Dream Big, Stella!

by Ashley Farley

  Five

  After Powers leaves, I move from the table to the rocking chair, and sit for a long time, staring at the mountain range while I mull over our conversation. What if I fail at this once-in-a-lifetime opportunity? This is a monster project for a notorious screwup like me.

  The longer I remain on the porch, the more aspects of the project I imagine going wrong. When my nerves get the best of me, I jump down off the porch and take off on my own self-guided tour of the farm. I roam around the grounds. Narrow roads, intended for service vehicles, wind around the property’s perimeter while sidewalks and golf cart paths connect the different buildings. I peek in the windows of the carriage house and walk through the barn. If anything, the groundskeeper is the hoarder. Junk is piled up behind the John Deere riding mower. There are rusty wheelbarrows and broken yard tools and bags of fertilizer. There are also things one would never expect to find in a toolshed—microwave, broken floor lamp, a child’s wooden rocking horse. I create a new to-do list on my cell phone’s Reminder app. The first item is to have the groundskeeper clean out the barn.

  After leaving the barn, I make my way down the hill toward the water. As I draw near the lake, I notice a woman standing at an artist easel under a large tree blooming with white flowers. She wears a paint-splattered smock over faded blue jeans, with a floppy sunhat topping the long gray braid that flows down her back. The subject of her focus is a round wooden hut adjacent to the summer house.

  Her head jerks up at the sound of a stick cracking beneath my foot. “You startled me,” she says, hand on chest, clutching the fabric of her smock. “I’m used to having the place to myself.”

  “I didn’t mean to scare you.” Moving toward her, I get a closer look at her canvas. “You’re the artist who painted the lovely landscapes in the inn.”

  She lifts her chin high. “I am indeed. I’m Opal. And you are?”

  “I’m Stella Boor. Billy’s daughter.”

  “Are you, now?” Opal wears a smirk on her lips, as though she already knows who I am. She steps nearer to me to examine my face. “I see the resemblance. It’s quite strong, actually. Are you musically gifted?”

  I laugh. “No ma’am. I can’t hold a tune. Although that doesn’t prevent me from singing. While I’m a fan of the arts, I have no creative talents of my own.”

  “One doesn’t have to be an artist or a musician to express one’s creativity. Perhaps you like to garden or arrange flowers.”

  I shake my head. “I’m from New York. I know nothing about either.”

  “Photography?”

  I wave my cell phone at her. “This is the only camera I own.”

  “Cooking?”

  I shake my head. “Limited to the basics.”

  She pats my arm. “Don’t worry. You’re still young. You have plenty of time to discover your hidden talents.”

  There’s the word discover again. Does she belong to the we conspiracy?

  Opal wipes sweat from her brow with the back of her hand. “It’s warm out today. Would you care to sit a spell?” she asks, gesturing at a nearby moss-covered bench.”

  “Sure! I have nothing but time on my hands.”

  We sit down side-by-side on the bench, and I angle my body toward her. She’s in her late seventies or early eighties, but she carries her age well. Aside from a few wrinkles around her eyes, her skin is taut across her face. She’s trim and seemingly agile, the type of woman who chooses healthy food and attends yoga classes regularly.

  She removes a bottled water from the pocket of her smock and takes a long swig. “So . . . tell me, my dear, how’re you finding Hope Springs Farm so far?”

  “The property is beautiful.” I let out a little laugh. “The buildings, on the other hand, are in desperate need of fixing upping.”

  Screwing the lid back on her bottle, she says, “And from what I hear, you’re just the person to manage the renovations.”

  Aha! She is a member of the we conspiracy. “So, you’re aware of my situation? About why I’m here?”

  She nods but doesn’t elaborate.

  “Brian Powers—I assume you know Brian—keeps telling me I’m the right person for the job, even though I’m grossly unqualified.”

  “Yes, I know Brian. And you don’t need qualifications to do this job, Stella. You need strength of character.”

  “Ha. Do you know where I can get some of that?”

  She barks out a laugh. “Your sense of humor will serve you well. I can tell you’re a likable young woman. Use your personality to your advantage.”

