“Outdoor living is good for the soul.”
“I’m beginning to realize that.”
When we’re finished checking out, we load the flowers and soil into the back of Opal’s car.
“You clearly know a lot about gardening,” I say on the way home. “Were you and my grandmother friends?”
That same lost-in-the-past expression from earlier returns to Opal’s face. “We didn’t run in the same social circles, but Janis and I were good friends. Because we shared a lot in common, we enjoyed each other’s company.”
“What was she like?”
I’d imagined my grandmother to be a real lady, well-groomed and dignified, and I’m shocked when Opal says, “Cussed like a sailor and drank whiskey like it was water. She never put on airs, and that’s what drew people to her. One always knew where they stood with Janis Jameson.”
“I wish I’d known her,” I say in a soft voice.
“You would’ve liked her. And she would’ve liked you.”
Warmth spreads across my chest. “Thank you for saying that.”
At the farm, Opal parks in front of the cottage and we unload the soil and flowers onto the short sidewalk. She shows me how to fill the bottom of the urns with crushed soft drink cans to allow for better irrigation. Once the containers are planted, I step back and admire my work. “Just as you said, a cheerful welcome to my visitors.”
For the next two hours, Opal guides me on a horticultural tour of the grounds, naming shrubs and trees and the few perennials showing the tips of their heads in neglected flower beds. I snap dozens of photos with Billy’s camera and take detailed notes on my phone. I’m eager to learn. Finally, I’ve discovered a hobby I enjoy.
“Thank you, Opal,” I say, when I walk her to her car. “I really think I’m going to love gardening.”
She pats my arm. “Don’t get ahead of yourself, my dear. The pruning and planting will wait. Your first order of business is to find someone to mow and blow.”
“Trust me, I’m working on it.” I give her a peck on the cheek and close her car door.
I check the time on my phone, and seeing that I’m late for my meeting, I hurry over to the main building. The representative from the moving company is waiting patiently at the front door. David Ryan is professional and accommodating. We agree on pricing, but I can only answer a few of his many questions about timing, and I’m grateful when Jack stops by.
Jack explains to David, “Ideally, I’d like to start demo the first of next week. I realize I’m asking a lot, but can you get everything out of here by then?”
“Shouldn’t be a problem, since it’s a local job. I’ll hire extra movers if necessary. My team will be here first thing on Wednesday morning to start packing.”
Jack and I stand at the front door, watching the mover drive off in his pickup truck. I wrap my arms around my midsection, hugging myself. “Is this really happening, Jack?”
He flashes a pearly white smile that sends a bolt of electricity to parts of my body totally off-limits to married men. “This is really happening, Stella.”
Twelve
Packing up the inn is a monumental job. All day on Tuesday, I sort through books and dishes and table linens, setting aside items to be donated to charity and junk to be tossed in the trash. From the library, I take several armfuls of books, novels as well as gardening guides and photo albums, to the cottage, stacking them on the floor in the already cluttered living room. There’s the issue of what to do with the dusty bottles in the wine cellar, but Cecily and I agree to leave them for the wine steward. I add Hire a wine steward to my rapidly growing list.
There’s so much to think about. For the guest rooms, we’ll need new mattresses and televisions, towels and bed linens. For the public rooms, we’ll have to purchase updated lamps, decorative items, and small odds and ends of furniture to contrast with the traditional antiques. While the reception area will get a whole new look, nothing in the manager’s office will change aside from a fresh coat of paint and new carpeting. Generations of Jamesons have presided over the inn from this office. Who am I to tamper with family history?
When the movers arrive on Wednesday, I hover over them while they work, watching closely to make certain they handle every object with care. When I’m not overseeing the packing, I’m narrowing down my choices of interior design firms. I give equal consideration to all of them, but the Richmond firm Jack’s sister suggested—it’s comprised of two women in their mid-thirties—wins my vote. Not only do they have an impressive résumé of commercial projects of comparable scope, they’ve successfully implemented the boutique hotel theme at similar properties before. We make a date for the dynamic duo to come to Hope Springs the following Monday for a walk-through.
