Kara. I know that. You had enough bad memories and didn’t want to add more. Remember, I told you I know you. Maybe even better than you know yourself. But I don’t want an apology from you; I need your forgiveness. That’s all.”
My shoulders slumped. I wanted to pull them back and sit up straighter . . . but I was unable. “I’m so tired of being angry.”
“Then don’t be.” She laughed, and I was shocked. She said, “But you will because that’s part of who you are. Learn to let it go. Vent when you need to. Neither of us is perfect, but we each have value. Even our imperfections have value.”
I snorted. “I’ll have to think about that one.” I nodded. In a more serious, sincere tone, I said, “I believe you, Victoria. And I forgive you. I do. Truly.”
After a long moment of silence, she said, “Thank you, Kara.”
Her eyes lit up, and her expressio
n brightened. Apparently restored to her usual energy level, Victoria said, “Supper is ready. It’s getting cold.”
“Heaven forbid,” I said, cringing in mock horror.
She laughed and jumped to her feet. “It might take a couple of days for that car part to come in. Maybe it would be okay if I need to hang around here a little longer?”
I felt a frown—a wondering frown—forming on my face. Had I just been played? Then Victoria laughed again and blurted, “Who put a face on that tree? This place—your Wildflower House—is the most unexpected place. Like its own peculiar universe.”
With a sigh, I said, “I’ll join you at the house in a couple of minutes?”
“Oh. Sure. No worries. I’ll put the lasagna back in the oven, but don’t take too long because it will dry out. I made a green salad too. Your salad dressing was out of date, so I threw together an oil-and-vinegar dressing. Hope that was okay. See you shortly.”
She left. I looked back at that face on the nearest tree. Was it laughing at me? I didn’t think so, but I could almost believe that I saw it wink and grin.
Victoria had set the table. Mel’s lasagna was hard to beat. The green salad was a nice touch.
I’d forgiven her. I felt it in my heart. But I didn’t have much to say. It was that whole shift thing. I wasn’t a flexible person. I’d had the same problem with my dad after we’d had a difference of opinion. I’d felt wordless for a while, but it would pass. At least I could look forward to a better relationship. Maybe not perfect, but a restoration of a level of friendship.
But Victoria wanted to chat. Maybe she didn’t quite trust my forgiveness yet. She kept throwing out comments like a test and then checking my face.
“How nice of Mel to prepare all this food for you.”
“Uh-huh,” I said as I chewed.
“The freezer is stuffed. If it’s all from her, it’s a wonder she has any casserole or baking dishes left.”
She couldn’t know about the dishes Mel had already taken home, but I could see why Victoria would say that. I kept eating.
After a few more attempts at conversation, Victoria lapsed into silence too. But the silence between us wasn’t hostile; it was almost companionable.
