Hart's Hollow Farm

by Janet Dailey

  “What do you want me to say?”

  “Whatever you’re feeling. Whatever you’re thinkin—”

  “I’m thinking it’s Sunday and I could’ve used another hour of sleep.” The frown morphed into a scowl. Her small nose wrinkled, and there was just a hint of dimples at the corners of her pinched mouth.

  He grinned. “You’re damned cute when you’re angry, you know that?”

  She stared for a minute, and then her mouth twitched. “That might’ve been a smooth line about twenty years ago, but it’s kinda striking you out right now.”

  He laughed, the gleam of humor in her eyes lifting some of the tension from his shoulders. “Really?”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “Hmm. Guess I’m gonna have to work on my approach.”

  Her eyes traveled over him, lingering on his chest, arms, then thighs. “Well, you have an advantage in at least one department.”

  He leaned closer, his gaze tracing the gentle swell of her lower lip. “Which one would that be?”

  Her chest rose on a quick breath. “You’re pretty easy on a girl’s eyes. Especially first thing in the morning.”

  “It’s pretty nice waking up to you, too.”

  He brushed his mouth across hers and waited. When she lifted her chin in invitation, he dipped his head again, parted her lips with his, and deepened the kiss until he coaxed forth a low, contented moan.

  Her warm palm slid up over his shoulder, then cupped the back of his head. Her fingers weaved through his hair and then tugged him closer. Pleasurable tingles rippled over his scalp and down his back, and the feel of her hand on him, the soft glide of her touch, conjured forth a mix of emotions he’d never experienced before. Fierce desire, gentle tenderness, and an overwhelming urge to protect.

  They caught him off guard. Made it damned near impossible to lift his mouth from hers and raise his head.

  “Mitch?” She gazed up at him, returning his stare, her kiss-reddened mouth slightly swollen and lids heavy. A wary look crossed her expression as she whispered, “What is it you want me to say?”

  That you love me. That you need me as much as I need you. That no matter what I’m up against, you’re in it with me, and you’ll stay, even though I know you want to run.

  The words were on his tongue, were parting his lips and stealing his breath. But the distant pain in her eyes, which appeared so often, halted them and made him choke back the plea for fear she’d bolt.

  Instead, he reached behind his head, brought her hand forward, and turned it over. He trailed a fingertip from the edge of her soft palm to the pads of her fingers.

  “I want you to say that you’ll get dressed, then meet me on the other side of that door with an open mind.” He reached out, lifted her other hand, and squeezed them both tight. “And that you’ll let me borrow these for a little while.”

  Her brow furrowed, and her gaze moved from his face to his hands, still holding hers, then to the door. “That’s all?”

  “For now.”

  She remained quiet for a few moments before refocusing on him. Her voice so soft he barely caught her answer, she said, “Okay.”

  Ten minutes later, Mitch stood in the hallway, in front of the upstairs picture window Kristen had admired weeks ago, eyeing the streaks of dirt and the cloudy glass beneath the dim overhead light. He’d arranged two step stools, a bucket of distilled water, a stack of soft cloths, and a bottle of dishwashing liquid at his feet.

  “All right, I’m here. Now what?”

  He turned and grinned at Kristen, who stood outside her bedroom door, dressed in jeans and a T-shirt and looking somewhat accommodating. “You can start by coming a little closer.”

  She did, a brief smile appearing before she lifted an eyebrow at the materials on the floor and stepped up beside him. “So you want to borrow my hands to help you clean windows?”

  “Nope.” Mitch looked down at her, lifted her hand, and kissed the center of her palm. “I need you to help me uncover some hidden beauty.” He grabbed a cloth, applied a small amount of dishwashing liquid to it, then dipped it in the water and pressed it into her hand. After guiding her hand to the top left corner of the window, he pressed her palm to the glass and began a gentle circular motion. “Start here. Easy movements, one section at a time. When you reach the edge, dry that area off before moving to the next. I’ll start on the other side.”

  She moved to speak but seemed to think better of it, shrugged and went to work.

