Dream Big, Stella!

by Ashley Farley

  I make my way up to the barn and slide open the heavy doors. I’m terrified I’ll find Bernard passed out drunk under the lawn mower, but his rusty pile of odds and ends is the only remaining evidence of him.

  I attack the pile, setting aside most of the junk to be hauled off to the dump while salvaging a few useful items. At the back of the barn, I discover a variety of flower containers in all shapes and sizes. I find a charming pair of cast iron urns that are still in good shape despite their obvious age. I drag them one by one across the lawn to the cottage.

  An hour later, promptly at six o’clock, I’m in the library of the main building, thumbing through flower books for container ideas, when Cecily arrives with a large basket. Peeking out from beneath a red-and-white checkered cloth is a bottle of red wine and a loaf of french bread.

  “You went to too much trouble,” I say, taking the basket from her and setting it on the reception desk.

  She waves off my compliment. “It was no trouble at all. Now.” She claps her hands. “How about that tour?”

  We start in the solarium and work our way down the hall through the lounge. When we enter the dining room, she does a little spin, taking it all in. “You inherited all this from a man you didn’t even know was your father? Stuff like that only happens in the movies. Start talking, Stella. I’m dying to hear your story.”

  I tell her about being an only child to same-sex parents and my brief and lackluster career in the hotel industry. She listens to my every word without speaking, and when I finish, she peppers me with questions.

  “So, we know Hannah and Billy were romantically involved. But were they in a relationship or was it a one-night stand? Maybe he raped her.”

  I frown. “That’s a possibility I haven’t considered. But from what I’ve learned about Billy, he doesn’t sound like the type.”

  “Why don’t you just ask Hannah?”

  “We’re not on speaking terms at the moment. I blocked her number from my phone. Anyway, Brian Powers, the estate attorney, thinks I’m better off figuring things out for myself. In a weird way, I think maybe he’s right. I’m putting together a jigsaw puzzle one piece at a time. Now it’s your turn. Tell me your story.”

  “Let’s finish the tour first.” Cecily grabs my arm and drags me through the swinging doors to the kitchen. She stops short in the center of the room. “Whoa. I’ve seen some old appliances before, but I’m afraid to even turn these on.”

  She moves about the room, opening cabinet doors and investigating the walk-in pantry. “The space has potential. Good bones with lots of natural light and plenty of room. Update the cabinetry and appliances and you’ll have a kitchen any chef would love to work in.”

  I watch her with interest. “You clearly know what you’re talking about. You mentioned earlier that you’re a trained chef. Start talking, Cecily,” I say, throwing her words back at her.

  Cecily moves to the bank of three windows and stares out across the back lawn. “I have a master’s degree in culinary arts. I was working as a sous chef in a five-star restaurant in DC when I made the mistake of hooking up with the head chef one night after work. We’d both been drinking. It didn’t mean anything for either of us, but the bastard fired me the next day.”

  “Ouch.” I cross the room to her. “On what grounds?”

  “He claims I was sexually harassing him.”

  “No way!”

  “The whole thing was so unfair. He wouldn’t even let me use him as a recommendation. I should’ve contested it, but I was so angry, all I wanted to do was get as far away from him as possible. I threw my stuff in my car, and left DC with no particular destination in mind. When I stopped in Hope Springs for gas, I found the town so charming, I ended up staying here.”

  I nudge her with my elbow. “We have something in common. Lack of impulse control.”

  She offers me a sad smile. “This little town feels like home to me, but unfortunately, there aren’t enough opportunities for me to stay. I’m certainly not furthering my career by managing a coffee shop. But I can’t bring myself to leave.”

  “Have you applied for jobs with any of the restaurants in Hope Springs?”

  “Of course. Even though I’m qualified to be their head chef, the owners don’t take me seriously. They say I’m too young.”

  Something else we have in common, I think to myself, but I don’t say it.

