Miranda laughed at the details of her earlier vision. “No, an older man. A teacher.”
“Well, you can still move ahead with your plans. No reason you can’t paint outside or in the garage.”
“First I want to organize the house. Now that the kids are gone, I can clear out old stuff, get rid of things. And then think about painting or whatever.”
Paula gave a skeptical raise of her eyebrows.
Miranda pushed her foot at a clump of grass along the fence. “I think it will help me to focus, to start with a clean slate. I have so much stuff – old pieces I’ve held onto, half-finished projects. I want to lighten my load, and start fresh, you know? Then maybe by the fall or so I can be ready to really work.”
“Hmm. Well, don’t throw away anything without letting me check it out first. The new shop opens in a month. I need to fill it up, and your things would add just the right touch.”
“I doubt if there’s anything you can use, but I’ll start going through things.”
“You really should start on something new, as well. You’ll have the time now.”
“Yeah.” Miranda nodded and looked around. “Well, I better get started with everything. See you later.” She began to walk back to the house.
“Don’t wait too long, Miranda!”
Miranda turned and waited for a final word of reprimand.
But Paula was holding up the pale purple clematis. “They’re sure to go fast.”
Chapter 2
At the nursery, Miranda’s cart burst with color and variety: several trays of mixed red, orange, and magenta impatiens; pots of red, pink, and white geraniums; deep blue periwinkle and yellow begonias, and two of the purple clematis for around the garden house door. She came across a variety of petunia she hadn’t seen before, and added it to the cart. She always had a hard time stopping, once at the nursery. Every plant seemed to call to her – like the purple alyssum that would match so nicely. She broke apart a few trays and arranged them around the clematis, and took a step back to imagine how they would look in the planter – then she added some white alyssum for contrast. And might as well get some marigolds, she thought; they’ll bloom well into the fall.
As she loaded the cartons of flowers into her car, she realized that, just like the French toast, she had overdone it. It would take her all day to plant so many flowers.
By late afternoon, she had planted the window boxes, several pots of flowers, and on either side of the door, two tubs of alyssum and clematis. After watering them all, she hauled down a bench from the garden and set it next to the door. She stood back and admired her work. It was beautiful. She wondered if the older teacher would appreciate it. No matter. It gave her pleasure to see it looking so pretty, and it brought her one step closer to having it fixed up as a studio.
She went inside the garden house and began to clean, sweeping and dusting. Though she tried to ignore the pile of wood and canvas for the screen, it stared at her from the corner, asking for completion. It would have to wait. She rolled up the canvas, and used the wood slats to prop open the door. The day had grown warm and she welcomed the light breeze.
Tired now, she sat down on the floor, resting her elbows on her knees. Then with a sigh of fatigue she stretched out, the hardwood floor feeling good against her sore back. She gazed up at the shifting shadows of leaves and branches on the ceiling and wall. I could trace them, she thought – paint them in gold and pale green. It could be beautiful.
She let her eyes wander over the details of her beloved garden house – the deep, forget-me-not blue of the dresser and window trim, the pillows and curtains she and Clara had made. They had spent so many hours over the years down here – painting, sewing, little by little transforming the run-down structure into a charming, livable cottage.
Clara had loved the profusion of forget-me-nots that surrounded the garden house, and decided to christen the cottage the Forget-Me-Not House. It had seen many tea parties and birthday celebrations, and Clara’s favorite, the fairy parties. Ben and Michael were always good sports about helping out – lighting lanterns throughout the garden, tying fluttering ribbons from the trees.
