by Grace Greene
Will released my hand and stood back. I walked into the garden alone. The symmetry appealed to me. It would’ve pleased Dad too.
“It’s perfect, Will.” I took a deep breath. “I’ll get the urn. Nicole should arrive anytime now.”
“I’ll be here.”
I went upstairs alone and stood in Dad’s room, staring at his urn for a long moment before picking it up. I cradled it in my arms carefully. “Already dusty, Dad. I fell down on the job.” Dusting had always been my chore, so this was a small joke—a private one between me and my father.
Carrying the urn carefully down the stairs, I went back outside. Nicole was walking across the yard toward Will. She’d followed our new path around the house just as Will and I had done. The path was a far cry from the green, tangled jungle Dad and I had found when we’d moved to Wildflower House six months before.
“Hi, Nicole.”
She gave me a sad smile. “Thanks for inviting me.” She reached toward me and ran her hand over the satiny finish of the urn, then slowly traced the etched name with her fingers.
Nicole was wearing a blue dress—a very bright blue. Not her usual. She noticed me giving her dress a second look and said, “It was Henry’s favorite.”
I patted her arm and said, “You look lovely.”
Will joined us.
Suddenly unsure, I said, “I didn’t plan anything, really. Not a proper ceremony.”
He saw my panic. “Calm down. It’s okay.”
“I don’t know what to say, Will. I thought the right words would come to me.”
“You and your dad said what needed saying while he was with you. Anything else, anything omitted, probably didn’t need to be said anyway.”
It was true that my father had shared memories about my mom and his own history with me here at Wildflower House. He’d told me much about his childhood and explained his reasons for wanting to retire here. He should’ve told me these things sooner, and there was more that he should’ve told, but he’d tried, and in some part he’d succeeded. I was grateful for that. Not every success could be total, but my dad had done his best, and that was all anyone could ask.
I turned to Nicole. “Would you like to say anything?”
She shook her head. “No, this is hard enough as it is.”
I held the urn closely and touched my cheek to it. “Goodbye, Dad.”
With Will’s help, I set the urn containing Dad’s remains in the small recessed burial vault.
“When you and Nicole are ready, let me know. Take your time.”
As he rose to his feet, I touched his arm. “Now is good,” I said. Nicole had moved up next to us. I asked her, “Are you ready?”
She repeated her sad smile in lieu of words.
Will gave me a long, questioning look; then he lifted the vault lid and set it gently over the box, working to ensure the joints between the lid and box met securely. He removed his suit jacket, and I took it from him. He rolled up his sleeves, then put his bare hands into the nearby pile of dark earth, drew it over the edge of the hole, and let it cascade in.
My heart was hurting. My eyes were stinging. On impulse I tucked my arm through Nicole’s. She glanced at me and responded with a tightening of her own arm. Together, we watched Will pull the dirt forward with great care—as if the very earth itself were precious—into the depression until it covered the lid and filled in the hole.
He patted the dirt until it was smooth. “The statue will go here.”
“With the engraved memorial stone at its base,” I said. “I gave the memorial company the text. You can’t choose where you’re born, but you can choose where to grow.”
Will stood, brushing the grains of dirt from his hands. The dirt from my father’s grave. Wildflower House earth. He reached over, took my hand in his, and held it tightly.
In my head, I heard words whispered: You can choose where to grow . . . and with whom.
Nicole gave each of us a silent hug and solemnly walked away. She headed around to the front, to the parking area.
Will asked, “Is she okay?”
“Nicole is fine. She needs a little privacy to remember and mourn.” I squeezed his hand. “Thank you for today.”
Instead of answering, he offered the comfort of his arms. I accepted the gift, the simple gift of being with someone who cared and for whom I cared. I sensed a future that was wide open for each of us and filled with potential.