  Smiling, he prepped another cloth for himself, then moved to the window’s right upper corner and started cleaning. They’d been working for half an hour when the sun began to rise, the tentative glow of sunlight dimming the brightness of the interior light. With each motion of her arm, Kristen leaned closer to the window, narrowing her eyes, and peered more closely at the small section of glass she’d uncovered. A thin line of deep green and a semicircle of vibrant pink were visible.

  Mitch paused, his hand hovering over the glass, as she stopped scrubbing and roved her eyes over the upper expanse of the window. The surprised delight on her face alone was worth the risk he’d decided to take.

  Her long blond hair rippled over her shoulders and spilled down her back as she craned her neck for a better view. “Stained glass?”

  Hiding a smile, he went back to scrubbing. “Suppose we’ll find out.”

  He felt her gaze on him, heard the small laugh that escaped her, then grinned wider when she went back to work.

  Over the next hour, the sun rose higher as they continued to wipe thick layers of grime from the glass. Sunlight cut through the gleaming panels, and bursts of color surrounded them. Various hues of pink, red, yellow, and green splashed across the walls, covered the hardwood floor and tinted the creamy complexion of Kristen’s cheeks as she cleaned.

  When they finished, Kristen dropped her cloth, stepped back, and studied what they’d uncovered. Mitch tossed his rag and joined her.

  A green vine intertwined with delicate pink roses covered the top half of the window, the ends trailing down the outer edges. It framed the scenery outside, hugged the outer slopes of the distant fields, and curled around the clear blue sky above the oak trees in the front yard.

  Kristen stared, a look of awe appearing and her eyes glistening. “You were right, Mitch. It’s beautiful.”

  “Another gift from Joe,” he said, tipping his head back for a better view. The sun was strong now, its heat beating through the glass and warming his skin. “It’s been years since I’ve thought about it, and even more since Emmy’s been able to get up here and clean it. I’d almost forgotten what was underneath those layers of grime from years of neglect.”

  After stepping closer, he unlocked the window, then tugged it upward. The morning breeze swept in, filling the hallway with fresh air and the scent of honeysuckle.

  “Needs a little greasing up, but it still works.” He glanced over his shoulder. “Come take a look.”

  Kristen walked to his side and looked out at the scenery below.

  “Is it as good a view as the first time you stood here?” he asked.

  She nodded slowly, a muscle in her jaw ticking. “Better.”

  He followed her gaze to the land that sprawled before them. The red dirt driveway wound gently around the tall oak trees. Thick green grass carpeted the lawn, and beyond, the fields on either side of the farm’s entrance were filled to the brim with lush, healthy soybean plants. And even farther in the distance, tall cornstalks gently waved with the push of the breeze.

  “Had things been different for me and Carrie,” Mitch said, a pang of regret stealing through his chest, “this could’ve been paradise. Or at least closer to heaven than to hell.” He closed his eyes and exhaled a heavy breath. “It should’ve been, but I don’t want to dwell on that anymore.” After opening his eyes, he faced Kristen, speared his fingers through her hair, cupped her cheek in his palm. “I want to forgive.”

  She blinked up at him, her mouth trembling. “Forgive Emmy?
”

  Mitch nodded. “And Carrie. My dad. The world’s disappointments, the bottle, whatever tempted them to become what they did.” He moved closer, lowered his forehead to hers. “And myself, for holding on to all that mean hate for so long.”

  A small sound escaped her. She pressed close, sliding her hands up to splay over his chest. “There’s no meanness in you, Mitch. And if you asked Emmy, she’d say there was nothing for her to forgive you for.”

  He lifted his head, encircling her wrists with his fingers. “I’m not asking her right now. I’m asking you.” He steadied his voice, met her eyes. “This place was heaven for Emmy once. Help me make it that for her again?”

  And for Sadie and Dylan. For us.

  Her mouth parted soundlessly as she studied his face. Then she asked, “What do you mean?”

  “I want Emmy to be able to stay here for as long as she wants. That means creating an alternative to that bypass. One that’s so persuasive, it’ll turn the most stubborn head.” Tugging her hands from his chest, he entwined his fingers with hers. “These hands of yours are magic. I need ’em a little longer than just for today.” He touched her temple with his thumb. “I need this sharp, magnificent mind.” Mitch placed his palm on the upper swell of her breast, felt her heartbeat thumping strong against his skin. “I need that creative passion you hide in here.”

  Her chest lifted rapidly against his touch, and her gaze slid away, then focused on the base of his throat.

  “We have one week from Tuesday until the next county meeting,” Mitch urged. “One week to make a plan that will help this place breathe again.”

  “And if it doesn’t work?”

  The uncertainty in her tone chilled his blood. “Then at least we tried.”

  Kristen was silent for so long, his hand shook against her skin and his mind struggled to string together a more convincing argument. But then she lifted those beautiful green eyes back to him and spoke.

  “Nine days, Mitch. I’ll help you for nine days.”

  * * *

  Kristen secured a gourd to the last empty metal arm on the rack in front of her. A particularly large one, the gourd had made a perfect canvas for a bright sunflower, and the brown background made the yellow paint pop in an appealing way. The other fifteen gourds she, Sadie, Emmy, Dylan, and Mitch—and even Zach—had painted were equally as impressive in terms of creative passion, if not artistic skill.

  “Man, that’s a whole lotta gourds.”

  Kristen smiled and glanced over her shoulder toward the sound of Zach’s voice. He stood several feet farther up the driveway, with Dylan and Sadie by his side. Their heads were tipped back, eyes shielded from the late afternoon sun, as they looked up, admiring the view.

  And it was most definitely a view to admire.

  Since Sunday’s early morning project with the stained-glass window almost one week ago, she and Mitch had gone straight to work. The house had been first on his list—“Revamp from the inside out,” he’d said—so they’d started upstairs. They’d swept, mopped, then shined the hardwood floors and the staircase railing in the upstairs hall until every inch of wood gleamed beneath the sun pouring through the vibrant stained-glass window.

  Bedrooms and bathrooms had been next. The guest rooms upstairs had been thoroughly cleaned, dusted, then redecorated with fresh bedding, antique oil lamps, and framed art Emmy had stored away in the shed for years. New shower curtains and fluffy towels had been placed in the bathrooms downstairs, and patchwork quilts Emmy had sewn years ago had been cleaned and added to the children’s beds as well as Emmy’s.

  Downstairs, they’d knocked spiderwebs and dust bunnies out of nooks and crannies with brooms, scrubbed the kitchen countertops, and painted faded and chipped cabinets. Colorful area rugs and runners, which Mitch had purchased in town, had been spread across the living room floor and down the hallways; a welcome mat had been placed at the front door.

  And the porch lights by the door . . . Oh, that had been the final touch. Already restored beautifully by Mitch’s skilled hands, the Gothic trim and immaculately crafted porch rails beckoned every passing soul to take a seat on the new outdoor furniture, smile, converse, and rest beneath the gentle yellow glow of the new lantern-style fixtures Mitch had installed.

  Even from where she stood now, with half of the long, winding driveway between her and the front porch, the white house seemed to rise higher from the lush green landscape surrounding it. Wide windows sparkled in the sunlight, the red chimneys stood proud, and Mitch’s painstaking renovations had brightened the façade so much, it looked as though it had lifted slightly to cast a pleased, confident eye over the long line of gourd racks adorning both sides of the winding driveway.

  Mitch has the magic touch....

  Emmy’s comment had been an understatement.

  “How many is it altogether, you think?”

  Kristen blinked, shook herself slightly, then faced Zach. “Gourds?”

  He nodded.

  “Oh, about forty maybe.”

  Give or take. It’d taken hours and hours after long days of field work, but they’d all pitched in, each of them painting at least five gourds and Kristen crafting several more well past two in the morning each night over the past few days.

  Even Zach, who’d finished his father’s assigned community service and earned his skateboard back long ago, had continued to return to the farm each summer day to hang out with Dylan, help Mitch in the fields, and play baseball in the front yard.

  With the house spiffed up, the fields packed full of lush green crops, and the sound of children’s laughter echoing across the landscape, Hart’s Hollow Farm vibrated with renewed energy.

  “And it’s all because of Kristen.” Mitch strode up behind the boys, placed his big palms on the top of their heads, and ruffled their hair. “She’s gonna turn us all into artists, if she hasn’t already managed it.”