  “I’ll keep that in mind. I need to first figure out how to get people to overlook my age and pitiful résumé.”

  “No one cares about your résumé, Stella. As for your age, if you speak with the voice of authority, others will respect you.”

  I pick at an imaginary speck of lint on my sweater. “You make it sound so simple.”

  “Few things in life are ever simple, my dear. But hard work is gratifying. If you have faith in yourself, you can accomplish anything. You young folks have a useful tool we didn’t have when I was your age. Use the internet to your advantage. Educate yourself. Do your research.”

  I wave my phone at her. “As it happens, I’m a professional Googler.”

  “I knew it,” she says, slapping her thigh. “This is Hope Springs, Stella. You can be whoever you wanna be here.” She jumps up and pulls me to my feet. “Come with me. I want to show you something.”

  We practically run down across the grass to the wooden hut in her painting.

  “I was wondering about this place. What is it?”

  “You’ll see.” Opal removes a key from over the top of the doorframe and inserts it into the padlock. Shoving the creaky door open, she steps out of the way for me to enter.

  A small pool with water that smells not of chlorine but rotten eggs takes up most of the interior. Cobblestone coping surrounds the pool while two sets of wooden steps on opposite sides allow for easy access. A sign on the wall reads Swim at Your Own Risk, but one would be hard-pressed to swim three strokes from one side to the other. I move in for a closer look. The water is blue green in color and so crystal clear I can see down about eight feet to the rocky bottom.

  “What is it?”

  “A natural hot spring, water that has been heated by the earth’s interior before rising to the surface. According to legend, Native Americans were the first to discover the spring, but Europeans who arrived in 1746 were the first documented settlers. They built a lodge where the inn now stands.”

  “That is seriously cool, Opal.” I drag my fingers through the water. “It’s so warm.”

  “It averages about ninety degrees. The water is thought to have special healing powers.”

  “Hence the name, Hope Springs,” I say.

  Opal nods. “Exactly. The farm came first and then the town. The townsfolk view the spring as a symbol of hope for the future. If the inn were to close, it would be devastating not only for the town’s business but for morale.”

  “No pressure there.” I dry my hand on my jeans. “Do you ever soak in the spring?”

  “All the time.” She presses her fingertips to her lips, hiding a smile. “On occasion, I even get in butt naked, but don’t you dare tell anyone. You should try it. The water is reinvigorating.”

  “Are guests allowed to soak?”

  “Adults over the age of eighteen.”

  My mind spins with ideas for capitalizing on the hot spring. “This would be the perfect spot for a spa.”

  “That’s a brilliant idea. Your father would be proud.” Opal smacks me on the back. She’s strong and the slap stings, although I don’t admit it to her.

  “Did you know my father well?”

  “From the time he was a little boy,” she says, her fondness for Billy obvious in her soft smile. “We were good friends. I miss him dearly.”

  “According to Naomi, Billy wasn’t into running the inn. Is that because he was so into his music?”
<
br />   “Suffice it to say, Billy’s life didn’t turn out as he’d planned.”

  “Do you know my mother, Hannah Boor?”

  “In a manner of speaking.” I wait for her to say more, but her expression has become guarded. The discussion is closed.

  Taking me by the elbow, Opal guides me out of the spring house. When we emerge, something in the distance catches Opal’s eye.

  “What is it, Opal?”

  “Just the groundskeeper, Bernard.” She locks up and returns the key. “He’s drunk again, passed out under the oak tree at the top of the hill. He ain’t done a licka work in decades.”

  “Why didn’t Billy fire him?”

  “Billy had a soft spot for the old buzzard. Bernard started working here as a boy, when Billy’s grandparents ran the place. There’s more to maintaining the grounds than mowing and blowing. You’ll need to hire a whole grounds crew.”

  “Good to know,” I say, adding this task to my mental to-do list.

  We walk back to Opal’s easel in silence. “I should let you get back to work. Is there a grocery store nearby? I’d like to pick up a few things for the cottage.”

