Dream Big, Stella!

by Ashley Farley

  I hold my hand up to silence her. “Strictly professional.”

  When Cecily returns to the coffee shop, I give my guests a tour of the building, starting on the top and working our way down. Cary and Kathleen get super excited when I share my thoughts for Billy’s Bar. I can almost see gears spinning in their heads as they listen and look around. And then I get super excited as they begin to launch one idea after another, flipping them around like balls in a pinball machine.

  “I’m thinking navy as the predominant color,” Kathleen says. “With lots of gleaming surfaces—mirrors and marble and high-gloss paint.”

  Cary scrutinizes the room. “We’ll tray the ceiling and choose a bold geometric carpet.”

  Moving to the rear of the lounge, Kathleen says, “We should think about putting in a parquet floor back here to use for dancing and as a stage when small groups perform. Which reminds me, Stella, we’ll give you the name of the firm in Richmond we use for network and Wi-Fi installations. They do audio and video as well.”

  “Can you show us Billy’s memorabilia?”

  “Now?” I ask, and they nod in unison.

  It’s almost two o’clock, and I’m starving. “Can I take you to lunch first?”

  “Who has time for lunch? We brought power bars.” Cary removes three RX Bars from her oversized designer handbag, offering one to Kathleen and me.

  I accept the bars, grateful for anything to satisfy my hunger.

  We spend another hour at the cottage. After discussing innovative ways to showcase Billy’s collections, we talk about budgets and fees. As I’m walking them back to the main building, I ask, “Do you have any concerns whatsoever about meeting our projected completion date?”

  Kathleen, whom I deem to be the older of the sisters, says, “None at all. We know which vendors offer reliable lead times. We’ll only order goods that are in stock. We have an efficient staff who will stay on top of all deliveries. While we won’t be completely finished, the inn will be in good enough shape to reopen in early September. By the way, do we have an exact date for that yet?”

  “Subject to change, of course, but as of now, I’m hoping to have a soft opening the week after Labor Day.”

  “That seems so far away, but it’ll be here before you know it.” Kathleen squeezes me in a half hug. “Fasten your seat belt, Stella, you’re in for an exciting ride.”

  My days fall into a routine. When I’m not meeting or talking on the phone with vendors in my office, I find ways to occupy my time outdoors. I give Billy’s Wrangler a thorough wash and practice my driving skills on the roads around the farm. I stand for long stretches of time on the grassy hill in front of the inn, imagining Billy and Ethan playing football in the sprawling front yard across the street at the manor house.

  When I ask Opal who in the Jameson family sold the manor house, she says, “Billy did. He couldn’t bear the memories.”

  I sit for hours on Opal’s park bench, watching her create masterpieces with graceful strokes of her brush. We take long walks around the grounds and picnic at the overlook. Ours is a companionable relationship. We can go for hours without saying a word or have a heated discussion about world affairs. But she makes it clear her past and her family are off-limit subjects. She’s never around on weekends, and I assume she’s at her home tending to chores. I wonder if she lives in one of the tidy houses lining the streets of downtown. Or if she lives in a cabin in the woods somewhere nearby? When I ask Opal what her last name is, she ignores me, as she always does when she thinks I’m getting too personal. But the name Opal is rare, and when I google the white pages for Opal in the Hope Springs area, my result yields one—Opal Powers. So, Opal and Brian are related. I ask her if she’s Brian’s mother, and she gives me the first solid answer since we met. Yes.

  Yard work is my new favorite pastime. I prune and weed and plant. I learn to use the blower and the leaf sucker and the weed eater. I make countless trips to the garden center for perennials, annuals, and flowering shrubs. Although the improvements are immediate and drastic, the grounds are extensive and my progress doesn’t put a dent in the work that needs to be completed in order to return the property to Janis Jameson’s standards. There’s no way I can do it alone, and I’ve come no closer to finding a groundskeeper despite my best efforts.