It was important to know when to let go. When to move on. But I tightened my arms around Will because one thing was certain—if fate even looked like it was about to take another spin and re-sort my life again, this time I was going to grab hold of that spinner and fight for it. Because, as Dad might’ve said, anything worth doing was worth working for, and now I understood it was also worth fighting for.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
On a beautiful autumn day a couple of weeks later—barely autumn, but the leaves were already yellow atop the tall tulip poplars—a day when I would certainly leave the front door open to welcome a breeze, I stepped out to the front porch and saw a small dusty car parked in the driveway. A girl was sitting on the bench. More of a young woman, really, but she seemed so slight, so young. Hardly out of her teens, I thought.
“Hello?” I asked.
She jumped, startled, but stayed seated on the bench. “Sorry. I wasn’t paying attention.”
The young woman brushed her short brown hair away from her face, and when she looked at me, I saw more pain in her blue eyes than youth should know. Not a teenager. Early twenties, maybe. I waited.
“Will said you wouldn’t mind.”
“Mind?”
“Letting me see the paintings? The fire screen paintings? How they look in your house?”
“You’re Brittany?”
“That’s me. But call me Britt.”
In my heart, I knew how much it had cost Will’s sister to come to a stranger’s home, to sit on the porch getting up her courage to knock and risk . . . what? Rejection? Disappointment? I’d never been one to trust strangers either. Everyone was different, including how they dealt with injury and recovery. But a welcome was a welcome, and I knew how to offer that.
“Absolutely.” I stepped forward and extended my hand. “Come inside?”
She accepted my hand and held on to it as she stood. I noticed then the heavy brace on her lower leg. She saw me glance at it and tugged at her hand as if to pull it away. I tightened my grip firmly but gently, and she met my eyes in a challenge.
Softly, I said, “I had an accident a couple of years ago.”
“Will told me.” Britt looked almost contemptuous, but that wasn’t the tone I heard in her voice. She looked past me. “Who’s that?”
Maddie Lyn was peering at us through the screening of the door.
“My friend Maddie. We were just about to have a tea party—with crazy-good fudge. Would you join us? I hope you will.”
Britt nodded. I released her hand and held the door wide as we entered Wildflower House together.
EPILOGUE
In late October, Sue had said, “The Ladies Auxiliary needs a place to hold their annual holiday party. We put it on every year for the community. I’m sure you remember me mentioning it?”
We’d been in the sitting room that day. Sue had brought me a set of china teacups and saucers. She’d handed them to me when she arrived, saying, “Mary treasured this set. I have my own, so I was hoping you could find space for them?” I accepted the teacups and saucers from her. As a thank-you gesture, I’d fixed tea, but I knew what was on her mind: the Ladies Auxiliary annual party.
Sue had continued, “We’ve been meeting in the fire station, but there’s always the possibility of emergency interruptions and, of course, hard concrete floors. There are a couple of other places we’ve met, depending upon the members’ connections, but each has its negatives. The fellowship hall of the Baptist church has been the best place, but the roof there is undergoing repairs. Our annual party is ve
ry popular,” she said. “And important to the people around here.”
“We aren’t open for business yet. Not officially. We’re approved for day events, but I don’t have staff yet.”
“That’s the beauty of this. We—the Ladies of the Auxiliary—will do all the work.” She touched my arm as if to make sure my attention was properly focused. “We can accomplish two things with this one event, Kara—our party and your open house. There is no better time than early December for an open house. People are out and about getting ready for Christmas. It’s perfect.”
As much as I liked the idea, I suspected it wouldn’t be quite as simple as staying out of their way. Regardless, I wouldn’t let these women down.
“How many attendees are we talking about?”
Sue laughed softly and waved off my concern. “Just the usual open house kind of thing. People will be coming and going. We aren’t talking a sit-down dinner or anything like that. The Ladies of the Auxiliary will decorate. They’ll be happy for the chance to show off their hobbies and talents. You’re a member now, after all. We’re all in this together, so to speak.”
“A member? Me?”
“Honorary. We held a special meeting and voted you in.”
“Is that so?”