I receive no word from Naomi and no sign of Bernard. I hire a retired policeman to patrol the grounds at night throughout the summer, but when we reopen in September, we’ll need a staff of security personnel.
With each passing day, as the furnishings are removed, the inn becomes a dismal place, dark and gloomy and depressing. By the time Friday rolls around, I’m eager for some fresh air and sunshine. I leave David to oversee the last of the packing and make my way out to the barn.
Every night at bedtime, I read a few chapters of Crawdads before falling into a sleep coma. As I wade through the thick ankle-high grass, I think of young Kya, as I often do these days. She seems so real to me, and I have to remind myself she’s a fictional character. She’s completely stolen my heart, and I root for her through her many trials and tribulations. Although she’s not even half my age, her determination inspires me. One way or another, I will cut this grass today.
The movers, as instructed, have hauled off Bernard’s junk pile, which gives me a clear path to the John Deere mower. How hard can it be? I ask myself as I mount the mower. Twenty minutes later, I’ve tried everything, but I can’t get the machine to start.
When I hear footsteps behind me, I jerk around, expecting to see Bernard training his gun on me. I’m relieved to find Jack instead.
“Going somewhere?” he asks with a sly smile.
I slide off the mower and give the tire a kick. “Blasted thing won’t start. The battery must be dead. Or maybe it’s out of gas, although I have no idea where to find the gas gauge.”
He closes the distances between us. “Here, let me try.”
“By all means.” I move out of his way, so he can climb onto the mower.
Settling himself into the seat, he says, “Looks to be a relatively new model.”
I eye the John Deere suspiciously. “Are you sure? Because, if that’s the case, it’s the only thing around here that’s been updated in the past century.”
“I’d be willing to bet it was purchased within the past three to five years. You have plenty of gas. Your gauge is here.” He points at a small window between his legs beneath the seat.
I lean in close enough to see the needle pointing to the three-quarter mark. “Oh. There it is.”
“Did you choke the motor when you tried to start it?”
Furrowing my brow, I stare up at him. “Huh?”
Jack laughs. Placing his left hand on the red gear lever, he says, “When your engine is cold, you have to push the throttle all the way forward to choke it.”
“I wasn’t sure what that was for.”
“The throttle controls your speed. Now, you have to press down on the brake pedal while you turn the ignition key.” He does both, and the engine fires right up.
I roll my eyes. Naturally.
In a voice loud enough to be heard over the noise from the tractor, he says, “Once the engine is running, pull the throttle down to the lowest position.” He touches his right fingers to a black stick with a yellow handle. “This lever controls your blades. Push it up to engage and down to disengage. Piece of cake.” He kills the engine and jumps down. “You’ll want to protect your hearing. I’m sure there’s a headset around here somewhere.”
He locates a set of
red headphones hanging on a peg near the mower and puts them on my head. “Cute.”
I feel like a child looking up at her father with adoring eyes. I’ve done an exemplary job of suppressing my attraction to him this week, but now, with the two of us alone in the barn. There are three of us, Stella. Remember, the man has a wife.
“You’ll need sunglasses to protect your eyes.”
I pull my sunglasses out of my pocket and put them on.
“You’re all set now. With the grass being as tall as it is, you’ll want to bag the clippings. Good thing Bernard’s already got the bagger attached.”
He gives me a brief tutorial on how to empty the bagger when it’s full. “Now climb up, and I’ll direct you as you back out.”
I turn toward the mower, but my feet get tangled and I slip on the running board. Jack catches me, his hands on my hips. Our bodies are so close together, I want to melt into him, to feel him against me. He spins me around and kisses me. His lips are soft against mine, and every nerve ending in my body is on high alert. My body aches for him, but my mind takes control, issuing commands to my arms to shove him away. “Stop! Jack. What’re you doing?”
