Dream Big, Stella!

by Ashley Farley

  “Bernard claims he stopped by”—the officer uses air quotes—“to get some of the things he left in the barn.”

  I force my way through the policemen. I’m still half drunk, and the alcohol in my system gives me fake courage. “You have no business here, Bernard. I want you to leave.”

  Bernard puffs out his chest. “Well, now. If it ain’t the little missy. I ain’t leaving till I get my stuff.”

  Missy again? “If you’re referring to the pile of junk you left behind, I had it hauled off. If you want it back, you’ll have to check the city dump.” Turning to leave, as I brush past the policemen, I say, “Get this man off my property.”

  My bravery retreats on the walk back to the cottage. I lock all the doors and turn on the outside lights. I’m only slightly relieved when Martin stops by to tell me the police have arrested Bernard for trespassing and public drunkenness. “You don’t need to worry, Miss Boor. He’ll be spending the night in jail.”

  “But will he come back tomorrow night after he’s released?”

  “I can’t guarantee he won’t,” Martin says. “I recommend beefing up security for the time being.”

  Goose bumps crawl across my flesh, and I wrap my arms around myself. “Can you take care of that for me, Martin?”

  “Yes, ma’am. I know some retired security guys looking for work.”

  “Hire however many you think we need. I admit I’m a little creeped out. Can you stay nearby tonight?”

  “Yes, ma’am. I’ll park up at the barn.”

  After Martin leaves, too wired to sleep, I stay up until well past three finishing Where the Crawdads Sing. I feel an ache in my heart that it’s over, as though mourning the loss of a friend. Who knew it was possible to be so profoundly affected by fictional characters?

  First thing on Saturday morning, I return the book to the library and pay my late fine. Mrs. Mitchell scolds me for not returning the book on time, but when I tell her what an inspiration Kya is to me, she helps me pick out another book. When We Were Yours—the story of two orphan sisters separated as children.

  Fifteen

  On Monday, despite being a holiday, the farm is a beehive of activity. Jack’s largest crew to date is banging away at the inn while Katherine and the two Mexicans she hired are raking out beds in preparation for the arrival of a truckload of mulch. I’m in the carriage house kitchen, wiping down the inside of the oven, when I get the creepy feeling I’m being watched. As I’m backing out of the oven, I bang my head on the stainless-steel frame.

  “Ouch!” Rubbing my head, I notice Naomi standing in the doorway with Jazz at her side. “You shouldn’t sneak up on people like that.” Gripping the counter for support, I slowly get to my feet. I smile down at Jazz. She’s wearing white shorts with a pink top, her hair sticking out from her head in a mess of tight coils. “No tutu today?”

  She sticks her lip out in a pout. “Ballet is over for the summer.”

  I frown. “That’s a bummer.”

  Naomi removes an iPad from her purse. She clicks on an app and hands the iPad to her daughter. “Jazz, baby, take this in the other room while I talk to Stella.”

  Naomi waits for Jazz to leave the kitchen before she says, “I need my job back, Stella, and a place to live.”

  My eyes travel to the suitcases at her feet. Why should I give her anything after the way she walked out on me three weeks ago? Because, I remind myself, she nursed Billy through his illness. But that doesn’t mean I have to make it easy for her.

  “I understand about the job,” I say, “but why do you need somewhere to live?”

  “Not that it’s any of your business, but I left my husband.”

  Something is off here. “You’re right. It is none of my business. But I don’t understand why a father would turn his daughter out on the streets with nowhere to live. Does your husband even know you left him?”

  Naomi’s dark eyes are cold. “He’ll find out soon enough. But he won’t be surprised. He’s the one who suggested we split.”

  Sounds like an act of revenge to me, but I keep my thoughts to myself. “We can work out the job, Naomi, but there are no rooms available at the inn. The main building is torn up.”

  “What about here?” Naomi’s gaze lifts upward, and I know she’s talking about the two suites upstairs.

  I peer into the lounge through the doorway and notice that Jazz has abandoned the iPad. She’s dancing on bare feet around the banquet table I brought over from the main building to use as a conference table for meetings. Any woman who could produce such an adorable kid can’t be all bad. “It’s a mess up there. But you’re welcome to it.”