  My luck changes on the Friday of Memorial Day weekend. In the middle of the afternoon, I’m shoveling dead leaves into the compost pile when I receive a call from an excited Cecily. “I’m at the coffee shop. Get down here right now! I found you a landscaper.”

  Certain it’s another dead-end lead, I say, “I’m filthy, Cecily. I’ve been working outside all day. Text me her number, and I’ll call her later.”

  “No way! I’m holding her hostage until you get here. Not kidding, Stella. She’s perfect. You’ll thank me for this.”

  A rush of adrenaline surges through me. It would be awesome to finally find someone qualified to take over the grounds. “All right then. I’ll be there in a few.”

  Abandoning my rake, I jog around to the front of the main building, and I don’t stop until I arrive, sweating and breathless, at Caffeine on the Corner. Cecily and the landscaper are seated at a table with their heads close together. When I enter, they stand to greet me, and Cecily provides the introductions. Katherine Arnold is about my age, maybe a few years older than me, with medium brown hair, hazel eyes, and a trail of sun freckles across her nose. She’s dressed the part in work boots, khaki cargo shorts, and a sleeveless cotton top. A worn straw fedora rests on the table beside her coffee mug.

  “Katherine just moved here from Savannah,” Cecily explains. “Her husband is the new admissions director at the college. She has a degree in landscape architecture.”

  Katherine adds, “My landscaping business was just starting to take off when my husband accepted this job. I’m starting over from scratch.”

  “Did Cecily explain the scope of the property? I’m looking for someone to restore and maintain it.”

  “I understand,” Katherine says with a nod. “I was considering taking the summer off before starting back to work, but this job sounds ideal. Cecily says the farm is within walking distance. Do you have time to show it to me now?”

  “Of course!” I turn my attention to Cecily. “Can you come with us? I assume you told Katherine that today’s your last day here, and that, as of Monday, you’re the new head chef at the Inn at Hope Springs Farm.”

  Cecily lifts a finger to correct me. “The still unnamed restaurant at the Inn at Hope Springs Farm. And, yes, I told Katherine all about it.” She glances around the empty cafe. Aside from the three of us, there’s only one other customer seated at the window counter and another barista behind the bar. “Y’all go ahead. I’m not supposed to know this, but my coworkers have planned a surprise going-away party for me when our shift changes at three.”

  “Well, you certainly can’t miss that,” I say. “We’ll catch up with you later. Maybe for drinks around happy hour.”

  Katherine tugs her hat down over her head, and we exit the cafe together, walking back toward the farm. “Tell me about yourself, Katherine. Were you sad to leave Savannah?”

  “Yes and no. I wanted to support my husband. This is his dream job. And I’ve lived in Savannah my whole life. I’m excited to try something different for a change.”

  “This is definitely different,” I say with a laugh. “I’m from New York. There’s a learning curve for small-town living. Do you have children?”

  She offers a despondent smile that lets me know she really wants a family. “Not yet. With the move and all, we decided to stop trying until we get settled.”

  When we reach the farm, we switch into work mode as we tour the grounds. “Your beds are in desperate need of mulch,” Katherine says right off the bat.

  “Don’t I know it.”

  “The grass needs attention. We’ll fertilize now, and then wait until the fall to seed and aerate.” We loop down to the lake, and as we’re starting
back up the hill, she says, “You have plenty of property to do so many wonderful things. You could put in a maze garden, incorporating hidden sculptures and benches and containers of bright flowers.”

  “Wonderful suggestion.”

  “It’s a shame to use this charming space for storage,” she says, about the barn. “You could rent it out for parties or dances or even weddings. You would need to spruce it up by painting the outside a neutral color and finishing off the interior. I would get rid of the stalls and have one big open space.”

  “I had the same thought myself, but what do we do with the mower and all the yard tools?”

  “Have your builder install a prefabricated commercial storage unit, out of sight somewhere on the edge of the property.” Katherine stops circling the barn and faces me. “I don’t mean to overwhelm you, Stella. Feel free to tell me to shut up. My husband thinks I have too many ideas.”

  “There’s no such thing as too many ideas. Every idea is worth considering, even if we don’t use them all.”

