by Jeff High
THE FULLNESS OF TIME
A Novel Of Watervalley
-Jeff High
Table of Contents
Title Page
This one is for Dawn, | my best love story.
There was a time when meadow, grove, and stream,
He has made everything beautiful in its time. He has also set eternity in the human heart; yet no one can fathom what God has done from beginning to end.
PRELUDE | Watervalley, Tennessee
Chapter 1 | ARRIVAL
Chapter 2 | CONNIE
Chapter 3 | INTRODUCTIONS
Chapter 4 | THE LETTER
Chapter 5 | SPARKS FLY
Chapter 6 | EXPECTATIONS
Chapter 7 | CHRISTINE
Chapter 8 | SOS
Chapter 9 | GHOSTS
Chapter 10 | SECRETS
Chapter 11 | THE CHAMBERS WOMEN
Chapter 12 | THE TALK
Chapter 13 | HIRAM HATCHER
Chapter 14 | STUNNED
Chapter 15 | PATIENTS
Chapter 16 | AN OMINOUS CONVERSATION
Chapter 17 | MATTIE
Chapter 18 | LAYERS OF THE ONION
Chapter 19 | MAYLEN COOK
Chapter 20 | PHOTOGRAPHS
Chapter 21 | PROMISES TO KEEP
Chapter 22 | BUMP IN THE NIGHT
Chapter 23 | CONSPIRATORS
Chapter 24 | ANTIQUES
Chapter 25 | SCANDAL
Chapter 26 | TREASURE MAPS
Chapter 27 | LOST DREAMS
Chapter 28 | HOUSE CALLS
Chapter 29 | POLLY
Chapter 30 | PLANS
Chapter 31 | THE MEETING
Chapter 32 | CONFESSION
Chapter 33 | SPLENDOR IN THE GRASS
Chapter 34 | FINDING CLOSURE
Chapter 35 | ESTELLE
Chapter 36 | BREAKING NEWS
Chapter 37 | AN UNEXPECTED VISIT
Chapter 38 | A GRAND AFFAIR
Chapter 39 | A PECULIAR QUEST
Chapter 40 | CASTLES IN THE AIR
Chapter 41 | INTO THE WOODS
Chapter 42 | THE SPRINGHOUSE
Chapter 43 | THE WOMAN IN THE SHADOWS
Chapter 44 | MELODIES
Chapter 45 | REVELATION
Chapter 46 | FAILURE
Chapter 47 | LAZARUS REVISITED
Chapter 48 | FOR THE LOVE OF CONNIE
Chapter 49 | MATTHEW
Chapter 50 | BACHELOR PARTY
Chapter 51 | WEDDING
Chapter 52 | BEAUTIFUL IN ITS TIME
POSTLUDE | Eight Months Later
ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS | Many thanks to my devoted readers who have waited so patiently for this story. Seriously. I mean it. I’ll try not to be so long with the next one. | As always, thanks to my family and friends for their continued love and support. | Thanks to Lisa Strong for her wonderful artwork for the cover. Pay her a visit at https://lisastrongart.com/. | And special thanks to Bill and Teresa for their fabulous assistance with editing
Books in the Watervalley Series | More Things in Heaven and Earth | Each Shining Hour | The Splendor of Ordinary Days
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This one is for Dawn,
my best love story.
There was a time when meadow, grove, and stream,
The earth, and every common sight,
To me did seem
Appareled in celestial light.
...The things which I have seen I now can see no more.
...Whither is fled the visionary gleam?
Where is it now, the glory and the dream?
-William Wordsworth, Intimations of Immortality
He has made everything beautiful in its time. He has also set eternity in the human heart; yet no one can fathom what God has done from beginning to end.
-Ecclesiastes 3: 11
PRELUDE
Watervalley, Tennessee
CAN YOU HEAR HER? CLOSE your eyes and listen...she’s singing again.
The doors, the walls, the stones...they all hear her. They were slumbering, resting their ancient bones through the cold, unkind hours; the long, dormant halls of winter. But she is sleepless. Far above, she murmurs.
