by Tena Frank
“I’m fine. Thanks for asking, Mr. Howell.” Harland flashed a big smile in the man’s direction, a real sincere-looking expression, before turning to leave.
“Just a minute, son.” The use of “son” annoyed Harland, but it also alerted him to the presence of an ulterior motive behind this seemingly friendly exchange with an influential man who had never spoken to him before.
“Yes?” And Harland waited.
“That land of yours has to be cleaned up, you know. Have you made plans to get it done?”
This caught Harland off guard. So glad to be rid of Eulah and the decrepit house, it hadn’t occurred to him he had ongoing responsibility for the land. Unfortunately, not everything had burned, and huge piles of junk still filled the otherwise-empty lot.
“I haven’t decided yet what I’ll do with it.” No hint of the discomfort he felt inside.
“You probably don’t have much use for it, and it’ll cost a good bit to clean it up. Don’t suppose you have any money for that do you?”
“Well, I’m looking into a few things . . .” Harland lied.
“You know, I could take care of it for you. Buy the land and clean it up so you could get on with your life and not be bothered with it.”
So that’s it. Excitement quickly replaced the dread he had been feeling moments before. Mr. Howell’s offer to buy the land came out of nowhere, and Harland’s shrewdness kicked in immediately.
“Really? That might be good.” Harland flashed the smile again.
“It’s not worth much, of course. I could give you $300 for it.”
“It’s a big piece of land, I think, Mr. Howell. I’ll have to check into it.” Harland needed time to confirm his belief the lot measured nearly an acre and research the going price for that much acreage in Montford.
“Maybe $350. We’ll get it taken care of in a couple of days, then?”
Too eager. It must be worth more than that. “I’ll think about it and get back to you, Mr. Howell.”
“Well . . . you don’t want to wait too long, son. I’m doing you a favor by taking it off your hands, you know.”
“Yes, sir. I understand completely.” And Harland did understand, completely.
Harland had always made it his business to know who had money and who didn’t. One of those with money owned the store where he worked. The next morning, he executed his newly formed plan.
“Good morning, sir.” Harland maintained a friendly if reserved relationship with his boss. He followed orders, did the work assigned to him efficiently and occasionally asked for additional tasks so as to always appear industrious and occupied.
“Good morning to you, Harland. Fine day.”
“Yes sir, it is . . . I suppose.” The slight pause, the feigned uncertainty caught Mr. Wagner’s attention.
“Something on your mind, Harland?” Mr. Wagner considered himself a beneficent man, and he welcomed this rare opportunity to prove himself helpful to Harland.
“Well, sir . . . if you don’t mind . . . I wonder if you could offer some advice? Mr. Howell seems to want to buy my land over there on Pearson. He offered me $350 and that seems like a lot of money to me for such a little place, and all filled with debris the way it is. I’d like to have the money, but I don’t want people to think I got too much for it—like I’m greedy or something.”
The quick intake of breath on Mr. Wagner’s part did not escape Harland’s notice. Just as I thought. I’ve got him.
Mr. Wagner took a moment before responding.
“Three hundred fifty dollars must seem like a great deal of money to you, son.” That word again. Son. Harland kept his irritation hidden.
“But it really is kind of low for the nice piece of land you’ve got there. How big is it? I think I heard somewhere it was an acre. Maybe in the paper after the fire?”
“I’m not sure, sir. About that I think.” In fact, it fell barely shy of a full acre. Harland had already checked.
“Well then, you may be able to get more than $350 for it. Why, I’ll take it off your hands and give you $400. How does that sound?”
“Sounds mighty nice, Mr. Wagner, but surely that’s too much?”
“Not at all, son. I’d be happy to help a young man like you by paying him a fair price.”
Mr. Wagner confirmed Harland’s belief that he had a valuable piece of property. He spent the next day having much the same conversation with other local businessmen. He went back to Mr. Howell, who made a counter offer. He entertained an even higher bid from the owner of the men’s store on Patton Avenue. He made the rounds, reporting back to each man about the higher offer from someone else. In the end, Mr. Wagner won the bidding war and paid hundreds of dollars more than the first offer made by Mr. Howell. Harland earned his nest egg and in the process gave birth to his reputation as a shrewd businessman.
Plato once said: “The direction in which education starts a man will determine his future in life.” Harland’s Stumptown education set him on a path that eventually led to the pompous, self-absorbed man standing at the curb, imagining his dream house on Chestnut Street. A man who had decided at a very early age it was better to be rich than poor, selfish than generous, haughty than humble. A man who Mazie, the only person who had ever truly loved him, ultimately counted as one of the biggest disappointments of her life.
Harland had slipped unwillingly into memories of his childhood, and he brought himself back now to focus on the sloped hill where he would build his new home. Harland’s dream house would have turrets, sun rooms, an expansive wrap-around sleeping porch, winsome nooks and crannies to delight visitors of all persuasions and a glorious kitchen. The master bedroom would be massive in proportion and decorated with the finest handmade furniture, linens and carpets he could find. An elegant, expensive home with the relaxed comfort of a mountain retreat—Harland knew he could make his dream a reality.