  “I’ve eaten in every establishment. Elmo’s is the best, but none of them are great. Given the chance, I could really make a difference.”

  The unspoken hangs in the air between us. She needs a job, and come September, I’ll be in need of a chef. The old impulsive Stella would have hired Cecily on the spot. But, with so much responsibility on my shoulders, I can’t afford to make a mistake.

  If preparing a meal for me is her way of applying for the job, I like her style.

  I press my hands together. “Now that I know you’re a chef, I’m even more eager to sample the goodies in your basket. Let me show you the grounds, and we’ll go to my cottage for dinner.”

  Exiting the back door, we drop her basket off at the cottage and head down to the lake. “After all that rain yesterday, the grass is growing at a rate of three inches an hour. You don’t happen to know anyone in landscaping, do you?”

  She thinks before answering. “Not off the top of my head. Surely you already have a lawn service.”

  “We had a lawn service, although I wouldn’t necessarily call him a service.” I tell her the story of Bernard.

  “That must have been terrifying. Aren’t you scared living here alone?”

  “Not really,” I say, but even to my own ears, I sound unconvincing. “Okay. Maybe I’m a tiny bit afraid. The police are patrolling the farm over the weekend, and next week, I plan to hire a private security firm. I’ve lived all my life in small apartments with hundreds of other tenants in large buildings. But in a weird way, the farm feels like home.”

  “Did you leave a boyfriend behind in New York?”

  “I wouldn’t call Vince a boyfriend. I’m much better off without him anyway.” When an image of Jack Snyder flashes in my mind, I push it aside. “How about you? Have you met anyone in Hope Springs?”

  “I’m not very trusting of men after what happened in DC. But there is this one guy. He’s a lacrosse coach at Jefferson College, but he doesn’t know I’m alive. Wait! I take that back. He knows I make a mean caramel macchiato.”

  We burst out laughing at the same time.

  When I show Cecily the hot spring, she insists on dipping her feet in. Slipping off our shoes, we sit on the cobblestone coping and dangle our feet over the side.

  “The hot springs I’ve seen are much bigger. Why close it off in this hut? Wouldn’t your guests enjoy the view of the lake and mountains while bathing in the healing waters? Imagine it, Stella, illuminated at night by strategically placed landscape lighting.”

  “Great idea, Cecily. I’m impressed.” Jack had mentioned incorporating the springs into the spa facility. Making it open air would be all the more appealing to guests.

  Cecily beams. “I’m full of good ideas.”

  And she proves it throughout the evening by making one innovative suggestion for improving the inn after another. If Cecily is vying for the position as my head chef, she doesn’t admit it. Dinner consists of a light but flavorful crab quiche, a mixed green salad topped with assorted berries, and homemade sourdough bread. Her food is some of the best I’ve ever tasted, and I devour every bite. Cecily prides herself on tweaking traditional recipes by adding a modern flair and using only the freshest farm-to-fork ingredients. She talks wine like an expert, and pairs the dinner with an excellent dry Riesling. By the time we’ve finished eating, I have no concerns about offering Cecily the job. I consider her age a bonus, not a disadvantage. She’s young with fresh ideas. While we may get some pushback, we’ll prove to everyone that we’re up for the challenge. Strength in numbers and all that.

  “So . . .,” I say as we
finish the last of the wine. “How do you feel about joining my team as head chef?” I like the sound of that. My team. My project. My inn. I break out in chill bumps. How cool is this?

  Cecily clinks her glass to mine. “I thought you’d never ask.”

  Eleven

  First thing on Monday morning, I put in a call to Brian from the manager’s office. Sitting at the massive desk, where so many important decisions have been made in the past, gives me confidence. Even so, I’m still nervous about breaking the news to Brian that I hired a chef.

  But he doesn’t skip a beat. “Good for you! Bring him onboard as soon as possible. He can be instrumental in developing menus and designing the space.”