Her song is old and melancholy. Downward it floats, haunting the air of the old mansion. It is crackled, nostalgic, pushed through a funnel. You hear her, don't you? At first, it is a quaking, dreadful thing. And yet slowly, she calms you, pulls you in. You stay and listen because her voice is smoky and melodic. The tune is sultry, distantly familiar. It weaves around you, teases you, bewitches you. Soon, you are lost into it. Then languidly it fades and drifts away, leaving you drugged, breathless, wildly tormented with feelings both dark and jubilant.
Now you are addicted. You want more.
Fearfully, you wait. But there is nothing. All that remains are the doors, the walls, and the stones. They know her secret. For years, she has perfected her silence. But something has awakened her, and they know. They know the woman in the shadows is still there, still restless, still waiting...waiting for the fullness of time.
Chapter 1
ARRIVAL
IT IS A WIDELY-ACCEPTED practice in Watervalley never to let tangible facts burden a good rumor. In my year and a half as the town doctor, I had learned that in the absence of valid information, the people of this remote community simply created their own. Such was the case regarding Matthew House.
As the new owner of Society Hill Manor, the local bed and breakfast, Matthew's imminent arrival to town had been a matter of great anticipation. But much to the dismay of the locals, in the first week of December, his car had oddly appeared in the small hours of the night and ever since he had been virtually invisible. Knocks on the door by welcoming neighbors had gone unanswered, mail was left in the box for days, and fallen leaves and limbs accumulated on the once stately grounds of the old estate. Quickly, the whispers grew.
As the days past, Matthew became the talk of street and store. Whenever a chance gathering of two or more occurred, the new B&B owner was the default topic of conversation, fueling a hunger for details that simply didn’t exist. Ominous rumors began to permeate the village, seemingly floating on the menace of the air. Grand theories materialized daily, each more sinister than the last. Over time, repeated opinions became accepted reality, hardening yesterday’s speculation into today’s fact. Yet, despite the huddled debates, no narrative proved sufficient. Their words exhausted, the conversations invariably ended with silent, uneasy stares toward the ghostly mansion rising distantly above the pale, misty heights of Society Hill.
Converted to a bed and breakfast years ago, the old estate overlooked the entire town. A surviving icon of a wealthier time, the home was made of smooth-cut limestone and built in the style of a grand French Chateau. The surrounding trees and extensive grounds were enclosed by a tall wrought iron fence, placing it in a class of its own among the majestic houses on the Society Hill Historic Register. From this high vantage point, the imposing stone structure had stood sentinel for decades; quietly, secretly watching the ebb and flow of Watervalley life. Now, despite its new occupants, the ancient mansion seemed long in slumber. Veiled in the thin, bleak light of December, it sat lifeless, grey, mysterious.
In the second week after Matthew’s arrival, three large moving trucks arrived under the cover of darkness along with a van full of workmen. There was a fury of lights and activity that went well into the night. But by morning, all was quiet. Days later, during the deep evening hours, other large trucks were seen pulling into the long-cobbled drive. Yet once again, when daylight arrived, the old estate sat in distant silence.
Further scandal arose from events that occurred in the
third week after Matthew's arrival. Well after midnight one evening, neighbors noticed lights fluctuating on and off in the far corners of the house. Delivered packages and neighborly gifts continued to remain on the front porch, undisturbed. And the fact that Matthew had bought the B&B practically sight unseen and, now as a single parent, had abruptly moved his small family from South Carolina to Tennessee, only fueled further conjecture. By Christmas Eve the town was in a fervor. Speculation had grown to epic levels.
But I knew better.
Despite the hearsay that shadowed him, the first time I saw Matthew, there was little to suggest that he was a man of many secrets. In truth, his unkempt, almost comical clothing conveyed quite the opposite. Wearing a frayed sports coat, a wrinkled shirt, and a look of painful uncertainty, he was standing in the back of the Episcopal church, protectively holding the small hands of his two children. He seemed lost. The only note of pretentiousness in his otherwise ruffled appearance was a pair of black-trim designer glasses that framed a rather sophisticated and handsome face.