Finding the right architect proved more difficult than he anticipated. Richard Sharp Smith had died years earlier. He would have been Harland’s top choice. Instead he resigned himself to working with lesser beings and eventually the plans were completed. But only after two of the top architects in town had abandoned the project, unwilling to bend to Harland’s demands for features out of character with the design styles they created.
Harland insisted on the best craftsmen to build his house, only those most in demand. For the door, one person stood alone at the top of the list. Leland Howard. It would have to be Leland Howard, even though getting that man to sign on would be an act of sheer will triumphing over plodding stubbornness.
ELEVEN
2004
Darcel Grimes’ voice drifted from the television into the kitchen where Tate busied herself preparing dinner. She typically listened every evening to the six o’clock news on Channel 13, the local ABC affiliate, to keep in touch with the outside world.
“Plans to demolish a derelict mansion in the Montford historic district have neighbors taking sides as to the best use of the prime location on Chestnut Street.”
Tate stopped cutting vegetables and dashed into the living room just in time to see a shot of 305 Chestnut Street illustrating the news story.
The brief piece highlighted the county’s plans to seize the property for non-payment of taxes and auction it on the courthouse steps. A prominent local developer with deep pockets appeared on camera speaking about his desire to tear down the house and build eight small cottages on the site. The reporter interviewed two neighbors who favored the idea and looked forward to the removal of the eyesore which had blighted the neighborhood for decades. Another spokesman for the local neighborhood association objected to anything diverging from the stately single-family homes with spacious yards, which populated the area. No one, it seemed, except Tate had any interest in saving the place.
This information could not have come at a better time. After her initial surge of interest in saving the house, Tate had reached what seemed like a dead end and her focus shifted back to the renova
tions on Maplewood. It had been a couple of days since she’d really thought much about 305. The story re-energized her. Tomorrow, she would dig in again, and now she had a new starting place. She’d have to check with Holly about the process involved in seizing and auctioning the property, but she expected she would have to move quickly or the place would be lost.
TWELVE
1917
Mary Alice Clayton entered the world in a small cabin in Asheville in 1878, the second of two daughters and the last child in the family to live past infancy. A quiet girl, given to retreating into fantasy when she was not occupied with the chores assigned to her, she asked little in the way of attention. “Not much trouble.” When her mother talked about her youngest daughter at all, that’s how she usually described Mary Alice.
The family lived a simple life. Mary Alice’s mother tried to keep an organized home. Her father found work wherever he could. They had food to eat, beds to sleep in and a roof over their heads. Mary Alice dutifully went to school and studied reading, writing and arithmetic, gaining the skills necessary to succeed in life. Though intelligent, she rarely received encouragement or acknowledgment, and she excelled at nothing.
What energy Mary Alice’s parents had available to engage in life beyond providing the basics went to her sister, Eulah Mae. Three years older, Eulah Mae had staked out her claim long before Mary Alice arrived.
However, the affection of their maternal aunt belonged solely to Mary Alice. Aunt Ida visited town infrequently, but when she did, she showered Mary Alice with attention, filling the child up with love.
On Mary Alice’s 13th birthday, Aunt Ida visited and made a request the girl had been secretly wishing for most of her life. Could Mary Alice come to live with Aunt Ida and her husband? Uncle Fred had been badly injured in a fall. He could hardly get around anymore, and both of them felt age slowing them down. They could use some help with the chores, someone to look after them. If Mary Alice could be spared, they would be ever grateful. It did not escape Mary Alice’s attention that her parents conferred only briefly before giving their consent. That afternoon, with her few belongings packed in a sack and a lightness of heart she had never felt before, Mary Alice set out with Aunt Ida to her new life.
She settled into a routine quickly. She made herself useful wherever she could. She provided help with the cooking and laundry, chopping wood, feeding the chickens and collecting eggs. No task proved too big or too small for Mary Alice, so long as she knew it would help her aunt and uncle. When they ran out of requests, she found ways to make their home better on her own. She gathered flowers from the small meadow to grace the wooden table. She mended curtains and expanded the garden. What she received in return held much more value than what she gave. In this house, Mary Alice slowly settled into the security of being loved.
Living in the mountains provided a tonic to Mary Alice’s soul, and as she grew into adulthood, she came to know her surroundings intimately. She recognized the birds by their mating calls. She became familiar with the edible and medicinal plants growing in the wild and took great pleasure in watching the subtle changes occurring with each season. Frequently, with her work for the day completed and her aunt and uncle settled in, Mary Alice retreated to the woods. The peacefulness of the forest nourished her deeply. Weather permitting, she loved to lie down on a bed of soft pine needles in a patch of filtered sun and drift off to the lullaby sung by the wind wafting through the treetops. On such a day several years after her arrival at the mountain homestead, an unexpected meeting changed Mary Alice’s life once again.
The ability to identify a good piece of timber before it had been harvested stood out as Arlen Howard’s most highly developed skill. He knew wood intimately. He learned to whittle soon after he learned to walk, starting with simple stick figures carved from the leavings of the chairs and tables made by his grandfather and father.