“Oh god!” He takes a giant step backward. “I don’t know what got into me. I’m so sorry, Stella.” His neck and face are flushed as he rakes his hands through his thick dark hair. “I’ll back the tractor out for you.”
He leaps into the seat, starts up the engine, and maneuvers the mower out of the barn. He hops down, and I take control of the wheel. When I start to drive off, he cups his hands around his mouth, but I can’t hear what he’s trying to tell me.
I turn the motor down and lift the headset off one ear. “What did you say?”
Although he’s regained his composure, he refuses to look me in the eye. “The dumpsters have been delivered. My crew will be here bright and early on Monday morning. Enjoy your quiet weekend. It might be your last for a while.”
I give him a thumbs-up and drive the mower down the driveway to the main building. Cutting one neat row of freshly trimmed grass at a time, I work my way down to the lake. Jack Snyder forgotten, I fall head over heels in love with the John Deere mower. Is this how Kya felt racing through the swamps in her skiff? I don’t even mind wrestling with the bag when I empty the grass clippings. It’s dirty work. My clothes are soaked through with perspiration and grass clippings are stuck to my sticky skin. But by the time I finish, I feel like I’ve truly achieved something.
I shower and dress in white capri jeans and a chambray shirt tied at the waist. Cecily arrives a few minutes after six, gripping a bottle of tequila in one hand and carrying a soft cooler with the fixings for a gourmet Mexican dinner in the other.
“Are you hungry?” she asks.
“Yes! Starving. I just cut every blade of grass on this farm. But I’m not ready to eat dinner yet.”
“Then we’ll start with homemade guacamole and chips.” She brushes past me on her way to the kitchen. “I don’t know about you, but it’s Friday afternoon and I’m ready to kick back and relax.”
“Bring it on!” I lean against the kitchen counter, watching her slice and dice and mash ingredients for the guacamole with utensils she brought from home.
“I have a date tomorrow night,” she says with a sheepish grin.
My eyes grow wide. “Yay, you! With the lacrosse coach?”
“Yep.” Her face takes on a soft glow. She’s totally into this guy.
“See! He did notice you.”
“His name is Lyle Nelson. Can you believe it? Like who names their kid Lyle?”
I repeat the name. “I kinda like it. Where’s he taking you?”
“To dinner at his boss’s house.”
“Surely you jest. He’s taking you to his boss’s house on your first date? No pressure there.”
Cecily barks out a laugh. “It’s not as bad as I make it sound. Lyle’s team has a home game tomorrow, and the head coach is hosting a cookout for players and coaches afterward.”
“That actually sounds like fun. Are you cooking for them?”
“Ha! No.” She removes a small pottery bowl from her cooler and fills it with guacamole.
“Did you bring your kitchen sink too?”
“Not the sink, but I did bring these,” she says, pulling two margarita glasses from her cooler.
“Good thinking. We only have juice glasses. I don’t think my father was much of a cook.”
Cecily mixes tequila with freshly squeezed lime juice, homemade simple syrup, and orange liqueur into a glass pitcher I locate in the top of a cabinet. She dips the glasses in a concoction of lime, salt, and sugar and fills each glass with margarita. Taking our drinks into the living room, we open all the windows and doors and place The Best of Van Morrison vinyl on the turn table. We sit side-by-side on the sofa with the bowl of guacamole and basket of chips between us. A cool breeze wafts through the window bringing with it the scent of freshly cut grass.
“I love that smell,” Cecily says, stuffing a loaded chip in her mouth. “It’s a sure sign summer is near. There’s a lot of grass on this farm. I assume you used a riding mower.”
I grin at her. “I did. I had so much fun, I can’t wait for the grass to grow so I can cut it again. Is that weird?”
“So weird.” She throws a chip at me. “Weirdo.”
Even though we’ve only just met, I feel like I’ve known Cecily forever. “Speaking of weird, something weird happened to me today. I’m not sure what to think of it.” I tell her about Jack’s kiss.
When I’m finished, she asks, “Are you sure he’s married?”