  She looks at me with such raw hatred, I almost change my mind. I wait for a thank you, but I get nothing. Not even a grunt. She lifts the two suitcases. “Come on, Jazz. We need to get settled upstairs.”

  Jazz has stopped dancing and is now doing somersaults on one side of the table. “Do I have to?” she asks in a whiny voice. “Can’t I stay here with Stella?”

  “Yes, you have to. Stella has work to do.”

  “Actually, I’m almost finished here. If you can wait thirty minutes, as long as it’s okay with your mom, I’ll take you for ice cream in town. It is a holiday, after all.”

  Naomi’s features soften, and the transformation in her face is remarkable. She’s truly a striking woman. “Are you sure?”

  “Positive! I love kids. Besides, you’ll need time to clean the suite and unpack.” She starts off toward the stairs, and I call after her. “And by the way, Naomi, I’ve hired a head chef. This kitchen is now her office. I assume you don’t mind sharing.”

  Instead of responding, she keeps on walking. I glance down at Jazz who’s looking up at me with adoration. My heart melts. I can put up with her grumpy mom if it means spending time with Jazz. “Okay, kiddo. Finish practicing your tumbling while I clean out the refrigerator. Then we’ll go to town.”

  She nestles up beside me. “I’d rather help you.”

  “Are you serious? You want to help me clean out the refrigerator?”

  “Sure! I clean all the time at home.”

  Sounds like child labor to me, but I don’t argue. “Let’s do it! The sooner our chores are done, the sooner we get ice cream.”

  I tickle Jazz into a fit of giggles and engulf her in a hug. She smells like butter and syrup, and I can’t resist kissing her neck.

  With Jazz’s help, we finish with the refrigerator in no time and walk hand in hand, around the main building and down the front drive to Main Street. Every table in the Dairy Deli is taken, but by the time we choose our flavor and wait for the waitress to fill our order, a two-top near the window opens up.

  Jazz takes a big lick of cake batter ice cream. “This is so yummy. Mommy never buys me ice cream.”

  “What about your daddy? What’s his favorite flavor?” When I was babysitting in high school, I learned that most kids have no filters. Ask them the right questions, and they will tell you what you want to know.

  “Daddy doesn’t like ice cream. Only beer.”

  I won’t touch that one. “Do you know what your daddy does for work?” I lick away on my salted caramel, and pretend to be only mildly interested in her answer.

  She lifts a shoulder in a shrug. “Something with computers?”

  “It helps to have someone around who’s good with computers.” I take a bite of my sugar cone. “What are you most excited to do now that school’s out?”

  Jazz stares up, as though looking for the answer on the decorative metal ceiling. “I can’t think of anything. Summer’s boring.”

  “You can’t be serious. I’ve never met a kid who doesn’t like summer,” I say, but the truth is, I never liked summers either. I was often left at home alone while my parents worked. “Aren’t you going to camp or something?”

  She shakes her head. “I have to go to work with mommy every day. I’d rather be at school. Except . . .” Her face clouds over.

  I lean across the table tow
ard her. “Except what, Jazz?”

  “My friends laugh at me, because I can’t read.”

  I immediately think of Mrs. Mitchell at the library. “What grade are you in?”

  She holds up her pointer finger.

  “So, you just finished kindergarten?” I ask, and she nods. “Don’t sweat it, Jazz. Some kids take more time in learning to read. How about if you and I make a field trip to the library this week? We can pick out some books and practice reading together.”

  She bounces up and down in her chair. “Really, Stella? Can we really go to the library?”

  “Sure, we can. I love the library.” I stuff the rest of my cone in my mouth and lick my fingers. “This summer’s gonna be different for you. Wanna know why?”

  Her golden eyes grow wide. “Why?”

  “Because I’m here! And I like to have fun.”

  “Yay. Me too! What’re we gonna do next? I’m not ready to go back to mommy yet.”

  “Do you know how to ride a bike?”

  She nods. “Opal taught me.”