Michael had also used the garden house for his share of sleepovers and parties. Miranda smiled as she remembered the pirate-themed treasure hunt for his eighth birthday. She and Ben had painted black whiskers and heavy eyebrows on the little boys, wound bandanas around their heads, and sent them off with the first clue. The tiny band of boys made their way through cottony spiders’ dens, and over the River of Forgetfulness. The final clue led to a Halloween skeleton, whose bony finger pointed to the half-buried treasure chest. She would never forget the cries of joy as the boys brushed off the dried leaves, opened the lid, and beheld the gold chocolate coins, toys, and shiny plastic doubloons. And her utter surprise at their delight in the play jewelry she had draped inside the trunk. The boys had proudly claimed the booty, looping strands of plastic pearls and bright purple and green Mardi Gras beads around their necks, the jewelry adding a strange feminine touch to their little-boy wildness.
A sense of loss welled up inside her. Those times were long gone. Michael and Clara were gone. Grown. Making their way in the world. She was happy for them, happy that they were entering a new phase in their lives. She pressed on her eyes to push down the tears.
A car pulled into the driveway up at the house, and a young man checked a piece of paper against the address. He then parked, and walked up to the house. He was dressed in jeans and a button-down shirt with the sleeves rolled up against the warmth – and yet there was an air of formality about him.
He knocked at the door in a tentative manner, took a step back, and waited. After a few moments, he rang the doorbell, and again stepped back from the door, with his hands linked behind him.
Turning to the side, as if indecisive about what to do, he noticed the flagstones that led to the side of the house. He followed them, and down below saw a small cottage with the door propped open. He hesitated a moment, glanced back at the house, and then made his way down the steps to the garden house.
He walked onto the cottage’s low wooden porch, noticing the empty potting soil bags and the freshly planted flowers, and took a step forward to look inside the open door. He was about to call out hello, when he noticed a woman lying on the floor with her hands over her eyes. He quickly retreated, but his foot hit one of the wooden planks leaning against the door and sent them all crashing to the floor with a loud clap.
Miranda let out a cry, scrambled to her feet, and put her hand to her chest. “Oh, my God!”
They began talking over one another as the man clumsily tried to stand the wood planks back against the door. “I’m so sorry – ”
“You startled me!”
“I didn’t mean – ”
They stood looking at one another, then Miranda pointed towards him. “Are you – ”
“William.” He leaned forward and extended his hand. “William Priestly.”
Miranda started to shake his hand, then rubbed her palms on her jeans first. “Miranda. I’ve been cleaning and I was just – ” she motioned to the floor where she had been stretched out. “Resting. Ben said you weren’t arriving until next week.”
“Sorry, I took an earlier flight. I can come back later, if you’d like.” He began to leave.
“No, no, that’s quite all right.”
“I spoke to your husband this morning and he suggested that I stop by this afternoon.”
Miranda waved away his concern. “Really, it’s quite all right. So you’re interested in renting the garden house for the summer?”
“Perhaps for two months or so, if that’s all right.”
“That’s fine. We don’t have any plans for it at the moment. Come in, come in. I’ll show you around.” Miranda cleared some of the cleaning supplies out of the way and set them against the wall. “Well, here it is.” She made a sweeping gesture with her arm. “Just one large room, for the most part.”
William
took a step inside, and let his eyes wander over the place.
“We fixed it up over the years, using it mostly for our kids’ parties and sleepovers. But they’re gone now, so we thought we’d try renting it out. Maybe make a few minor renovations.”
She smiled and waited for him to walk around or ask questions, but he just stood there with his hands behind his back.
“Well, let me give you a quick tour. We’re in the living room/bedroom/study,” she said in a playful tone. As she looked at the double bed with its blue and rose bedcover and the assortment of pillows, it struck her as being perhaps too feminine. One of her hand-painted floral screens and the dresser formed a kind of wall, offering some degree of privacy. But these, too, were draped with lace. “You can move anything that’s in the way,” she said, lifting a corner of the lace and letting it drop.
Against the wall stood a large desk and an overstuffed chair with a lamp behind it. William walked over and ran his hand across the desk. “Looks like oak.”
“It is. A teacher’s desk from the 1940s or so. I found it at a garage sale years ago.” She showed him the sliding panel that pulled out. “For grading papers, I guess.”