I shrug. “Why else would he be wearing a wedding band?”
“To ward off aggressive women like you,” she says with mischief in her smile.
“Puh-lease.” I fall back against the sofa cushions. “Maybe some single women wear fake wedding rings to avoid being hit on by creeps, but what man would do that? Anyway, Jack seemed surprised at himself for kissing me. It was a heat-of-the-moment thing.”
“Whether the kiss was spontaneous, or he regularly cheats on his wife, forget it ever happened. You need Jack. This project will not happen without him. From now on, it’s strictly business between you.”
“Trust me, I get it.”
Thirteen
On Saturday, I finally get around to unpacking my wardrobe boxes that arrived earlier in the week. The bedroom feels a little more like home with my clothes in the closet. On a whim, I walk to the home goods boutique in town and purchase a comforter set with an abstract floral design in shades of blues, greens, and yellow.
Loneliness sets in when I see couples holding hands as they stroll about on Main Street. The chances of me meeting a guy in a town the size of Hope Springs is slim. For the first time since coming to Virginia, I feel homesick for New York. I can’t stop thinking of Hannah and Marnie. I should let them know I’m alive, but their betrayal is still fresh. Without unblocking their numbers, I send a simple group text. Things are going well in Virginia. I’m sorting through some issues. Will call when I’m ready to talk.
I click on Rachel’s number. She understands my history with losers like Vince. She’ll know what to say to help me forget about Jack.
When she answers on the third ring, I hear noise in the background. “Stella! I’m so sorry I didn’t call you. It’s been such a whirlwind.”
I grip my phone tighter, and even though I already know the answer, I ask, “What’re you talking about? What whirlwind?”
“My engagement to Bert. Didn’t you see my Instagram post? Listen, I’m at brunch with my friends. I’ll call you later.”
She hangs up on me before I can offer congratulations. I tap on my Instagram app and access her account. Sure enough, there’s a pic of Rachel and Bert, gazing into each other’s eyes. She’s holding up her left hand for the Instagram world to see the ginormous diamond on her ring finger. In all fairness, Rachel and Bert only got engaged last night. But still, we’ve been best friends most of our lives. I d
eserve to hear it from her instead of learning about it on social media.
I replay the brief conversation in my head. Rachel said, “I’m at brunch with my friends.” I’ve been gone from New York for less than two weeks, and I’m already a distant memory.
That night I eat leftover Mexican food and watch Casablanca, which only makes me miss Hannah and Marnie more.
On Sunday, I go to the late service at the pretty stone church in town. The minister is ancient and his sermon a sleeper. I leave feeling more depressed than ever. The weather matches my mood—dreary with off and on showers and cooler temperatures. That afternoon, wrapped in my new comforter on the sofa, I escape to the land of fiction where crawdads sing.
On Monday morning at seven o’clock, I’m waiting at the door to greet Jack’s crew with a cardboard travel box of coffee purchased from Caffeine on the Corner. Jack is professionally polite toward me but the easy interaction we previously shared doesn’t return.
Once the crew start to work, the banging of their sledgehammers in the guest bathrooms drives me to my office where I stay until the decorators arrive at ten.
Cary and Kathleen are more than partners at Ramsey Designs. They’re sisters. And they are badasses in smart business suits with expensively highlighted blonde hair piled in messy buns. While they’re confident in a manner that commands authority, they are in no way condescending. Not only do I strive to be like them in my new role, I trust my project is in excellent hands.
Jack and Cecily sit in for the first part of the meeting. Jack appears antsy and excuses himself after only a few minutes. “I need to be hands on for this first day of demo.” He gives each of the designers a business card. “If I can be of any assistance, do not hesitate to contact me.”
We take a break after an hour of discussing ideas for the kitchen and dining room. While Cary and Kathleen make phone calls to handle an issue with another client, Cecily pulls me aside. “Jack is seriously hot. But I agree with you. He’s totally married. If I were you, I’d keep things between you—"
Dream Big, Stella! Page 9