Sue added, “No obligation, of course. We don’t want to take advantage.”
I’d first seen Wildflower House in the spring when the locals had still called it the old Forster place. The grounds had been overgrown, but the flowers had been wild and stunning. Spring had been a time of healing until my father died. Summer had become a season of grief and also of fear—the nearly paralyzing fear of making choices alone and failing. But the end of summer, as it began to transition into autumn, had been a turning point for me too. My heart had finally allowed a lifetime of memories with my dad, and even the memories with my mom, to displace my stubborn grief, giving me emotional permission to follow this course I’d chosen.
The renovation of Wildflower House wasn’t complete yet. There was work still to be done upstairs, and that would begin in January, but the main floor was finished. Ready for prime time, one might say. And that was good, because between Nicole’s and Sue’s efforts, local curiosity about this place was buzzing.
Thus, when Sue had brought the teacups and asked about the Ladies Auxiliary holding their annual event at Wildflower House, I’d agreed. I did need to open the doors to the outside world. What better way to do it than with the help of friends?
Now we were in this miraculous time between Thanksgiving and Christmas. As we slipped across the calendar boundary between November and December, Wildflower House bloomed.
I wished Dad could’ve been here to see the delicate paper snowflakes snipped and trimmed by Janet’s petite gold scissors. The snowflakes were hanging by nearly invisible threads from the foyer ceiling. Green garlands and crystal candlesticks adorned the mantels, along with so many other decorations—including a decorated Christmas tree in each of the three main public rooms. Many of the items on the trees represented the hobbies and skills of the women who’d organized this open house and, as Sue had said, had done the work. Despite the inconveniences, the joy and laughter of numerous people was woven throughout, and I felt like the primary beneficiary.
I’d kept at it—had stayed the course—and had received this amazing gift.
My Aunt Laura and Will’s sister, Britt, were my right-hand helpers, organizing the decorating groups and coordinating refreshments. Victoria was there, of course, keeping everyone in motion and not working at cross-purposes. Maddie Lyn was dressed in velvet and lace with shiny white shoes that when worn on Maddie’s feet were obviously made for dancing. I twirled with her once or twice, but then I left her with Mel and went back to work. Truly, I had no idea how many guests to expect.
I stood on the porch considering how to manage overflow parking. If Sue and the others were right about the likely turnout, my new parking lot was going to fill up quickly. Luckily, the pines outside of the official parking lot were widely spaced, and the ground was level and hard packed, so there was room for spillover. The workers, including family and friends, had spread their cars out along the wider areas of the drive and into that spillover area.
Britt joined me. “Kara?”
“What? How’s it going in there?”
“Fine. Will needs you in the carriage house.”
The carriage house? We’d done a little decorating out there, but not much. Frankly, it was cold outside. I didn’t expect many people to wander that way, especially as it would grow still colder with evening.
“Okay. Thanks,” I said as I twisted the wire tie to secure a loose sprig of holly berries on the porch railing.
Something about the look on her face . . . was it anxiety? Eagerness?
“Is something wrong? An emergency?” I asked.
“No, not an emergency, I don’t think. He seemed . . . concerned.” She added, “No one should arrive for another hour yet, so there’s time for you to check.”
“I’ll go see.” Will wasn’t a worrier, so if something was causing him concern, then I wanted to know exactly what it was. I headed to the kitchen and the back door. I didn’t stop to find my coat. I wouldn’t be out long.
But when I stepped onto the back porch, I paused, mesmerized. The medallion garden was lit by colored floodlights, blue and green, directed toward its interior. Electric lanterns were arranged around the perimeter. The sculpture at the center had been put into place a week ago. I’d chosen one that reminded me of a statue I’d seen in Central Park in New York City. Years before, I’d gone there on a college group trip to see the sights. This sculpture was only vaguely similar, but as soon as I’d seen it advertised, I’d contacted the sculptor and ordered it. A young woman, slender and dressed in a thin garment, was holding a shallow bowl. Around the bowl, birds were perched. Several large butterflies had alighted on her hair and shoulders. As if . . . as if one with her. As if they belonged there and they all belonged together. As I stared from the back porch, caught by the soft lighting, a snowflake landed on my nose. Another followed swiftly.