  “There’s one in town. Take Main to the first stoplight. Go right on Maple. The local market is four or five blocks on your right. You can drive Billy’s car. Ask Naomi for the keys.”

  “I don’t have a driver’s license.”

  I think she’s making fun of me when she laughs, but then she says, “Of course, you don’t. Why would you need a license when you live in New York City? We’ll have to remedy that, though. If you can give me a few minutes to clean up, I’ll drive you to the store.”

  “I can’t ask you to stop painting. I’ll walk. The weather is nice, and it’ll give me a chance to get better acquainted with the town. Thanks for the pep talk.” I lean down and kiss her cheek. My show of affection surprises me. I’m not the lovey-dovey type. Definitely not with strangers. But I feel a connection with this old woman I can’t explain.

  Six

  Opal is at the forefront of my mind as I walk back to the main building for my purse. Growing up, I would’ve given anything for a grandmother like her. A hip and energetic older woman to take me on trips to the zoo and spoil my dinner by buying me ice cream cones. To invite me for sleepovers and cook me stacks of blueberry pancakes for breakfast the following morning. To share Christmases and birthdays and all the other holidays.

  When I was eight, Marnie took me out to California to visit her family. In addition to my grandparents, I was to meet my aunts and uncles and cousins. But Marnie picked a fight with her mother our first night in San Diego, and we had to cut our trip short. We left the next morning, before I even got to go to the zoo.

  All my life, I’ve pestered Hannah to tell me about her family, but she refused to talk about them except to say she doesn’t have any siblings. And she only shared this information to commiserate with me when I complained about being an only child. I was the kid who had no siblings or grandparents, two mothers but no father. In today’s world, same-sex parents are widely accepted, but back then, my classmates thought I was a freak.

  When I enter the building, I hear music. Have new guests arrived? I follow the sound to an octagonal-shaped glass room at the end of the hallway. Beams of sunlight stream down from the ceiling, glistening off the streams of water spewing from a trio of bronze cherubs in the center of the room. A little girl in full ballet garb leaps and pirouettes across the black-and-white checkered marble floor to the music from Swan Lake. Naomi—the child’s mother, I assume—stands off to the side, wearing an expression I can’t read.

  When the music ends, I clap loudly and call out, “Bravo!”

  Realizing she has an audience, the child performs a delicate curtsy. Perfectly poised, with head high and spine ramrod straight, she glides on her toes toward me. Her glossy dark hair is fastened in a high bun, and she’s dressed all in white—leotard, chiffon skirt, and tights—with the exception of the blush-colored ankle wrap ballet shoes. Her complexion is lighter than her mother’s—butter pecan versus Naomi’s milk chocolate—with eyes the color of cognac. The child is so positively scrumptious, I want to eat her alive.

  When she stops in front of me, I say, “I’m Stella. What’s your name?”

  “Jazz. It’s short for Jasmine.”

  “A pretty name for a pretty girl. How old are you, Jazz?”

  “I turned six in March.”

  “In that case, happy belated birthday. I’m a big fan of ballet. I’ve seen the New York City Ballet perform many times. I think you’re very good for someone your age.”

  Jazz flashes me a snaggletoothed grin. “Really?”

  “Really,” I say with a vigorous nod.

  From behind her daughter, Naomi shakes her head and mouths, “Don’t encourage her.”

  My eyes narrow in confusion. What the heck? Her daughter obviously has talent.

  Placing her hand on Jazz’s back, Naomi gives the child a nudge toward the door. "Run get your things, Jazz. Your father is waiting to take us to dinner.”

  Naomi watches her daughter leave the room. “A year ago this past Christmas, her father and I took Jazz to see the Richmond Ballet’s presentation of The Nutcracker. When she begged for ballet lessons, I thought it would be a good way for her to make new friends. I never dreamed she’d become so obsessed. Or that she’d have such natural talent.”

  “Isn’t that a parent’s dream come true? For their child to be passionate about something they do well?”

  “I’d rather Jazz be dissecting frogs. Her time is better spent studying biology to become a doctor. To choose a career in entertainment is to choose a pathway to heartache.”

  Her face is stone. Nothing I say will change her mind. And since I’m not a parent, who am I to argue?

