by Karen Welch
Jack. The image of his wise, weathered face brought a lump to her throat. More than her godfather, Jack had been her third parent. For another two years, he was also her legal guardian, the one person whose support was essential if she was going to move forward with her plans. Just convincing Jack that she was no longer a child would take some doing. Persuading him that she could actually come home, take over running the farm and live here on her own would take much more. Better to get busy doing something constructive, than waste energy quaking at the thought of that moment when he realized she’d lied to him and sneaked up here practically under his nose. If hard work could help her think, then the more hard work the better.
She had made a mental list of the chores to be done, but first, she wanted to take a walk. When she had arrived, just before dusk, she had rushed to prepare for the night, carrying in her supplies and enough firewood to last until morning. Now she walked deliberately to the gate, opening it wide enough to let herself out into the drive. Slowly, in order to enjoy the full impact, she turned back to gaze across the lawn. It was an image she carried in her mind, as clear as any photograph; the solid frame house guarded by two ancient oaks, flanked by the big red barn to the east and the little timbered smokehouse to the west. A large, graceful house, with a deep porch and big dormers lined in perfect symmetry across the front, it sat close to the ground, as if rooted there over time. Seeing it now after so many months away she thought it seemed a little sad, but not at all unwelcoming.
Mounted on the rail fence by the gate was the hand-painted sign first put in place by the farm's original owner, her father's uncle. He had christened his home Valley Rise Farm, a name that had been carried on when her father inherited the property. Repainted numerous times over the years, the sign was again in need of refreshing, the paint now faded and chipping. Beneath the title, the name of “J. D. Haynes” had almost disappeared. She would make the sign a priority, she decided. As soon as she could get to the hardware store, she would buy paint and brushes and carefully restore it. It would announce to all comers that “Haynes” intended to carry on here.
Reentering the gate, she followed the drive to the back of the house. To the east, beyond the barn, the land dropped away steeply to a wooded hillside. Below the woods, she could just make out the tall brick chimneys of what was locally known simply as “the springs.” A hundred years earlier, Charlotte Springs had been an elegant resort, the destination of wealthy vacationers who came for the cool summers and the waters of the deep sulfur springs. Now all that remained were crumbling foundations and the sentinel chimneys. The road to the springs was closed to all but local traffic, and it had become a preserve for native flora and fauna. Her father had often taken her there to picnic by the bubbling water, teaching her the names of the wildflowers and the songbirds.
The barn and the rail-fenced paddock seemed unchanged, but beyond, to the west, the overgrown furrows were a forlorn reminder of how long it had been since the lush rows of the garden had flourished. Five years now, since that final planting; her father had lost interest after that, allowing the land to go fallow.
As she strolled across the yard, a fat gray squirrel paused in his brisk rummaging among the leaves and stood watching suspiciously for a moment, before scurrying up the huge oak that stood at the back of the house. From his perch, he chattered furiously down to her. The invitation was irresistible.
“Not used to sharing the place, are you?” Emily called up to him. “Well, I won't be here long this time, but you'd better be prepared for company, come summer. And by the way, how about keeping this yard a little neater? Anybody would think no one lived here!” The squirrel gave her the benefit of his bright, inquisitive gaze, finally turning to race up to the nest high above, bidding her farewell with a very grand flourish of his tail.
Turning to survey the yard, with its mounds of windblown leaves and remnants of long-ago flower beds, she shook her head. Her mother would be horrified that things had been so neglected after the years of careful cultivation. The rose bushes she'd so prized, now gnarled and overgrown; the beds of azaleas and rhododendrons in dire need of pruning, and the brick-lined borders where in summers past, bright annuals had bloomed, all now cluttered with several seasons' worth of weeds and debris. In and out of the tangled beds, wrens, sparrows and chickadees darted for their breakfast, and a pair of cardinals dove gracefully into the dark green haven of a juniper. Not deserted, she thought, just in need of a loving hand to bring back its former beauty.
After walking a full circle around the house, checking for broken windows or loose shutters, she decided the house had fared amazingly well. A good cleaning and it would be almost as good as new. Of course it had not been new in almost seventy years, but it had been gently used, and in her lifetime, at least, much loved. A little of the same kind of attention should bring it back to life. With one last sweeping view of her surroundings, she drew a deep breath of the cold, clean air and squared her shoulders. Time now, she told herself, for some real work.
First checking the level of the fuel oil tank, she was satisfied that she could safely raise the thermostat above the fifty-degree chill that had greeted her last night. With the furnace humming along, her next chore would be getting water to the house. The pipes had been drained for winter two years ago. She would have to forego the luxury of running water. Her only hope, short of crawling into the root cellar and locating the proper valve in the maze of plumbing, would be to haul water from the pump by the barn. Bucket in hand, she approached the rusted relic braced for a fight. After several minutes of slowly forcing the handle, screwing up her face at the screeching protest, she was rewarded with a gasp of air, followed by a gurgle of dirty sludge spewing into the trough below. A few more strokes and she let out a triumphant howl as clear water began to flow. Filling the bucket, she carried it with careful steps to the house, repeating the procedure a half-dozen times, until satisfied the supply would last the day.