  “True. But you need to start by getting what you already have under control.”

  “Agreed.” My phone has been vibrating on my hip for the past hour. Removing it from my pocket, I scroll through the string of texts. “Cecily wants to know if you’ve accepted the job.”

  There’s mischief in Katherine’s smile when she says, “Tell Cecily I’m waiting for an official offer.”

  “I thought that was a foregone conclusion,” I say, and take a stab at a salary based on my research. “But that’s negotiable. I want you on my team whatever it takes.”

  Katherine counters for five thousand more a year, and I agree, reminding her about medical and dental insurance.

  She points at my phone. “Text Cecily that I accept.”

  I thumb off the text, and Cecily responds right away. Celebratory drinks at Buddy’s in ten.

  Fourteen

  Buddy’s is what one might expect of a small-town bar and grill. Red-leathered booths and dim lighting. In the back, a pool table surrounded by a group of guys who, judging from their rowdy behavior, have been here since lunch. Against the far wall, a banquet table, draped in a dingy white cloth, is lined with chafing dishes containing today’s happy hour specials. A heavy wooden bar with shelves displaying hundreds of liquor bottles occupies the opposite wall.

  At five o’clock, aside from the pool players, we’re the only other people here. The three of us claim stools at the end of the bar near the window, and Cecily demands a round of tequila shots from the bartender. Pete is his name—shaved head, goatee, and an impressive set of biceps bulging from beneath his tight tee. Placing three shot glasses in front of us, he fills them with tequila and slides a bowl of lemon slices with a saltshaker across the bar.

  “One path ends and another begins.” Cecily holds her shot glass out to us. “To my dream job,” she says and kicks back the tequila with no salt or lemon.

  Katherine follows her lead, wiping her mouth on her bare arm. “This day has been full of surprises. I woke up this morning, wishing I was back in Savannah, and now I have two new friends and a job that may turn out to be my dream job as well.”

  I raise my glass. “On my first day in town, a wise man encouraged me to dream big. And that, girlfriends, is our new motto. We’ve been given a golden opportunity. In order to succeed, we will need to reach for the stars. To our dream team,” I say and gulp down the tequila.

  “To our dream team,” Cecily and Katherine say in unison.

  I toss my new credit card down on the bar. “Drinks on me.”

  We order another round of shots and three white wines. We bombard Katherine with questions about her life, and by the time our glasses are empty, we know her history.

  Patrons begin trickling in, and before long, Buddy’s is rocking. Someone cranks up the volume on the country music jukebox, the pool players send us another round of tequila shots, and we continue to order refills of wine. By the time we get around to standing in line for food, happy hour has ended, and there’s not a morsel left.

  When Katherine steps outside to call her husband, Cecily and I find ourselves alone at the bar. “How are things with Jack?” she asks.

  “Professional.” I find this hilarious for some reason and nearly roll off my stool laughing. “No, seriously.” I say righting myself and sopping up my tears with a napkin. “When I see Jack, which isn’t very often, our conversation is strictly business. Come to think of it, despite the loud construction noises, things have been quiet around the inn. I haven’t seen Brian Powers either. He’s the attorney I told you about. I thought he’d be dropping by every day to check on progress. Suffice it to say, I’m looking forward to having female company around the farm.”

  Cecily narrows her eyes. “I’ve been meaning to talk to you about where I’m going to work. I need to be near a functioning kitchen. I can work from my apartment, but I’d rather be close to you so we can brainstorm ideas.”

  I sit back on the barstool and cross my legs. “Well, let me think. There’s the cottage, but we might get in each other’s way. There’s also a kitchen in the carriage house. I have no idea if the appliances even work. Why don’t you come over tomorrow, and we’ll check it out.”

  Her chin drops to her chest. “Sorry. I can’t. I’m going with Lyle to Charlottesville to watch the UVA lacrosse team in the semifinal round of the playoffs.”

  “That sounds like fun,” I say, managing to hide my disappointment. “The kitchen will wait until Monday.”