  I laugh out loud. “Of course, she did. Do you own your own bike?”

  Jazz furrows her brow. “It’s at home. Mommy said I couldn’t bring it.”

  I eye what remains of her ice cream. “Why don’t you finish that. Then we’ll run an errand on the way back to the inn.”

  Jazz gobbles down the rest of her cone. She has an ice cream ring around her lips and a smudge of another food substance on her cheek that I’m pretty sure is left over from breakfast.

  We throw away our trash, and I steer her to the tiny bathroom in the corner. “Let’s wash our hands before we leave.”

  While Jazz is soaping her hands, I ask, “Do you mind if I clean off your face?”

  She smiles at her reflection in the mirror, her little pink tongue licking at the ice cream mustache.

  I wet a brown paper towel and wipe her whole face until it shines. Producing an elastic band from my wrist, I ask, “Can we tie back your hair?”

  She gives an indifferent shrug.

  I gather her hair into a high ponytail that sticks out like a cheerleader’s pompom on top of her head. On her, it looks adorable.

  We exit the Dairy Deli, but instead of going left toward the inn, we take a right.

  “Where are we going?” Jazz asks skipping along beside me.

  “You’ll see.”

  At the next corner, we take another right and walk two blocks to Cycle Trail, the bicycle shop I’ve passed on my trips to the library. A row of cruisers and mountain bikes stretches down the center of the room with racers hanging from the walls. A man of about fifty, with the slim and lean build of a cyclist, comes from behind the counter to greet us. “Ladies, what brings you in today?”

  “I’m Stella Boor, the new general manager at Hope Springs Inn. We’re in the middle of renovations now, but when we reopen in September, I’d like to provide bikes for my guests to ride around the farm and into town. I was wondering if you’d be interested in working with me to choose the right bikes and give me an estimate on the cost.”

  He grins. “You bet I would. Years ago, in the late nineties when I was just starting out, I sold the inn a fleet of bikes.”

  “Right. I saw an old photograph of them, which is what gave me the idea.”

  “By the way, I’m Allen Farmer, the owner of Cycle Trail.” He offers his hand to shake. “For what you have in mind, I recommend cruisers. They’re comfortable with reliable mechanical performance and affordable prices. And we have a number to choose from. Shall I truck over a few bikes for you to try out? I can drop them off later this afternoon and leave them with you for a few days.”

  “That’d be awesome! You’re awfully trusting,” I say in a teasing tone. “I’m from New York. No bike shop owner in his right mind would make such an offer in New York.”

  “Welcome to the South, Stella. This is the way we do things down here.” Allen smiles over at Jazz. “Should I throw in a few kids’ bikes for your younger guests?”

  Head bobbing, Jazz bounces on her toes. “Please.”

  “That would be great,” I say.

  Allen looks back up at me. “Cute kid. Yours?”

  “No.” I give Jazz’s ponytail a tug. “We’re just friends.”

  Allen spends a few minutes showing us the different options for cruisers and fitting us for helmets. As I’m paying for the helmets, he asks how the renovations are going at the inn.

  “Coming along,” I say. “The demolition is complete, and we’ve begun to rebuild.”

  “I offer guided mountain bike tours, if you think that’s something your guests might be interested in. Your concierge would handle the bookings, and I would provide the bikes and conduct the tours.”

  I mentally add concierge to the list of positions I need to fill. “I love this idea.”

  “Great!” Allen says and sends me on my way with a brochure of the various tours he offers.

  Jazz and I walk back to the inn, hand in hand with our helmets tucked under our arms. Naomi, her silver Honda sedan idling on the curb, is waiting for us under the portico. “Where have you been?” Her tone is one of anger not concern.

  Jazz inches closer to me as though afraid of her mother. “We went to get ice cream, remember? You gave us your permission.”

  “But you’ve been gone for hours. I drove down to the Dairy Deli, but you weren’t there. And what’s with the bike helmets?”

  “We stopped in at Cycle Trail on the way back. I’m sorry if we worried you, Naomi. I would’ve told you where we were going, but I don’t have your number. Why don’t we remedy that now.” I pull out my phone, and as she recites her number, I tap it into my contacts. I send her a text. “There. Now you have mine.”

