“Come on, get what?” He asked, unable to comprehend what the woman was trying to say.
She tossed a bill on the table and stood, smoothing her hands down her skirt.
He stood too, noticing that the other diners had turned their way to watch. She turned to walk away, and he grabbed her arm.
She glared down at his hand until he let go. “You don’t understand history, Justin. You don’t value anything that is more than five minutes old. You don’t know our town or our community.” She lowered her voice and hissed, “You don’t know about me! You don’t understand – anything!” Then she turned and stomped away.
Chapter Eight
Tara thumped the steering wheel with the butt of her hand, then thumped it again. That man! As if her feeling faint when she stood next to him wasn’t enough, Justin had to be dense as well!
A freeway interchange loomed in front of her, and she scrambled to collect her wits and pick which way to merge. Lost in her snit, she had driven for almost 45 minutes, well south of Pittsburgh. She merged off Interstate 79 and onto 70 eastbound. She hated this part of the trip. They were working on the road and concrete barricades hemmed in both lanes so tightly, she felt as if she had no room to breathe. Luckily, she only had to drive on that stretch of freeway for 20 minutes, then she headed south again on two-lane highways.
As she crossed the high bridge through Brownsville, Tara glanced down at the river snaking silently below. Cottages lined the wooded riverbanks, and barges trailed wakes upstream.
She glanced back to the bridge, then down toward the waterway. Waves fanned behind the river barges expanding, thinning, and spreading to lap at the river’s banks. As she turned back to the road, her thoughts wandered back to the meeting and Justin.
“A tractor!” she muttered. Has the man never seen a tractor? Or a chandelier? Obviously, he has no sense of history!
* * *
For the second time that morning, Justin dropped back into his chair at the restaurant, angry and perplexed.
I don’t understand history? Me? Both my parents were history teachers, and I don’t understand history?
He slumped deeper into his chair and glared at the table.
Did I ever get a vacation to the Jersey Shore or Coney Island? No! I spent summers standing in line for guided tours at every damn monument and museum within 500 miles!
Summer camp and stickball had been activities for other boys; he had been carefully taught that education came first. His lips pursed at the memory of standing under works of art for hours on end -- too short to even see them. He remembered following his parents through room after room in museums filled with taxidermy-animals, bones, and back-lit window cases full of mannequins, with recorded voices droning on and on.
I’ve had more history crammed down my throat than you’ll ever know, Miss Thornberry!
Justin was different from his parents. He’d had an eye to the future. He was all about possibilities and innovation; yet, he’d been forced to live his life looking back to the past.
Old tractors in barns? Really? That woman has no vision, no idea of what could be!
* * *
Tara turned onto Highway 119 at Uniontown, her heart settling in her chest as she wound through the curves toward home. The Mountain, as locals referred to it, loomed to her left, forested and stately. It was the first mountain of the Appalachians, or the last, she supposed, depending on the direction you were traveling. The historic Cumberland Road, now Highway 40, ran directly through Uniontown and up one side to the peak, then wound through the valleys, all the way to Maryland.
Determined to make something of her day, Tara decided to stop by the Harrison place. A trail of dust followed her as she bumped up to the house. She’d been so busy the last week, she hadn’t had time to check on the contractor’s progress.
The rotten floorboards of the porch had been torn off and piled in a jumble. Two hydraulic jacks were pushed under the joist supports. Decayed wood siding had been torn off in large chunks, and ancient asphalt shingles from the roof filled a dumpster to overflowing. Workers clattered over the top of the house and the poof-poof of pneumatic nail guns split the morning air as they situated and nailed fresh yellow sheets of wood.
Slowly, the stress and disappointment from the morning ebbed out of her chest, replaced by the glow and pleasure of a home being saved. She climbed from her car and cupped one hand over her eyes, visualizing the home in her mind, freshly painted, the windows twinkling in the sunlight, and flowers spilling from flowerbeds.
She waved in greeting to the roofers as she wandered toward the back of the house. The deck off the kitchen would be up soon, she acknowledged as she passed, patting a concrete-filled cardboard tube holding post footings.
The kitchen was a naked shell of blank walls, white mud forming crisscross and poke-a-dot patterns across the new sheetrock. The bank of saved cabinets sat in the center of the room, covered with a tarp. A new gas line extended through the wall where the oven would be, and evenly spaced electrical outlets awaited covers.
Tara spotted the built-in shelves in the living room. The wood surfaces had been stripped of the grimy polyurethane, and the doors had been removed for cleaning. The cabinetry stood naked but proud. Soon, the carefully-crafted wood would soak up new coats of stain and glow once again.
She hummed as she roamed through the rest of the house. Construction was on track and a sense of pride and accomplishment filled her heart. She didn’t know why but the buildings of Smithville were a part of her. Each time she saved a house or barn, she felt as if she had saved a friend.
Lost in thought, she wandered happily back around the house to her car. Radiating heat interrupted her happy contemplations as she slid behind the wheel. Turning the key in the ignition and rolling down the windows, she gazed back at the house. The sun moved from behind a cloud, and the house purred with life.