  “He is actually a she, Brian. You’ll be meeting her soon, so you might as well know, she’s the same age as me. But she has a master’s degree in culinary arts. I sampled her cuisine last night. It’s among the best I’ve had. And that’s saying a lot, having dined in some of New York’s top restaurants.”

  This is not a total lie. While I could never afford fine dining on my paltry salary, I ate in my share of five-star restaurants on birthdays and special occasions when my parents were treating.

  When Brian doesn’t respond, I prattle on. “Cecily has brilliant ideas about a lot of things, not just cooking. She will be a definite asset to our team. We share the same vision of enhancing the traditional with a slightly modern, upscale flair.”

  “You don’t have to give me the hard sell, Stella. As long as you approve of her.”

  Despite his endorsement, I detect a hint of skepticism in his voice, and when I thank him for his vote of confidence, I vow all over again to prove myself to him.

  I hear the sound of rattling paper on his end of the line. “Coincidentally,” he says, “I was looking over Jack’s numbers when you called. Everything appears to be in order. I’ll give him the go-ahead, and we’ll get this project underway.”

  I feel sick to my stomach, but in a good way. “That’s exciting. Hiring a mover is on the top of my to-do list this morning. Do you by any chance know of a large warehouse where we can store furniture?”

  “I know just the place. A friend of mine has a warehouse conditioned for heating and cooling. It’s been empty for some time. I’ll give him a call to see if we can lease it for the summer.”

  “That’d be great. Jack thought you might have a solution.”

  Brian laughs. “You can count on my support, Stella. If I don’t have a solution off the top of my head, I’ll find one for you.”

  We talk a few more minutes before hanging up. No sooner have I set down my phone, when it vibrates with a call from Cecily. When I answer, the noisy sounds of the coffee shop fill the line, but before I can say hello, Cecily blurts, “Before I turn in my notice, I need to make certain you’re serious about the job. We had some wine last night. I totally understand if you were just drunk-talking. I’m offering you an out.”

  “Chill, Cecily. The job is yours.”

  “Are you sure? You can walk away, no hard feelings. We’ll still be friends.”

  “I’m positive. I’m thrilled to have you onboard.”

  Cecily exhales loudly. “This is my dream job, Stella. I was afraid . . .”

  “Say no more, Cecily. We’re going to make a great team. I understand you have to work your two weeks’ notice, but can you set aside some time soon to brainstorm ideas?”

  “I have like a gazillion Pinterest boards. I’ll combine some of my best ideas and share them with you. And I’m off on Friday if you want to have dinner again.”

  “Only if you’re cooking.”

  “Then it’s a date.”

  After ending my call with Cecily, I spend the rest of the morning scheduling Skype interviews with four interior design firms—all of them in Richmond, one of them recommended by Jack’s architect sister—and making calls to eleven landscape maintenance services and three moving companies. The lawn services are too busy with their existing clients to take on such a large account, although several of them sound disappointed at having to turn down the opportunity. Only one of the local movers suits our needs, and I schedule an appointment with him for late this afternoon.

  I go to the cottage for a quick bite of lunch—a spoonful of chicken salad and a tomato sliced into wedges. When I finish, I go in search of Opal. I find her sitting on a bench near her tree, eating an apple and staring off into space. Her canvas is set up nearby, but it doesn’t appear she’s painted much on the spring house since the last time I saw it.

  I slide onto the bench beside her. “You’re a million miles away. What’s on your mind?”

  She looks over at me, and I think she’s happy to see me despite the sadness in her smile. “Oh, you know. Just thinking about years gone by.”

  “Have you lived in Hope Springs all your life?”

  “Off and on.” She takes the last bite of her apple and tosses the core across the lawn. “We used to rent one of the cottages every summer.”

  “By we, do you mean your husband and children?”

  She ignores my question. “Life happens fast, Stella.”

  “I’d like to hear about your life, if you want to talk about it.”

  “No, you don’t.” She waves her hand in front of her face, as though shooing away a fly. “You have better things to do than listen to an old woman ruminate about the past.”