He smiled. “They don’t make them like this anymore.”
Miranda pointed to the other side of the room. “We might put up a wall there, divide it up a bit. We’re not sure yet.” She pointed to the wooden rafters up above. “High ceilings for such a small place.”
Again, she waited for William to say something, but he just lifted his eyes to the ceiling.
“The kids had a Halloween party here one year – a kind of haunted house. Skeletons hanging from the rafters. A gauntlet of horrors – you know, blindfold the kids and dip their hands into cold, oily spaghetti.” She lowered her voice and said, “These are the brains of Frankenstein. These are his eyes.”
William waited for her to explain.
She laughed lightly. “Hard-boiled eggs. Anyway – back here is the bathroom.” She opened the door and pointed to the shower. “Good water pressure.”
“And over here is the kitchen. Small, but kind of cozy. And nice with the window right by the table.” She parted the blue calico curtains and smiled at the view of branches arcing over the window. “That’s a butterfly bush. It will bloom in a few more weeks. All purple. You might see some monarchs, or some of those yellow-and-black tiger butterflies.”
“Very nice,” William said.
“And there’s a separate back entrance.” She opened the French doors, revealing several flowering bushes and a gravel patch. “There’s room to park back here and enter this way. Very private.” Miranda felt her cheeks heat up, realizing that she had implied something she didn’t intend. “Convenient for bringing in the groceries.” She closed the doors, and moved back to the main room.
She pointed to a wall of cupboards and closets. “Lots of storage. I think the people we bought it from built all these. Or maybe someone before them. I don’t really know.” She opened and closed them as she spoke. “You can hang things in this one. There’s still a lot of stuff in them from when the kids were young. Just move things around if you need the space.”
“I don’t have too much. It’s all very comfortable.” He noticed some steps along the wall and raised his head to see where they ended.
“A loft,” said Miranda. “The steps are a little steep, and it gets hot up there in the summer. But it’s nice to have the extra bed for visitors.” She walked to the front door. “Well, that’s pretty much it. What do you think? Will it suit you?”
“It’s very nice. A real haven. I would love to rent it. Unless you have other people interested in it?”
“No, we never got around to advertising it. So it’s yours if you like. I can have it ready by Saturday. Or tomorrow if you want.”
“Saturday is fine. Thank you.”
They walked out onto the low porch. Miranda scooped up the empty potting soil bags and stuffed them into some of the empty flower containers. “I can change the quilt, if you like.”
William turned to Miranda, unsure of what she meant.
“I mean if it’s too feminine. I have others if you’d prefer.”
William smiled at her concern. “No. It’s fine. It’s all very comfortable. It feels – ” he looked around for the words to describe it. “It feels like – a real home.”
Miranda laughed. “It is a real home. An extension of the house.” She gazed lovingly at the cottage. “A lot of happy memories here.”
William stepped off the porch and looked at it from a few paces back, clearly admiring it. He noticed the small hand-painted sign above the door, and read, “The Forget-Me-Not House.”
“My daughter named it that when she was little. But somehow we always refer to it as the Garden House.”
“How many children do you have?”
“Two. Michael and Clara. They both moved away recently. Michael to his first job in Portland; he just graduated in engineering. And Clara moved to San Francisco. She lived at home while she went to college here, but when her boyfriend was transferred to San Francisco, she decided to switch schools and join him there.” Miranda knew she would go on and on about the kids if she didn’t stop herself. She stepped off the porch and shielded her eyes against the sun. “Are you from New York, William?”
“Pennsylvania, originally.”
She nodded and waited for him to say more, but he remained silent. After a moment, she asked, “And Ben said you’re a teacher?”
“Yes. I teach English.”
“What level?”
“I teach at a community college. Composition and literature. Thought I’d use the summer to get some reading done. Work on a few journal articles. I think this place will be perfect for that.” He shaded his eyes and looked over at the sloped landscape. “Looks like you have quite a garden there.” He began to walk back to the flagstone steps.