The people of Smithville loved her because she cherished their homes, their family traditions, and memories. She didn’t care if it took more time and money to clean and repair an old wood floor. That floor reflected the footsteps of her makeshift family.
Once in a great while, Tara allowed herself to wonder what would have become of her had she not been born in Smithville. Or to be exact, in the shack next to Winnie’s house. Tara’s mother had died a few weeks after giving birth, probably due to deplorable conditions and no medical care. Her father’s sister had begrudgingly stayed for a year, without a doubt saving Tara’s tenuous existence, but Winnie had been the one to give her a life.
Tara’s thoughts wandered as she wound down the long driveway. Had her father been a mean drunk before her mother’s death, or had grief twisted him into the monster she remembered?
Reaching for the radio knob, she hit scan several times. Justin came to mind as she passed over the replaced culvert at the end of the driveway and turned onto the highway. She hummed along distractedly with the country tunes as her thoughts scuttled back and forth through the meetings earlier that morning.
What am I going to do about the resort?
She had no idea how she and Justin were going to agree on anything. He saw no value in one thing she had planned. Just thinking about the situation made her thump the steering wheel again.
Ohhhh, I don’t want to play Muffy’s games! Maybe I should just let Justin have this project.
She considered the consequences of stepping back and relinquishing control to Justin. Bowing out, as it were, and getting back to her normal life. Her pride would suffer, that was a given, but the worst part was, he had plans for the property that she couldn’t fathom. She fast forwarded to the day Justin would tear down the magnificent old barn. She could hear the lumber groan as the barn leaned, boards that had not budged for well over 100 years, screeching in protest as they crashed to the ground. A cloud of dust and dirt would billow in the air as a bulldozer moved in to push at the broken structure, as if it were trash.
She couldn’t do it. She couldn’t relinq
uish control over that property to him and face herself in the mirror.
The man has no sense of tradition!
* * *
Justin glumly slurped his cold coffee and stared out the far windows.
You don’t understand, you don’t understand, you don’t understand…
Tara had a point, he conceded. He certainly didn’t understand her. The day started out well enough. What happened?
There must have been a turning point where his plans veered off track to crash and burn. He worked backwards in his mind through the morning’s meetings. It was clear that Tara didn’t have his experience dealing with manipulative people. People who said one thing and did another. But somehow, he believed that Tara’s emotional connection with the project ran deeper.
Can she just not stand to lose? Is she that driven?
His eyebrows arched up. Maybe. Maybe not.
She had allowed him to see her vulnerability. That was new. She’d barely been one step above civil to him, until today. He tipped his head back, thinking through their conversation. When had Tara shifted gears? He sat up straight as the proverbial light bulb clicked on over his head. She started to pull away when I asked about her portfolio!
As quickly as the realization bloomed, it sputtered and snuffed out. Yeah, okay, I really don’t understand that stuff. A tractor at an anniversary party? A chandelier in a barn? What a load of crap!
He stood and tossed a bill on the table, retrieved his briefcase, and headed for his truck. He started the truck and rolled down the windows. Sweat beaded across his forehead and tricked down his back as he yanked his arms from his suit coat and tore off his tie.
His heart sank further in his chest as he drove. As he punched at radio buttons, longing for the comfort of a familiar tune, his thoughts tumbled. His project was scrambled beyond recognition. A woman he couldn’t fathom dominated his thoughts. He had no friends in the state, and a ratty, broken-down house. The wrong shoes…
When Justin felt lost as a kid, he’d always turned to his parents. His mother had been told she’d never carry a child, so his birth two weeks before their 25th wedding anniversary had been considered a miracle. Yes, they’d been much older than other parents, more bookish and less active, but they’d loved him and offered unwavering support. There was one place he could still go to feel close to them. It was a family tradition to seek solace there. As he followed the GPS voice that was calmly directing his way, he considered where he would start searching for answers.
He pulled into a parking spot and out of habit, reached for his suit coat and briefcase. Nervously he laughed. This wasn’t official business; this was for his piece of mind. Striding through the automatic doors, he felt a whoosh of cool air blast him with library smells.
His senses whirled in reverse. Memories intertwined over one another in his mind. His mother holding his hand, crouching on her heels to point out row upon row of books he could touch. Story time -- sitting cross-legged on a pillow while the librarian read upside down from a picture book. Proudly showing his father his first library card. Browsing through graphic novels instead of reference books as he scribbled in the margin of his term paper. Late-night cram sessions in college, leaning into the glow of his laptop. Half his life had been spent in libraries like this.
As he strolled through the open lobby, his mother’s voice came back to him. “Anything you want to know can be found here, Justin. Anything.” Closing his eyes briefly, he wished for the millionth time that she were still alive.
Wandering past the banks of computers, his eyes caught a small boy carrying children’s books to a table. The boy pulled out a chair and reverently arranged his books on the tabletop. He stepped back to gaze at them, switched their order, re-aligned the bindings, then sat down and lifted the first book. He contemplated the cover, a smile spreading across his serious little face.
Justin’s heart tripped. He’d loved his books. They had furnished the friends he couldn’t make in the street and offered the escape into the woods he’d been denied. Rubbing his hand across his scalp, he continued forward. A large arrow pointed him to non-fiction.