  “On a different note, I’ve decided to close the inn for renovations.”

  Her brown eyes pop. “You’ve decided?”

  Opal’s voice echoes in my mind. Speak with the voice of authority. “With Brian Powers’s blessing. As of today, the doors are locked. All future bookings will be canceled.”

  Her eyes fall to the floor. “I can’t do this?”

  “Do what, Naomi? I thought you’d be excited. Your position here won’t change. We’ll work together to prepare for the renovations, and once construction is underway, we’ll start planning for the grand reopening.”

  Her nostrils flare, and a vein in her neck pulses. “You wouldn’t understand.”

  “Then explain it to me.”

  No words come out of Naomi’s mouth, but she pins me with a stare so full of hatred my knees go weak. She views me as a threat, and I don’t blame her. I came along out of the blue. But I won’t apologize for something that has been imposed upon me. Until two days ago, I’d never heard of Hope Springs Farm and Billy Jameson was the lead singer in a rock band, not my father. I’m terrified here. Brian is expecting a lot of me. I need an ally, not an enemy.

  She spins on her heels and leaves me gaping at her back. I’m standing in the same spot minutes later when she returns with a set of keys. She tosses them at me. “This headache is all yours. Have fun!”

  I’m on her heels as she hurries back toward reception. “At least think about it for a few days, Naomi. We can work through our issues.”

  Jazz is waiting for her by the check-in counter. Naomi takes her by the hand, nearly jerking her little arm out of its socket, and drags her toward the entrance. She bursts through the double doors with enough force to knock them off their hinges.

  Tears sting my eyes as I lock the doors behind her. What was it Powers said about her? Naomi’s been through a lot. Give her the benefit of the doubt until you can prove otherwise. Whatever she’s been through has nothing to do with me. I only met the woman yesterday. I tried to give her the benefit of the doubt, and she walked out on me. I would prefer to have her on my team. I know virtually nothing about the way this inn works. But I draw the line at begging.

  I return to
the solarium where I spend an hour contemplating the many possible uses for the space. This is one of the few rooms that doesn’t need renovating. The retro vibe works here. I’ve watched all the classic greats with Hannah and Marnie, and I expect to see Ginger Rogers and Fred Astaire waltzing across the floor. Left empty, the solarium would be the ideal place to host cocktail receptions. Furnished with wicker furniture and floral print fabrics, it becomes an inside garden for special occasion breakfasts and afternoon teas.

  I create a new file on the Notes app on my phone and record my ideas before moving on the wood-paneled library next door. Aside from the stench of cigarette smoke permanently permeated in the carpet and drapes, I find this room old-world handsome with its stone fireplace and leather upholstery. Two walls of bookshelves showcase first edition copies of classic novels as well as more contemporary romances and mysteries written and signed by authors who were previous guests at the inn. A whole section is dedicated to oversized hardcover books with glossy photographs—coffee table books—documenting the life and times at Hope Springs Farm. I set several of the more intriguing ones aside to study later tonight at the cottage.

  The cabinets beneath the shelves are full of photo albums chronicling events held at the inn, dating from the twenties until a few years ago. Seated with my legs crossed on the floor, I study the albums, reliving the inn’s history through the ages. At its prime, the inn was a hotspot for famous politicians and movie stars. The albums from the late eighties and nineties sport pages of photographs of Billy Jameson performing in the lounge. I add those albums to my stack of glossy books for the cottage.

  From what I can tell, conditions at the farm began to deteriorate around the turn of the century. And Powers expects me to restore it to its glory. A tall order for a girl from New York who can’t hold down a job.

  Around seven o’clock, my stomach reminds me I haven’t eaten since the stale muffin I had for breakfast. I got so distracted that I never went to the market. Since it’s too late to go now, I order a veggie pizza from Domino’s and summon the nerve to go to my room for my suitcase. Being alone in this hotel freaks me out. I imagine an ax-wielding Jack Nicholson waiting for me when the elevator doors part on the third floor, and the spooky twins in blue dresses watching me hurry down the long hallway to my room.