The Howard men held a well-earned reputation throughout the region for their craftsmanship, and little Arlen followed happily in their footsteps. He loved the color of young cherry wood and the earthy fragrance of freshly cut maple. What schooling he had took time away from the forest, which he roamed from a young age in search of the best wood he could find to add to the stockpile in the family workshop.
The Howards’ log cabin in the mountains just outside Asheville provided shelter and comfort for him and his older sister, their parents and their paternal grandparents. Although his sister eventually married and moved on, Arlen enjoyed his quiet mountain life. By the time he reached adulthood, he had become an accomplished carpenter, working alongside his father and grandfather, living each day as it came with little thought to the future.
So, the fact that Arlen found a wife at all came as a miracle. One afternoon as he moved quietly through the woods, he happened upon Mary Alice Clayton where she lay napping in a patch of sun.
Her rich, dark brown hair tinged with red fell in soft waves around her face. Her full black eyelashes formed soft curves on her cheeks, and her pink skin captivated Arlen with its paleness. Her simple dress rested in soft folds around her tiny frame, her small breasts pushing against the fabric and her full hips resting gracefully on the bed of pine needles. In her repose, Arlen sensed her receptiveness, her willingness to please.
Mary Alice awoke. No great revelation of love at first sight cast its spell over either of them. Rather, they were like-beings, and each recognized this quickly in the other. Neither needed to ask what thoughts occupied the other’s mind or whether they made a good match for each other. Fate brought them together. They met in the woods one day, and not long after they married in the woods as well.
Mary Alice continued to care for her elderly relatives, and Arlen stayed in the cabin with them, returning to his family’s home when necessary to help with the chores and collect supplies for his woodworking. When Uncle Fred died, followed shortly after by Aunt Ida, Mary Alice went home with Arlen to stay.
She found her place in the Howard clan as easily as she had with her aunt and uncle when she first moved to the mountains. She never questioned her life would continue in its quiet and predictable manner.
After several failed pregnancies, Mary Alice and Arlen’s only child fought his way into the world in the spring of 1910. This first act of stubborn determination set the tone for his approach to the problems that emerged later in his life.
Leland Samuel Howard enjoyed several precious years at the homestead, learning to whittle and roaming the forest, just as his father had, before the Howard clan left for a vastly different life in the city. After his departure, the surrounding mountains forever held the tantalizing promise of a return to the peaceful life of his youth, but for the boy that dream remained undeniably out of reach.
The Howard homestead sat at the edge of the huge estate assembled in bits and pieces by George Washington Vanderbilt II. He visited Asheville in 1888 and immediately fell in love with the rolling Blue Ridge Mountains girding the city. He bought up 125,000 acres of land on which he would build a mansion the likes of which were unknown in the area. His acquisitions occurred with little fanfare, yet he single-handedly transformed tiny Asheville into a destination for the rich and famous, permanently changing the lives of its inhabitants.
These changes had little immediate impact on the Howards and other mountaineers like them whose land remained in their possession. Then Congress passed the Weeks Act in 1911. That legislation opened the door for the creation of national forests, and Mr. Vanderbilt saw the opportunity to sell off some of his property—more than eighty thousand acres of it. Although he died unexpectedly in 1914, his widow finalized the sale of the land, thus giving birth to the Pisgah National Forest. Several families with land near the Howards jumped at the chance to sell their property as well, leaving Mary Alice and Arlen more and more isolated.
As much as she loved the mountains, Mary Alice knew the time had come to move back to Asheville. When Arlen’s parents died and only the three of them remained, she pressed hard until
her husband reluctantly agreed to sell his heritage and relocate to the city. They sold the cabin where Mary Alice had lived with her aunt and uncle as well. Half the money went to help them set up a household in the city. The other half, with Arlen’s permission, went to Mary Alice to keep in her own name.
They purchased an old, wood cabin on Cumberland Avenue with ample space in the front where Arlen and Leland could eventually build a more modern home, one suitable to city life. But the cabin in back seemed the best fit for all of them, a vestige of their roots in the mountains, and Mary Alice and Arlen remained in it for the rest of their lives. Simple lives, for the most part. Peaceful and productive lives surrounded by the noise of the city rather than the whispering sounds of the forest. They gradually adjusted to those changes, even Arlen and Leland, who previously knew only the secluded life of their mountain homestead. Arlen found ample work in the city to support them and Leland apprenticed with his father when not attending school. They grew accustomed to their neighbors, found a small church well suited to all of them and made new friends who they welcomed into their simple home. In fact, everyone felt welcome at the Howard household—everyone except Mary Alice’s nemesis, her crazy sister, Eulah Mae.
THIRTEEN
2004
Eight years after her mother’s death, Mazie Daniels finally pulled out the tattered box of memorabilia and began sorting through it. It overflowed with pictures, clippings and mementos, spanning the last century. She picked up a small, faded, black-and-white snapshot from near the top of the pile. A young woman perched on the stoop of a tiny house overlooking a verdant garden. A chicken coop leaned into the left side of the house, and a beat-up Model T sat out front. Alongside her stood a wiry girl, one hand resting on the woman’s shoulder.