“Come this way,” Miranda said, gesturing to her left. “We’ll take the scenic route back. Through the garden.”
The path she took led to a terraced landscaped area that winded up towards the house. Her pride was her garden and she wanted to see William’s reaction to it. She knew it would be at its best; it had rained yesterday and was now luxuriating in the warm afternoon sun.
“You’re lucky,” she said. “We’ve had such a cool, late spring that many of the early flowers are still in bloom.” A note of excitement filled her voice. Seeing her garden through other people’s eyes always gave her a thrill, and a burst of gardening inspiration usually followed.
Miranda led the way to the lower garden, where the tree-like rhododendrons and lower azaleas formed a sort of double wall; a few purple, magenta, and white blooms still lingered on the bushes. She loved every section of her garden, but this shadier and damper part always stirred in her a feeling of tenderness. It grew thick with hosta and ferns, and perennials that didn’t need much care – patches of bleeding hearts and shy lily-of-the-valley.
“Oh, look!” she cried. “The coral bells have bloomed.” She bent down to take a closer look. “Clara always called these fairy flowers.”
The perfume of the lily-of-the-valley pulled her closer to them; she picked a tiny sprig, and held it to her nose. Then she tucked it under her wedding band as a reminder to come back and gather a small bouquet of the shade flowers to show Ben.
Where the path began to climb, the garden widened, as if opening its arms in welcome. A slight breeze gently animated the garden, swaying the weeping willow branches, and causing low notes of wind chimes to fill the air. Filtered sunlight made its way through the tree branches, casting shadow and light among the plants. Miranda brushed her hand against a clump of pink astilbes, their feathery plumes illuminated by a shaft of light.
She gestured for William to take the lead up the tiered steps. Though she couldn’t see his face, she could tell that he was taking it all in, pausing in front of some her favorite things: the wrought iron chair entwined with ivy, the birdhouses and birdbaths s
cattered throughout. He paused to look at the rustic benches and tables, the clusters of flowers. When they came upon the goldfish pond, he turned and smiled at her.
“My son and Ben made that for me one Mother’s Day. And Ben added the little bridge a few years back. Ben’s an architect, you know, and enjoys carpentry.”
William stopped to run his hand over an old sundial, its base nestled in a cloud of cobalt blue lobelia. He seemed to enjoy spotting the almost hidden clay sculptures peeking out from clumps of flowers: winged figures, tiny houses, rabbits, birds. He stopped and looked back over the garden. “It’s beautiful. Interesting.”
Miranda smiled out at her garden, delighted that he understood. Over the years, she had shown it to many different people. Some of them loved it and felt at home in it – others were seemingly indifferent, or commented on the bother of weeding or the cost of upkeep, which let her know that they didn’t really see it.
“Are you the gardener?” William asked. “Someone put a lot of thought into this, a lot of themselves.”
“Oh, the whole family made it, really. Ben helps with the planting and trimming. He put in a sprinkler system two years ago, which really helped, and last year he added the antique iron fencing. Michael made some of the benches and tables. And Clara insisted on the swing,” she said, gesturing to a wooden swing that hung from an oak tree, with faded blue ribbons tied at the seat.
William stood still and took it all in. “It’s really remarkable. A sense of peace pervades it. I feel like I’ve stepped out of time.”
“Feel free to use it anytime you want. There are several good reading spots. And there’s a hammock down below that we put up every summer. Just brush away the pine needles and leaves.”
They reached the sunny upper garden where a bubbling fountain stood among brightly colored blooms. Daisies, dahlias, and clumps of daylilies crowded against each other, and pressed against the benches, trellises, and fencing. With the afternoon breeze lightly swaying the plants, and small white butterflies darting from flower to flower, the garden appeared vibrant, joyful even.
The Garden House Page 2