  Naomi says, “I want Jazz to stay close to me for a few days. Until Derrick . . . never mind.” She takes the helmet from Jazz and hands it to me. “Here.” She motions her daughter toward the car. “Come on, Jazz, we need to get to the grocery store.”

  “But I wanna go bike riding with Stella.”

  I quickly explain to Naomi about the bikes. “Allen should be here any minute with the truck. Jazz can hang out with me until he comes.”

  “Not today. She’s coming with me,” Naomi says, taking her daughter by the hand.

  Jazz looks at me over her shoulder as Naomi drags her to the car. “Maybe we can go bike riding tomorrow.”

  I wink at the little girl. “It’s a date.”

  Naomi opens the back door of her Honda and buckles her daughter into her car seat. “Your hair looks ridiculous like that,” she says, yanking the elastic out of Jazz’s hair.

  Jazz cries out, “Ouch! That hurt, Mommy. And I like my hair like that.”

  As they drive off, Jazz, staring at me through the window, has tears streaming down her cheeks.

  Having my heart stolen by a six-year-old kid was not what I had in mind when I decided to move to Virginia.

  Sixteen

  I’m shocked, and more than a little irritated, to find Naomi working at the computer in the manager’s office early the following morning. She walked out on me a month ago with no indication of ever coming back. Does she seriously think she can resume her job as though nothing happened? On the other hand, it’s my bad for not straightening her out about her job responsibilities yesterday.

  Jazz is curled up in a chair in the corner watching a movie on Naomi’s iPad. When she sees me in the doorway, she jumps up and hurries over to me, wrapping her arms around my waist. “Did you see, Stella? The bikes came!”

  I pat her spongy mass of hair. “I know, Jazzy. I was here when Mr. Farmer delivered them. He brought several for you to try out.”

  In a begging tone, she asks, “Can we go for a ride now? Please . . .”

  “I have a meeting in a few minutes. But I was thinking we could ride down to the lake later. We could even have a picnic. If your mommy says it’s okay.” I look over at Naomi who’s watching us with keen interest. “I promise we won’t leave
the farm.”

  “That’s fine,” Naomi says, and returns her attention to the computer.

  I kneel down in front of Jazz and speak to her in a soft voice. “What’re you watching on your iPad?”

  “Frozen.”

  “Very cool.” I tuck her hair behind one ear. “Why don’t you finish watching it while I talk business with your mommy?”

  Biting down on her lip, she returns to her chair in the corner.

  I cross the room to the desk, but I don’t sit down. Naomi’s in my chair. To take a seat opposite her would be to hand over my authority to her. “Since workspace is at a minimum around here, we’re going to have to share this office.”

  With a huff, as though annoyed at being disturbed, she tears her eyes away from the screen and turns toward me. “How is that possible with only one computer?”

  Now that I own a laptop, I could easily work from the cottage. But I sense she’s testing me, and I can’t let her win. “We’ll have to find a way.”

  Tapping on the desk with a red-lacquered fingernail, she says, “This is the general manager’s office and I’m the general manager.”

  My mouth falls open. So, she does think she can waltz back in here after a month’s absence. Is it audacity? Or has she lost complete touch with reality?

  “You’ve been gone for three weeks, Naomi. The renovations are now in full swing. I’m organizing the contractors, and I’m making the decisions. I am the new GM.”

  She pins me against the far wall with her death glare. “That’s not what Billy wanted.”

  I glare back at her. “That’s exactly what Billy wanted. He left specific instructions in his will.”

  “He was too sick to make such important decisions. He was not of sound mind.”

  Pot calling kettle, I think. “I can either get Brian Powers over here to explain the situation to you, or we can work this out ourselves.”

  She leans back in the chair, examining her fingernails. “Why don’t we share the job? There’s enough work for two GMs.”

  Despite my racing heart, I manage to keep my voice even. “That’s not happening. I’ll tell you what I have in mind. Then you can decide whether you want to stay.”