Pleased with her accomplishments so far, she turned her attention to digging for any cleaning supplies that might have been left behind. Crawling under the kitchen sink, she pulled out a plastic bucket filled with carefully organized brushes, sponges and rags. A box of baking soda, a jug of bleach and a somewhat cloudy bottle of pine-scented cleaner completed the kit she had always carried from room to room. Digging deeper, she located a can of lemon oil, the only acceptable substance for polishing her mother's prized antiques. In the pantry she found the mop and broom, propped in their usual corner beside the ancient vacuum cleaner.
For the next two hours, Emily cleaned her house. It was an amazingly celebratory experience. As she worked her way across the long front room, she was convinced that with every pass of the vacuum wand, with every stroke of her dust cloth, the colors in the room came to life. The warm brick red of the drapes, the mossy green of the velvet couch, even the cabbage roses on the wing chairs glowed, once relieved of the layer of dust that had settled on every surface. Each small treasure she held in her hand to polish was returned to its place with a renewed presence, as if in response to her touch. By the time she stopped for lunch, the mustiness of neglect was banished, replaced by the warm scent of burning wood and the faintest hint of lavender and lemon.
From the hearth, flanked by glass-fronted bookshelves, to the west end of the room that was home to her mother's piano, the room seemed restored. As in her dream, the wood floors gleamed and the tabletops shone from a fresh coat of oil. Going to the piano, she carefully removed the dust cover. The ebony surface, smooth and cold, reflected the sunlight from the nearby window. Hesitantly, she opened the cover and touched a key with one finger. It might well have suffered from the cold and damp of the closed house, but she would contact the tuner who had come regularly when her mother was alive. Emily herself could play only the most elementary of tunes, but the beloved instrument deserved to be maintained. With one more timid note, she closed the cover over the keyboard, passing her hand across the satiny wood in a tender caress.
Lined on the shelves along one wall, the extensive collection of recordings and the stereo purchased not long before her mother's death caught her attention. Hesitating for only an instant, she approached and after running her finger along the rows of jackets, drew one from its slot. Vivaldi's Four Seasons was precisely the sound she wanted to fill the house with today. Soon the chiming strings shattered the silence, invading every corner with glorious music. Collecting her rags and broom, she marched off to the kitchen to prepare her lunch.
After a quick sandwich and the promise of something hot for supper, Emily stood in the center of the room, surveying her handiwork. It would be all too easy, she knew, to just sit down and enjoy the afternoon, listen to music, browse the bookshelves for old friends. “Coward,” she prodded. “What are you afraid of?” Turning herself firmly toward the half-open door of the guestroom, she forced her steps in that direction. Last night she had gone in just long enough to pick out the quilts for her pallet, choosing the least precious from her mother's collection stored on the shelves of the wardrobe. Certain she was not ready to sleep in this room, she had chosen instead to make her bed on the floor by the hearth, using the argument that she needed to stay near the warmth of the fire.
Now she opened the door wide, and going in, drew back the drapes to let in the streaming sunlight. It was a beautiful room, with pale yellow walls and blue and white toile draperies. The mahogany sleigh bed was another of her mother's antique treasures, as was the imposing walnut wardrobe. This elegant room had been reserved for those rare occasions when friends or relatives from far away had visited the farm. In this room, her mother had slowly died that long summer five years ago. If there were ghosts in the house, Emily thought they would surely be here. Not only the ghost of her mother, but that of her father as well, keeping his hopeless vigil at her side. But she didn't believe in ghosts. Memories were haunting enough, she knew.
In the light of day, as she slowly turned to take in the entire room, she told herself it was really just four walls, filled with fine furnishings and nothing more. Try as she might, she could no longer honestly picture her mother in this room. She might be out there at the piano, that intensely focused expression on her lovely face, or perhaps sitting in the porch swing, her eyes closed as she listened to music through the open window on a warm afternoon. In this room, there was nothing but quiet calm, a welcoming sense of comfort. Going to the bed, she gently smoothed the white matelasse coverlet. Maybe, in another day or so, she could sleep in this bed, she told herself. But today, she could open the windows and let the cold fresh air blow away the lingering scent of old sachets. Today she could sweep aside the last of the memories, move a chair, rearrange the pictures on the wall. One day at a time, living in this room would push back the past, making space for the future. With a squaring of her shoulders, she went to gather her supplies.
To complete the final chore on her list, she rolled up her sleeves and heated water in a stockpot. Throwing open the windows, armed with hot water and bleach, she attacked the two bathrooms, scouring tile and fixtures, wiping down walls and mopping floors upstairs and down. Her father had remodeled the rooms during her childhood, but the old claw-foot tubs remained, lending their charm to the bright spaces. When porcelain and chrome gleamed from her efforts, and the black and white tiles shone like new, she was convinced the house was glad to have her back.