They were late, and the Community Christmas Eve Service had already started. While the thunderous pipe organ bellowed the opening prelude, he stood there for an uncomfortable, indecisive minute, surveying the packed house. He was searching, outwardly deliberating on whether to stay or depart. And as I watched him in those wavering moments, there was something transparent in the expressions on his face. He seemed to have a cautious, curiously vulnerable nature; the quiet, friendly manner of one who was, by all observations, entirely and authentically shy.
Despite his obvious hesitation, he finally assumed an air of resolve and shuffled his small troupe forward toward a partially open pew near the front of the sanctuary. But somewhere mid-journey the opening music stopped, abruptly. And, so did Matthew.
Moments before, the blaring peal of the organ had provided a kind of cover for his exposed passage. In the ensuing silence, heads turned, and all eyes fell to him and his son and daughter, stranded in the center aisle. Retreat was out of the question. Noticeably embarrassed, he lowered his gaze and gently ushered his children forward.
But his arrival was not well met.
The open space was at the far end of the pew, and the aisle seat was sternly guarded by Danforth K. Stanwell, a retired lawyer, and a notably pious old stiff who wore his haughty Episcopal devoutness like a Merit Badge. Cruel chance had delivered Matthew into the hands of one of Watervalley's most insufferable self-proclaimed blue-bloods.
Danforth was an old goat who prided himself as a WFF, a descendant of Watervalley's First Families whose ancestors had been Episcopalian since the crucifixion. He openly disdained the annual joint community service because the Baptists and Methodists tended to clap during the hymns and the Pentecostals held up their hand like they had a question. These reckless displays of emotion were a little too free-spirited for Danforth, who preferred the smells and bells decorum of the more rigid Episcopalians. With him, even the Baptist's choice of music was a little too frisky. A song like "Go Tell It on the Mountain," and its attendant clapping during the service was unthinkable to Danforth, but a perennial top ten for his Christian cousins. And while the people of Watervalley generally had a tradition of infinite courtesy, such was not the case with him. From my vantage point near the choir, I caught every nuance of the small drama between him and Matthew.
At first, Danforth coldly stared forward in a ploy to ignore Matthew's presence. Realizing the futility of this tactic, he slowly rotated his gaze toward the straggling threesome, clearly assessing them to be low-bred and shabby. Matthew offered a fleeting, acquiescent smile and made a gesture toward the open space at the end of the pew. Begrudgingly, Danforth turned and looked. Then, he again faced forward, crossed his arms, and offered a sullen nod of acknowledgment.
While Matthew whispered small apologies, he and his children awkwardly climbed across Danforth and the rest of his related ilk before squeezing into the available space at the far end. The small opening could only accommodate them by Matthew placing his daughter in his lap while her twin brother sat snuggly beside. As the service finally resumed, Matthew exhaled so deeply it made me think that for the previous ten minutes, he had been holding his breath underwater. From the very beginning, it was impossible to regard him with anything less than a melted empathy.
From what I had heard and by his presentation, Matthew House was in his late thirties, making him six or seven years older than me. He was of average height and modest build but with firm, straight shoulders. His hair was dark, thick, and floppy, falling lazily away from his forehead.
Conversely, his children were blonde with fair blue eyes and by appearance were about six years of age. Both were beautiful, especially the daughter, whose face had a sensitive, almost luminous delicacy. They sat silently, carefully absorbing the world around them with tender, watchful expressions. But in the balance, their appearance bordered on whimsical. Apparently, the two sibling’s efforts at getting dressed had been halted at various levels of completion. Socks didn’t match, hair was uncombed, and the little boy’s untucked shirt looked conspicuously like pajamas. They were poster children for sponsorship on the Angel Tree. Matthew seemed unaware.