  I give up. Opal is either extremely private or she’s hiding something. “Actually, I was going to ask a favor. I was up late last night studying the handbook. I was wondering if you’d drive me to DMV to take the test.”

  “Sure!” She jumps to her feet with the energy of a woman half her age.

  I laugh. “I didn’t necessarily mean right now. I don’t want to interrupt your painting.”

  “I haven’t lifted the brush all morning. I have artist’s block.” She laughs at her own joke.

  “In that case,” I say, “can we go before I chicken out?”

  “Let me just pack up my things.”

  We carry her easel and paints up to her Mini, which she parked beside the barn.

  “Is DMV far away?” I ask when we’re headed down the driveway, wind whipping our hair.

  “About three miles outside of town,” she says, and turns up the volume on the radio. A song from an early Wild Hollers album is on her playlist, and we sing along with Billy as we drive through town.

  My few friends who actually went to the trouble to get driver’s licenses have shared horror stories about their experiences at DMV, but I have no complaints about mine. I don’t have to wait in line long, and the clerk who assists me in taking the test is pleasant. When I emerge from the testing area fifteen minutes later, learner’s permit in hand, Opal is studying a printed copy of the driver’s handbook.

  She pokes the handbook. “There’s a checklist here that describes specific driving tasks you’ll need to perform when taking the road skills test. I’m officially volunteering for the job as your driving coach.”

  “You’re hired. Thanks.”

  We exit the building, and as we zoom back toward town, I point to a garden center ahead of us on the other side of the highway. “Can we stop in there? I found a pair of containers in the barn. I’d love to buy some flowers for them.”

  “Certainly,” Opal says, and whips the Mini across two lanes of oncoming traffic.

  “I should warn you, though, I know absolutely nothing about flowers,” I say as we enter the fenced-in outdoor area of the garden center.

  “Then it’s a good thing you brought me a long.”

  I follow Opal as she circles the tables and carts exhibiting plastic pots and flats of colorful flowers. The choices are overwhelming. “They’re all so pretty. How does one decide?”

  “You start by narrowing your options based on growth habits and sun exposure.” We stand in front of a table of small plants with clusters of flowers in bright summer colors. “Tell me about your containers.”

  “Well . . .” I pause as I cons
ider how best to describe them. “They’re narrow at the base and wider at the top. I guess you’d call them urns. They’re about this big.” Hands clasped, I hold my arms out in front of me.

  “And where are you planning to put them?”

  “In front of the cottage, on the sidewalk at the bottom of the steps.”

  “Good! You’ll get plenty of morning sun there.” She removes her John Lennon sunglasses and examines the flowers. “I’ve always had more success with annuals versus perennials in my containers. They’re more bountiful and less expensive. You won’t feel bad throwing them away at the end of the season. These pretty plants are Calibrachoa, also known as million bells. They would be a good choice for a beginner. As you can see, they come in every color imaginable.”

  “One of the flower books I found in the inn’s library says I should have thriller, filler, and spiller in my containers.”

  She stares at me from under furrowed brows. “And I thought you knew nothing about flowers.”

  I laugh. “That’s not experience. Only what I read in a book.”

  “You can take that approach. But there are no set rules when it comes to nature. Plant what you like. If you pick a Proven Winners plant, water it daily and fertilize it every other week, it’ll perform well for you all summer long.”

  We spend a few minutes discussing the pros and cons of the options available. Overwhelmed and frustrated, I decide to keep it simple and plant hot pink million bells in my containers.

  “I approve of your choice,” Opal says. “A happy splash of color to greet your guests.”

  We grab a large bag of potting soil and are standing in line to check out, when Opal says, “Perhaps you’ll discover a passion for gardening like your grandmother.”

  “Who knows if I even have a green thumb. I might kill these little guys.” I finger a pink flower petal. “I admit, though, after living amongst concrete buildings and sidewalks all my life, I’m enjoying being outdoors.”