The dark somber spines of encyclopedias in numerical order reminded him of his father. He remembered his dad as a tall, serious man with a deep, kind voice. He’d died suddenly of a heart attack when Justin was eleven, leaving Justin’s mother to raise him alone on a teacher’s salary. The void in Justin’s life had never been filled. They could have moved back to his mother’s hometown in central Pennsylvania, but both his mother and father had been dedicated to teaching at inner-city schools where they felt they could make a difference. He had grown up in the hood, but he was always odd man out – the geek kid.
A computer catalog search quickly led Justin to the decorating section. He scanned the titles: Modern Design, Minimalist Architecture, Sponge Painting for Dummies, Early American Homes, Refinishing Wood Floors, Gothic Historical Homes, Painting Exterior Trim, Landscape Plans, Cottage Gardens, Decks for Real Families. His head began to spin, and his confidence flagged. Glancing up and down the aisle for help, he spotted a sign for the information desk hanging from the ceiling.
He took one last fleeting look back at the shelves of books. He hadn’t contemplated the wide variation in interior design. When he designed a resort, he went to the stores that contained the furniture he loved, and the designers there had helped him.
Hesitantly, he approached the information counter and waited his turn, his hands jammed into his pockets. He felt five years old, but time and time again, his mother had been right about the library, so he waited.
“Can I help you?” asked the elderly lady behind the desk. “Is your child lost?”
Justin contemplated walking away. This had been a bad idea. “No, I don’t have kids, I need to find – I’m looking for—” He glanced toward the door then back to the woman. “Ah crap, do you know what shabby chic is, by chance?”
The librarian swallowed her surprise. “Well, yes I do. Are you looking for a book or a magazine?” She really wanted to ask him why on earth he needed to know about frilly bedspreads.
“I don’t know,” he replied, pulling his hands from his pockets and rubbing his eyes. A moment passed and he laced his fingers across the top of his head. “I have this project, and my partner is into the shabby thing and…”
The woman nodded, waiting.
He lowered his hands to mimic holding a book. “And I saw her portfolio, and there was this tractor and a chandelier…” His eyes moved toward the ceiling, as if the giant chandelier was hovering above him. He lowered his gaze back to the woman. Dropping his hands, he stared at her in despair.
The librarian stifled a laugh. “Come this way please,” she said briskly, maneuvering around the counter. Justin followed her to the far wall. She stopped in front of the long rack of magazines. Clucking to herself, she pulled three magazines from the rack, then turned to him.
“Young man, these are mostly written for women, but you look at the pictures and read the articles. If you still need help, come and find me.” She turned on her heel and walked away, desperate not to laugh at his expression.
He glanced to his left and right, then over his shoulder, checking to see who was watching him read lady magazines. Hesitantly, he looked down at the top magazine cover. Country Romance was printed in red flowing letters above a color photo of a ratty brass day bed, piled with ruffled pillows. An antique tea table, overloaded with roses and mismatched flowered china, sat next to the bed. He drew the magazine up for a closer look.
The bed, the table, and two mismatched, twisted-iron chairs were perched on a worn Asian rug, and the whole mess was under a tree. The tablecloth was edged with frayed ruffles, the chair cushions were threadbare, and the tree was filled with drooping white Christmas lights.
“Oh no…”
He dropped into a nearby chair and leafed through several pages, his expression darkening with each page of worn ruffles and ratty china. That woman has absolutely no commo
n sense!
* * *
Tara turned sideways to slide between a chest of drawers and a dusty steamer truck. She knew she probably should have gone around the back and opened the big garage door to the warehouse, but she just wanted to double check the location of the cabinets for the Harrison house kitchen. Mac, her plumber, would be coming by in the morning to pick them up and she wanted them to be ready.
A hall tree nearly toppled over as it connected with Tara’s shoulder, causing her to drop onto a reupholstered sofa and lunge past a roll top desk to grab for it. Steadying the hall tree, she moved on toward the back of the warehouse.
One, two, three… She counted lower cabinets. Where is the fourth set?
She scratched her head, then hitched her skirt up so she could place one knee on a table. Hefting herself up onto the table for a better vantage point, she surveyed the stacks of cabinets. Tugging at the skirt as she climbed down, she decided she really should have gone home to change before coming here, but the warehouse was on her way home.
Spotting the cabinets, she adjusted her skirt. Heaving her weight into moving the heavy stack of cabinets she had rescued from the Foster house last May, she tottered on her heels and blew hair from her face. Gazing at the group of cabinets, she decided they would reuse the set of uppers at the house and install open shelving over the wall with the sink. She loved the look of open shelves with all sizes and shapes of white dishes stacked on them.
These will work great. I’ll drive out and paint them on Wednesday.
Tara glowed with happiness as she wove back through the maze of furniture and artwork to the front door of the warehouse. Nothing made her feel more complete than reinventing a new kitchen from an old one.
She thought again about Justin. I’d never break apart and toss out perfectly good fixtures! That man is so impracticable about recycling!
Hometown Series Box Set Page 7