Even still, the glow of the twin’s near-angelic faces against the soft candlelight brought a sense of fullness and warmth to the moment. Despite their mismatched clothing, there was about them a delightful, compelling aura of enchantment and sweetness; a sort of uncanny illumination of something beyond the veil. I was both amused and fascinated. For the longest time, I was powerless to draw my attention away.
As everyone rose for the opening carol, the two of them stood in the pew to be shoulder height with their father. Oblivious to the words, they slowly gazed around the sanctuary.
That’s when I noticed the oddest thing.
They were searching the room and occasionally casting small, discrete, yet knowing glances between themselves. This curious endeavor was augmented by a guarded show of fingers indicating that something was being counted and then confirmed by the faintest of nods. The entire enterprise occupied them for only a brief minute or two. Afterward, as demonstrated by the daughter's small tug on Matthew's sleeve, the activity appeared to involve some need to report their findings. But Matthew was lost to another world and paid her no attention. The children, who apparently were accustomed to this absent reaction, exchanged a subtle shrug.
As the hour passed, Matthew bowed his head when appropriate, stood when instructed, and sang when required. On more than one occasion, he lifted his head slightly as if he were listening for some far-off voice. The balance of the time he seemed elsewhere. He had the soft, reflective manner of one whose days were occupied with the thought of loss. There was about him a kind of patient sadness, a tender melancholy that, mixed with his unassuming appearance, easily tugged at the hearts of those around him.
At one point in the service, as the choir sang “O Come, O Come Emanuel,” a trace of unintended tears welled upon his face. Having quickly steeled himself, he carefully gathered up his son in his lap as well and, for the longest time, gently held both of his children as close as possible.
While the evening progressed, the largely unadorned and ordinary people of Watervalley discretely stole short glimpses of this quiet newcomer and his endearing twins. And with that, it seemed that one by one there was a softening of the eyes and a gathering warmth expanding toward the three of them, a swell of unspoken affection and understanding.
As the service closed and the melodious words of "Silent Night" echoed in the high rafters, the packed sanctuary overflowed with a reflective joy; a heartfelt reminder of the richness of the season and of shared lives. Matthew's entrance into the life of Watervalley could not have been more perfectly timed. Filled with spontaneous holiday cheer, the entire town now looked upon him and his children with a yielding, tender regard. The gossip and hearsay had been nonsense, for there was nothing in Matthew House’s nature that spoke of calculation or pretense. Thankfully, that e
vening, the ruinous myths surrounding his reclusive behavior largely vanished.
But on reflection, all that was actually known about Matthew at the time was that his wife had passed away earlier in the year, leaving him a widower with six-year-old fraternal twins. He had taught classical languages at the College of Charleston. And, for some still unknown reason, he had bought the old Society Hill Bed and Breakfast although he had no previous experience as an innkeeper.
Nevertheless, there at the Christmas Eve Service, he was seen for what he was...a kind and intelligent soul doing his best to start a new life, care for his precious children, and bravely suffer the loss of a beloved wife. After observing his rather unceremonious arrival, his disheveled appearance, and his endearing albeit, slightly distracted regard for his darling twins, the people of Watervalley filled in the blanks of Matthew’s life with a more charitable, gentler narrative.
For me, as I watched him that evening, beyond any doubt, Matthew House presented as one whose story and personality were readily on the surface. This was not a man who harbored any great surprises or was fueled by any manner of cloaked agenda.
I couldn’t have been more wrong.
Chapter 2
CONNIE
I HAD RESOLVED TO INTRODUCE myself to Matthew as soon as the service ended, hoping to shield him from what I feared was a certain inevitability. While most of the people of this rural farming community had a careful friendliness and politeness, there were also those who saw the new B&B owner as social currency. These snobbish few were forever vigilant to the clarion call of upward mobility. To their thinking, association with a newcomer of the right breeding and education could prove highly advantageous. As might be expected, in the previous weeks, these same society butterflies were the most maliciously vocal regarding his earlier seclusion. But now that he had made an appearance, all was forgiven. Matthew was fair game.