  Cecily stares into her wineglass. “Monday is Memorial Day. Lyle is taking me rafting on the river.” She looks up again. “But I’ll be there bright and early on Tuesday.”

  “No worries. I totally forgot about Monday being a holiday.”

  My festive mood tanks at the prospect of another lonely weekend ahead. I survey the other customers in the crowded restaurant. Everyone appears to be coupled up. All the booths are occupied with foursomes. Four gay guys are seated at the table in the window. Even the men and women at the bar down from us are paired up. The guys at the pool table in the back are the only ones flying solo, and they are definitely not my type. I remind myself that I didn’t come to Hope Springs to find a man. I came here to find myself.

  To rub salt in my wound, Katherine returns with a man whom she introduces as her husband. Dean is handsome, despite his receding hairline, and genuinely excited about his wife’s new job. Sitting down beside me, he orders a Devil’s Backbone craft beer. “Tell me more about your renovation project at the inn. My new associates in the admissions department are talking about it. As you might imagine, having a five-star property so close to the college is a magnet for our prospective parents. Any chance it’ll reopen in time for fall football weekends?”

  This brings a smile to my face. “That’s our goal,” I say and give him a quick overview of our plans.

  I notice Cecily’s gaze shift to the door, and her face lights up. She hops off her stool and hurries over to the guy dressed in Jefferson College lacrosse swag. She gives him a hug and brings Lyle over to us. Dean is thrilled to meet a fellow college staffer, and the two guys launch into a discussion about sports. While it’s probably my imagination, Katherine and Cecily suddenly have much to talk about that doesn’t include me. I am the obvious fifth wheel, and when Cecily suggests we move to a table, I seize the opportunity to make my escape.

  When Cecily begs me not to go, I say, “I need to rest up. I have a long to-do list for the weekend.”

  I’m more intoxicated than I realized, and I have trouble walking in a straight line on my way back to the inn. My eyes are glued to the sidewalk, and I don’t see Jack locking the front door until I trip over the curb and stumble into him.

  He catches me. “Easy, Stella. Have you been drinking?”

  “I may have had a teensy bit,” I say with slurred words. “We were celebrating. I finally found a new landscaper.” I let out a hiccup. “Sorry. I don’t usually drink so much. I should go to bed.”

/>   “But it’s not even seven o’clock. Have you eaten dinner?”

  My alcohol-riddled brain jumps to the conclusion that he’s suggesting a date. “You should go home to your wife.”

  He follows my gaze to his left ring finger. “I didn’t mean like on a date or anything,” he says, shoving his left hand in his pocket. “I was merely recommending you get some food in your stomach. We finished demolition today, and we’ll start rebuilding on Monday. We’re a few days behind where I’d like to be. With time of the essence, I hope you don’t mind if we work on a holiday.”

  “That’s fine.” To my horror, another hiccup escapes my mouth.

  “This project is a priority for me, Stella,” he says in an irritated tone.

  “As it should be, Jack.” Bringing myself to my full height, I speak slowly so as not to garble my words. “Are you insinuating it’s not a priority for me because I had drinks on a Friday afternoon with my coworkers?”

  Shaking his head, he turns to leave. “Sleep it off, Stella.”

  Mortified, I take his advice. I go straight to my cottage, place one of Billy’s early albums on the turntable, and crash fully clothed on the sofa.

  The sound of sirens jerks me from a deep slumber a few minutes after midnight. When I pry my eyes open, the living room is filled with blue flashing lights.

  “What in the world?” Rolling off the sofa to my feet, I hurry outside to see several patrol cars parked haphazardly around the entrance to the barn. I take off jogging up the narrow road, the pounding in my head intensifying with every stride.

  I count six policemen gathered around the entrance to the barn, and when I peer over their shoulders, I expect to see a dead body. But it’s only Martin, my new night security man, squared off against Bernard. If they start throwing punches, Bernard won’t stand a chance.

  I recognize one of the officers from the day Bernard held a gun on me. Tapping him on the shoulder, I say, “What’s going on?”