At the end of the day, she longed for a hot soak in the depth of one of the tubs; her arms and back ached from unaccustomed labor. But the best she could do was a quick sponge bath at the kitchen sink, punctuated with cries of “brr” and “ugh” as lukewarm water met bare skin. She brushed out her hair and shampooed away the dust. As she dressed in her nightclothes, glad of her heavy flannel robe, she congratulated herself on having been truly content all day. No fog, no depression, even when confronted by the past at every turn.
For her supper, she had opened a variety of cans from her stock of provisions—beans, tomatoes and corn, pouring the contents into a pot and adding a handful of rice. Now she lifted the lid to savor the aroma of her stew. Ladling a generous bowlful, she carried it into the front room. Seated at the table by the window, she ate, watching as the final red glimmer of daylight faded from the wintry sky. When the last drop was consumed, she took a notepad from the table's drawer. She would make a list, map out her strategy and plan her maneuvers. All day, shreds of argument and logic had been darting through her brain. It was time to get serious, before she was caught off guard and found herself tongue-tied and defenseless.
While she knew Jack's support was essential to her success, she would need other allies, Mike and Sara McConnell in particular. They had been the ones who made it possible for her to stay on through her senior year of high school, who had guided her during the confusing months following her father's stroke. When J.D. had been admitted to a nursing home in Charlottesville, Mike and Sara had taken Emily into their home. As the family's long-time pastor and as the couple her parents had socialized with most frequently, they were the likely choice. With two sons, one a classmate of Emily's, the other four years older and just entering the Army, they provided a family environment, which Jack, as a bachelor, could not have done.
While Jack had taken charge of all the complicated details of her life, seen that she had money, clothes and everything a teenaged girl might need, the McConnells had offered her a haven in which she found comfort and fellowship. As pastor of their church, Mike had baptized Emily as an infant, prayed at her mother's bedside during the years of recurring illness, been there as a rock of consolation after her death. Sara, with her sweet, quiet manner, had been the perfect companion for the more mercurial Lilianne and the two had been close friends from the beginning, when each had come to the valley as an outsider. They had shared a love and knowledge of music and art, as well as the motherhood of their growing children.
Sara had been so kind, so watchful, when Emily had suddenly become part of her household, making every effort to see that she had the privacy a girl her age needed. She had understood and encouraged Emily's wish to visit the farm, to put things in order after her father's abrupt departure, helping her pack and clear the house, preparing it for an uncertain future. Mike had offered Emily a sounding board, guiding her toward acceptance of the changes in her life in the context of her already well-developed faith. As her father's long-time friend, he had shared her grief and understood her frustration at facing a future where the man they had known was now so cruelly disabled.
Mike and Sara would understand her need to come home. Whether they would agree that she was mature enough to take on so much responsibility, she couldn't be sure. But their support could serve as added ammunition against whatever doubts Jack might have about her readiness to live on her own.
Then there was Angela to consider. Where Jack would debate the wisdom of her plan with rock solid logic, her godmother would most like respond emotionally, with the sort of fiercely intense approach she took to everything in her life, from her music to her family. It seemed that if her heart told her to do a thing, no matter how illogical, Angela did it. While her instincts usually proved to be wise in the end, there were often heated arguments or torrents of tears along the way. With her Italian husband, Sal, she frequently engaged in furious debates, before the predictably passionate reconciliation. Even with her teenaged daughter, Lil, the similarities between the two led to endless wrangling over the most trivial issues, generally concluding with Angela's taking the day.
The thought of seeking Angela’s approval set her stomach quivering and effectively cleared her mind of any and all coherent arguments. She might be able to stand up to Jack’s reason, but she knew she was no match for Angela. The vision of Angela’s dark eyes flashing as she bluntly spelled out the obvious made her cringe and retreat. No, she would go to Angela only if and when she knew she had won over Jack. Emily believed Angela would likely accept a fait accompli with good grace. She was a loving godmother and a caring ally. But she
would much prefer informing Angela of her plans, rather than attempting to enlist her help.
She knew she had been blessed initially by her parents' choice of Jack and Angela as her godparents, and further by her father's appointment of Jack as her guardian. They had been closely involved in her upbringing, and remained faithful to her through all the changes. She was well aware of the need for their continued support. They were the only family she had now. The challenge would be convincing them she was ready to at least try life on her own terms.
She looked down the list of fragmented ideas on her notepad and shook her head sadly. There was nothing here that would stand up to the loving objections she could anticipate from the very people she needed most on her side. It would take clear thinking and firm resolve to face arguments that might make perfect sense to her mind, but were in complete opposition to what her heart told her was right.
Fighting the specter of inevitable defeat, Emily went through the house turning off lights, ending up before the hearth with only the firelight illuminating the room. Brushing her still damp hair, she tried to lull herself into a state of calm. Prayer, she knew, would order her mind and still her fears. But to pray, she needed to quiet her racing thoughts and banish the rising anxiety that fueled them. She had always found strength in her confidence that God was somehow involved in her day-to-day living, watching over her every step. Through all the challenges and the changes, her faith had held her fears in check. There was no reason that this time would be any different. This assurance she felt, that she was making the right choice, that in fact God had guided her toward it, should be proof that she would find the strength and courage she needed to go forward.