Flurries. They were calling for only flurries, and that was important. If we had a real snow, many of our guests would take it in stride, but many would not. This was important to me and to everyone who’d worked and planned for the event this evening.
Lanterns were hung along the path to the carriage house. More than I thought necessary, but Will had argued that it was a safety factor as well as decoration. The wires were cleverly concealed. He’d strung old-fashioned white lights across the front of the carriage house, and as I approached, I saw that only the exterior of the building was lit. The inside of the carriage house looked dark. A power problem?
As I entered, I called out, “Will?”
Gray stone exterior and teal-painted woodwork defined the outside, but inside the old wood beams were solid, and clean straw had been spread across the dirt floor. In the near dark, it smelled fresh yet well aged at the same time. As I stood there, soft, warm lights came on overhead, brightening the old wood and the stone and revealing heavy fir boughs secured to the beams with twine. A huge ball of mistletoe was suspended from the ceiling high above by a long red ribbon.
I whispered, “Will?”
“Here,” he said. He was standing on the stairs, wearing spotless blue jeans and a crisp white dress shirt.
I said, “It’s beautiful in here. So beautiful, Will. I have no words.”
“I’m glad you approve. I kept it simple.”
Simple. Yes, all the best, truest, most important things in our lives should be simple.
From somewhere around us, music began to play. I followed the sound with my eyes and saw small speakers mounted in the junctions of the crossbeams.
“Music too.” I smiled at him. “You told me you liked to stay busy, but you’ve outdone yourself.” I listened to the melody and the singer’s voice filling the air around us. “What is that song?”
“‘Christmas Wa
ltz.’ Nancy Wilson’s version. My grandparents loved this one. They danced to it every Christmas.” He stepped down to the floor. “When I was deciding what music to play, I thought of you, and then I thought of this.” He looked a little awkward. “Don’t really know why.”
It wasn’t Appalachian Spring, but then again, this was winter. And this was with Will. It wasn’t merely simple. It was also undeniable.
I held my hand out toward him. “I know why.”
He said, “I’m not much of a dancer, but if you’re willing to take the risk?” He walked to where I stood and took my hand. “We have only a little while before the guests arrive.”
The music came from the speakers, but it filled the eaves and echoed in my heart.
I said, “I’ve been waiting for this dance for a long time, Will. We have all the time we want. It’s up to us to claim it. The rest of the world can wait.”
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
My sincere thanks to everyone who contributed their talents and skills to Wildflower Hope, especially my editor, Alicia Clancy, who gave this series the opportunity to be published by Lake Union Publishing, and Tiffany Yates Martin, the developmental editor who brought her skills to bear on Wildflower Hope to make it shine. There are many hands and hearts that contribute to the production of a book. I know I can’t thank everyone, but I’d like to call out special thanks to Caroline Teagle Johnson for her cover creation; Nicole Pomeroy as production manager; the author relations team under Gabe Dumpit, especially Kristin King; and the copyediting magic of Riam Griswold and proofreading dedication of Stephanie Chou.
I extend extra heartfelt and hope-filled thanks—and virtual hugs—to my readers. You make this endeavor worthwhile and joyful for all of us.
AUTHOR’S NOTE
Wildflower Hope is a novel of fiction and is not intended to be a resource about addiction or to offer advice about managing addiction, but I believe everyone should be aware of the potential for misuse of prescription drugs and understand what opioid and prescription drug addiction is and how easily any addiction can reach into our lives and destroy them. Whether through appropriate use or misuse, if opioids or other drugs or substances interfere in your life, I urge you to seek help with local medical professionals. For information on this subject, here are some resources I found online:
