The Memory of Butterflies: A Novel

by Grace Greene

  PRAISE FOR GRACE GREENE

  Beach Rental

  DOUBLE WINNER IN THE 2012 GDRWA BOOKSELLERS BEST AWARD

  FINALIST IN THE 2012 GAYLE WILSON AWARD OF EXCELLENCE

  FINALIST IN THE 2012 PUBLISHED MAGGIE AWARD FOR EXCELLENCE

  “No author can come close to capturing the awe-inspiring essence of the North Carolina coast like Greene. Her debut novel seamlessly combines hope, love and faith, like the female equivalent of Nicholas Sparks. Her writing is meticulous and so finely detailed you’ll hear the gulls overhead and the waves crashing onto shore. Grab a hanky, bury your toes in the sand and get ready to be swept away with this unforgettable beach read.”

  —RT Book Reviews 4.5 stars TOP PICK

  Beach Winds

  FINALIST IN THE 2014 OKRWA INTERNATIONAL DIGITAL AWARDS

  FINALIST IN THE 2014 WISRA WRITE TOUCH READERS’ AWARD

  “Greene’s follow up to Beach Rental is exquisitely written with lots of emotion and tugging on the heartstrings. Returning to Emerald Isle is like a warm reunion with an old friend and readers will be inspired by the captivating story where we excitedly get to meet new characters and reconnect with a few familiar faces, too. The author’s perfect prose highlights family relationships which we may find similar to our own, and will have you dreaming of strolling along the shore to rediscover yourself in no time at all. This novel will have one wondering about faith, hope and courage and you may be lucky enough to gain all three by the time Beach Winds last page is read.”

  —RT Book Reviews 4.5 stars TOP PICK

  Kincaid’s Hope

  FINALIST IN THE 2013 GDRWA BOOKSELLERS’ BEST AWARD

  FINALIST IN THE 2013 GAYLE WILSON AWARD OF EXCELLENCE

  “A quiet, backwater town is the setting for intrigue, deception, and betrayal in this exceptional sophomore offering. Greene’s ability to pull the reader into the story and emotionally invest them in the characters makes this book a great read.”

  —RT Book Reviews, 4 STARS

  “This is a unique modern-day romantic suspense novel, with eerie gothic tones—a well-played combination, expertly woven into the storyline . . . She rode the wave of excellent writing in her first novel with the same complex writing style which easily draws the reader in.”

  —Jane Austen Book Maven, 5 STARS

  The Happiness In Between

  “The Happiness In Between overflows with the warmth, healing, and hope Greene fans know to expect in her uplifting stories.”

  —Christine Nolfi, author of Sweet Lake

  FICTION BY GRACE GREENE

  Emerald Isle, North Carolina Novels

  Beach Rental

  Beach Winds

  “Beach Towel” (A Short Story)

  Beach Christmas (Christmas Novella)

  Beach Walk (Christmas Novella)

  Virginia Country Roads Novels

  Kincaid’s Hope

  A Stranger in Wynnedower

  Cub Creek

  Leaving Cub Creek

  Stand-Alone Novels

  The Happiness In Between

  The Memory of Butterflies

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, organizations, places, events, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

  Text copyright © 2017 by Grace Greene

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced, or stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without express written permission of the publisher.

  Published by Lake Union Publishing, Seattle

  www.apub.com

  Amazon, the Amazon logo, and Lake Union are trademarks of Amazon.com, Inc., or its affiliates.

  ISBN-13: 9781542045674

  ISBN-10: 1542045673

  Cover design by Laura Klynstra

  The Memory of Butterflies is dedicated to parents and children, and to love—selfless love that promotes the best in us, and, without ego, sacrifices itself for the betterment of others. May that love, freely given without expectation, succeed and be passed on to each generation, and may it be returned, stronger and more glorious in form, back to the ones who gave it.

  CONTENTS

  PROLOGUE

  CHAPTER ONE

  CHAPTER TWO

  CHAPTER THREE

  CHAPTER FOUR

  CHAPTER FIVE

  CHAPTER SIX

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  CHAPTER NINE

  CHAPTER TEN

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  QUESTIONS FOR DISCUSSION

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  PROLOGUE

  My daughter, Ellen, will graduate from high school this year.

  The closer we get to graduation, the harder the past is coming at me, kicking like a living creature and forcing its way back into my life. With it, it brings happy memories but also those that were gladly forgotten—including the memory of how I lost my Ellen seventeen years ago, then found her again.

  I grew up in Virginia, in the woods of Cooper’s Hollow amid the leafy green shadows of Elk Ridge. The rough banks of Cub Creek cut through our land from north to south such that one was never far from the music of its dark water.

  Our small house had sheltered many generations of Coopers, including those resting in the family cemetery on the hill opposite the house. I never wanted to be anywhere else except for a brief time, eighteen years ago, when I, myself, was about to graduate from high school. Six years after that, our home in Cooper’s Hollow burned down, and we were forced to move into town—we being Ellen and me.

  The nearby town of Mineral wasn’t big by most people’s standards, but from my perspective, it certainly was. Moving into town was scary, in part because Ellen was kindergarten age. I’d never wanted to draw attention, and it would be noticeable if she didn’t start school. It was time for it anyway, and it turned out that when it came to school and being around teachers and other children, Ellen was like a lively duck landing in a sparkling lake—it was made for her. I’d taught her some at home, and the school administrators, recognizing her quick mind, moved her into first grade early. Our new life was a perfect fit for Ellen. So, while I talked for the next dozen years about rebuilding our house and going back to live in the Hollow, I never actually got around to doing anything about it. Instead, I settled into the daily life of being a mom, working at my pottery business, and even volunteering at church and with the ladies’ auxiliary. How my grandmother would’ve laughed at the idea of my toting a homemade pound cake or a pasta casserole to a function! But you fit in as you can where you find yourself, and residing in town was social. Very different from living in the Hollow.

  For these last several years, I’ve been biding my time, waiting until the timing was right for both of us—for Ellen to graduate and begin her college career and for me to return home to Cooper’s Hollow permanently—to finally face the past.

  CHAPTER ONE

  I always knew Ellen and I would be separated one day. Not forever, of course, but time moves on, and children grow up. We’d visited her first-pick colleges early in her junior year, and once she made her choice, there was no changing her mind. The University of Virginia was closer, but Ellen wanted to attend Virginia Tech along with most of her friends. Those college visits had happened last year when her graduation had seemed distant. Now the reality of it was smack in my face.

  I’d been fighting a growing melancholy over the last few months, and one morning I woke up and knew it was time for me to move forward, too, as my Ellen was doing. The plans I’d been making since leaving Cooper’s Hollow, plans I’d put off for the benefit of my daughter, would now come to life. My dreams were now in the sure hands of Roger Westray. With his expertise and his unfailing friendship, I never doubted he’d get this done for me.

  Roger, s
andy-haired and blue-eyed, was waiting for me at Dell’s Diner near his office. I parked my car in the paved lot between his office and the diner and went inside. Roger already had the blueprints and was working on the construction plans for the house. This was no ordinary house he was preparing to build for me. We were blending rustic with modern while keeping the flavor of the original homeplace by salvaging and incorporating the old logs and stone at the site. I wanted more space, too, and definitely more luxuries than the original house. Living in town had given me a taste for conveniences I wasn’t willing to do without.

  Roger waved his pencil at me as I entered. His preferred table was the corner booth next to the windows on the shady side. He was friendly and sociable, but he always preferred to face the room. He’d never said much about it, but I understood from remarks here and there that it was due to his years in the army. He liked to see what was coming at him. This morning it was me, and he waved.

  “I hope I didn’t keep you waiting,” I said, smiling as I took my seat opposite him.

  He grinned and raised his coffee cup in salute. “You’re late.”

  I looked past the counter with its stools and at the digital wall clock over the order window. “I’m on time. That clock’s fast. It always is.”

  The diner was less than half-full. The morning was moving on. The chatter was low and seldom, and the clatter of dishes and activity back in the kitchen sounded relaxed.

  Roger reached into his leather case to pull out the plans.

  “What do you have for me?” I leaned forward, eager to see.

  We were interrupted as Shelby approached the table, and I sat back.

  “Morning, Hannah. Coffee?” She placed a white mug in front of me and set a napkin and spoon near my hand.

  Shelby had waitressed for Dell’s longer than I’d been coming here for coffee and the occasional meal. Before that, we’d attended the same high school. The schools were regional here in the country and served a large area, so we’d known each other but hadn’t been close friends. I didn’t know the details of her personal story any more than she knew mine. What we did know was that high school was a generation ago now, and neither of us was quite where we thought we’d be all these years later. But waitressing was honest work, and a smart waitress was a treasure. The café wasn’t known for its cuisine, but the food was tasty and inexpensive, and the atmosphere was congenial.

  “Yes, thanks,” I said. “And a sweet roll, too.”

  “You got it.” Shelby whisked away.

  “Is that your breakfast?” Roger asked as he moved his cup and saucer to the side and ran a napkin over the already clean table before laying out the papers.

  “You’re one to talk.”

  He shrugged. “On second thought, it hasn’t done you any harm that I can see.”

  “Flatterer.” He was right, though. I must’ve been some kind of throwback genetics-wise, not at all like my grandparents. I had a natural tendency to be slim and was delighted that despite being in my late thirties, I could eat pretty much whatever I wanted without repercussions. It was a silly thing to be proud of, and definitely of no particular credit to me, but my “atta girl” list was pretty short, so I didn’t scruple about including it.

  “I like your hair,” he said.

  That had come out of nowhere. “Thank you,” I said. “But it’s the same as always.” It was long and straight and dark blonde except for where the sun had bleached it lighter. Today I’d pulled it back with a headband, and flyaway ends kept tickling my cheek. Suddenly self-conscious, I smoothed them back and away from my face.

  “Maybe.” He smiled.

  “You’re in a strange mood this morning.”

  “Am I?”

  His tone and expression were unreadable. I was relieved when he turned his attention to the papers on the tabletop. These weren’t the actual blueprints but copies of specific areas. He waited as I gave them a close look.

  I touched one of the papers. “The front of the house is one level with the back half being two stories.” After a pause, I added, “It’s so large.”

  “Building is expensive. It’s not much more expensive to build larger. Besides, it’s not that large.”

  “Tell me the truth. What do you think? Is this a silly expense? Ellen is leaving for college in a few months. It’ll be me. Me alone. Would it make sense to scale the plans back?”

  “She’s not leaving forever. Besides, you may marry yet, have other children. There are only three bedrooms and an office area. Rooms fill up before you know it.”

  Marry? I wanted to scoff at the idea. Instead I swallowed the quips. Roger’s eyes were too revealing. I knew what he wanted, but I couldn’t offer him my heart. There was too much he didn’t know about me and could never know. The invisible barrier between us wasn’t there by my choice but of necessity.

  “Here at the entrance,” Roger continued, “we’re incorporating part of the original foundation. Though, as we discussed, the logs are mostly for show. They’ll come from the springhouse and weigh a lot more than two-by-fours. We’ll run them across this front section with plenty of support below and behind them. The ground is good, but we can’t forget the 2011 earthquake, and small tremors still occur from time to time. What happens once can happen again.”

  “True,” I said. “The damage was hit or miss. The high school was wrecked and had to be condemned while houses a few blocks away had no structural damage. Every time I drove past Cuckoo . . .” I shivered remembering the damaged home with its tall, stately chimneys half-crumbled, and the brick walls leaning away precariously from the historical mansion. But the owners had fixed it. It was beautiful again.

  Likewise, the new school building had finally been completed. It seemed odd that although my daughter and I would both be graduates of Louisa County High School, we hadn’t attended the same facility. Ellen was about to graduate from a new, very grand building. It reminded me of her fascination with butterflies. She saw mystery in their beauty and in how metamorphosis wrought that change. But she was still young. I knew that sometimes the most significant changes were natural, but often they were painful or forced. There was no irony or mercy in nature but rather unsentimental, practical reality. Nature had destroyed the old building, but out of the destruction of the old, the new had been built, much like what we were planning with my home in the Hollow. It said something about the cycle of nature, the inherent logic of . . .

  Roger’s fingers tip-tapped on the tabletop, interrupting my thoughts.

  I looked at him and he said, “You were far away.”

  “I was thinking about Ellen and her graduation.”

  “It’s not an ending. It’s a beginning.”

  “Exactly what I was thinking.” New beginnings were coming around again for both my daughter and me.

  He motioned at the house plans. “About the logs—they’re only for the small front part here at the entry. I wish you’d let us dismantle the old cabin. We could do amazing work with those logs. They’re in great shape.”

  I shook my head. “I have plans for that cabin. It stays as is.”

  “It’s your decision. No argument.” He motioned across the diagram. “The rest of the house will have the usual framing and structure. Windows will span the back. You’ll have a sweeping view of the hills, the creek, and the forest.”

  Anxiety and eagerness fought for prominence within me. I accepted the coffee gratefully from Shelby and wrapped my hands around the steaming cup, enjoying the aroma. “I wish we could just imagine it and make it happen.”

  “Wave a wand? I’d be out of business pretty quickly if that were possible.” He laughed.

  When Roger laughed, his blue eyes lit up, and the squint lines beside them rearranged themselves into happiness. He had two vertical lines between his eyebrows—Gran had called those worry lines—and when Roger smiled, those smoothed out. I couldn’t help responding, as if I’d been part of the reason for that smile, or maybe it was the sense of a shared moment. I
tried hard to mute my reaction, but even his hands, moving over the diagrams and layouts as if he were crafting my house with the motions, spoke to me. I knew the language that hands spoke because it was the same for me when I was shaping clay at the wheel or sculpting using my fingers as tools.

  “What?” he asked. “Don’t you like the plans?” He shook his head. “What are you thinking about?”

  I smiled. “Nothing too deep. I was remembering when we met. Duncan Browne had sent you to our house on Rose Lane right after Ellen and I moved in, after the fire in Cooper’s Hollow. You and I talked about the changes I wanted at the house. You made me believe we could turn the house on Rose Lane into a home. You communicated what would be done so clearly I felt like I could see it, and that hasn’t changed.”

  “That was a long time ago.”

  “Time flies,” I said. “But you did what you said you’d do, and I have total confidence in you for this project.”

  Was he blushing? I didn’t want to embarrass him, so I changed the subject. “What about the well?”

  He nodded. “The well is looking good. We’ll have to bleach it and drain it, but the casing looks sound. You’ll need a new pump, of course. We’ll revamp the sewage system, too, and bring it up to code. Permits are almost done.”

  “The bank said the construction loan is ready.” I was funding a lot of the project. I was comfortably well-off, but I wasn’t wealthy and didn’t want to drain my accounts. On the other hand, this would be my forever home, the one that took me back to my roots, to my family, and hopefully honored them. It would be the place for Ellen to come home to, even someday bringing a husband and grandchildren with her. If Ellen had her way, I’d bring a husband home myself—a whole different subject altogether.