  His smile, adoring and warm, stirred flutters inside her that spread. “I don’t think you needed much help from me.”

  Tamping down a familiar surge of desire, she turned away and studied the half dozen racks filled with colorful gourds of all shapes and sizes. New patches of painted circles and lines were revealed as the lazy rays of the setting sun roved over the gourds at different angles. Cicadas rattled in the distance, and the rhythmic vibrations, coupled with the slow-moving sunlight and the breeze-ruffled soybean plants, gave the scenery around her a gentle, throbbing presence. One that could be felt as much as seen.

  Kristen unwound the rope from the pole’s anchor and pulled, activating the pulley and raising the racks with smooth movements to the top of the pole.

  “I wish Joe were here.”

  Kristen tensed, and her hands faltered around the rope for a moment at Emmy’s words. The rack rattled, and Mitch’s hands covered hers, then helped pull the slack from the rope. The heat radiating from his muscular frame at her back made her long to turn, lay her head on his chest, and wrap her arms around him.

  Kristen took a step forward and renewed her strong pulls on the rope.

  “He would’ve loved the view.” Emmy walked from the center of the driveway to the grassy edge beside Mitch, leaning on her cane, and ran a frail, thin-veined hand along the rack. “You did a wonderful job, Kristen.”

  With Mitch holding the rope along the rack, Kristen began knotting the end around the pole’s anchor. She focused on the coarse rub of the weathered nylon against her fingers and the musty scent it released as she worked it into a secure position. “It wasn’t me. All I did was pick up some paint, cut a few holes, then give y’all some pointers. You did the rest.”

  “No. You and I are both wrong.” Emmy’s voice, hesitant and affectionate, drew closer. She reached out, her arm brushing the front of Mitch’s shirt as she stretched across him, and placed her soft palm over the back of Kristen’s hand, stilling her movements. “We all did it. Together.”

  Kristen glanced down, and the sight of Emmy’s pale hand resting over her
own and Mitch’s towering strength positioned by her side filled her eyes with wet heat.

  After the painful incident that had occurred on Emmy’s birthday, she’d kept a careful distance from Emmy for a couple of days. It wasn’t that she hadn’t wanted to spend time with Emmy—it was, in fact, the opposite.

  She’d longed to take Emmy’s elbow and assist her across the front lawn, listen to her stories of Joe, Cindy Sue, and life as it had been when Emmy was younger. She had even found herself missing Emmy’s quick bites of sarcastic humor when Mitch was around. She’d hoped to collect a few more pleasant moments with Emmy, which she could carry with her down lonely roads when it was time to leave.

  Despite wanting those things, Kristen had taken to leaving the house especially early in the morning over the past few days. She’d worked the fields alone save for the few hours Sadie had managed to persevere through the summer heat to trail after her. Every evening at dinner, she’d eaten slowly and methodically, spoken quietly, and maintained a humble, predictable presence in hopes of creating a calm atmosphere for Emmy.

  Her actions hadn’t had the effect she’d hoped for. Emmy, who had no recollection of her prior outburst, had cast wounded looks in her direction across the kitchen table during dinner and on the front porch, as they’d painted gourds each night. To Emmy, things were as they’d always been between them, and though Kristen knew in her head they still were, her heart had difficulty understanding.

  She never knew, at any given moment, if she was speaking to the woman who’d welcomed her into her home, admired her hard work and dedication, and encouraged her to take charge of the family farm or if she was about to be confronted by a woman who thought she was a stranger, a thief, and a liar.

  All things Kristen knew were untrue, but yet . . . they weren’t. Not really. Because one day, Emmy wouldn’t remember her at all, and in Emmy’s mind at least, that was exactly who Kristen would become.

  That realization had hit her Sunday, while she and Mitch had shined up that stained-glass window. The knowledge that no matter how beautiful, strong, or vibrant someone might be, they could slowly disappear, as though they’d never been. Like Cindy Sue, Emmy’s cherished sister-in-law and best friend. Like Emmy when her mind failed her for the final time. And like Anna—a young, energetic, and once healthy daughter who should have long outlived her mother.