The Memory of Butterflies: A Novel

by Grace Greene

  “I—”

  I interrupted, speaking as I stood. “I give you credit for not wanting your son to date his half sister, but I assure you the genetic pool is safe, and there’s no legal or moral complexity here. We’re good.”

  He stood. “I’m sorry, Hannah. I knew this would be awkward. I’ve handled it badly.”

  “I wish you well, Spencer, and I hope Braden has a swift and full recovery. Please give my regards to your mother.” I held up my hand. “I do have one request.”

  “What’s that?”

  “I would appreciate it if you would encourage our children not to spend time together. Not because they are related, but because they both have plans for the future, separate futures, and I wouldn’t want to see those plans sidetracked or interrupted.”

  He stared at me. “I understand.”

  “Well, then, I’d better get back to my tasks.”

  He waved his arms a bit, trying to work up something—I didn’t know what. Courage certainly wasn’t required. I couldn’t offer him forgiveness. What would I forgive him for? I’d informed him he wasn’t the father, right? And he wasn’t. I was pretty sure I’d managed to avoid any specific lies. Small comfort. My intent and my honesty were very distant cousins here. I wanted him to leave.

  “I’m sorry I offended you. I really did have feelings for you, I hope you know that. Any errors I made were due to immaturity and selfishness. I hope you believe me.”

  “I do. We both made mistakes when we were young, and we’re bound to make a few more before we’re done living. I want our children to get off to a good start. Maybe avoid some of our mistakes.”

  Spencer nodded. “I understand and I agree.” He looked like he was considering offering me a hand or a hug. Instead, he pressed his hands together and said, “Take care, Hannah. Thanks for talking to me.”

  He walked away. I waited as he disappeared around the corner of the house. I was proud that I’d held it together.

  I picked up my gloves from the table and knelt again in the garden. What had I expected? Potentially far worse. So that was good, right? I’d done well. But it didn’t feel like I had. There’d been a tiny voice screaming in my head, yelling that I’d carried his baby. I would’ve been alone if not for Gran’s help, and I’d given birth to his child and loved her with all my being. The tiny body had been buried, but the essence of that child, the memory, the feel and the smell of her were still bound fast in my heart. Even if I could have, I wasn’t willing to share that with him. The memory, the feelings were mine alone. He had no place there.

  The garden earth was rich and damp. I dug in my fingers, then realized I’d forgotten to put on my gloves. The soil sifted through my bare fingers and fell back to the ground. A tear fell, too. A single tear that hit my hand with force.

  Someone moaned. I thought it was probably me.

  The icy anger inside began to melt, setting loose the memories. This time I was powerless against them. I crossed my arms over my chest and leaned forward, eyes closed. Soon I was rocking back and forth. I was back on that porch caught in the fierce grip of old pain. And I gave myself up to it.

  CHAPTER TEN

  The house on Rose Lane had never been our true home. It was a nice enough brick ranch—an older house that needed fixing up when Mr. Browne found it for us. We were grateful to the pastor and his wife for taking care of us, but Ellen and I needed our own place again. We were accustomed to our privacy and not used to being surrounded by the energy, the noise, the needs of others. In that respect, it was probably a good learning experience for both Ellen and me—but we’d watched our home burn only days earlier, so lessons weren’t sinking in for either of us.

  Mr. Browne tracked us down the morning after the fire. He helped us get back on our feet. He found us the house on Rose Lane, worked out the rental details and then the sale, and introduced us to Roger, billing him as a guy who could fix anything. Roger then helped me make the house ours, and it had turned into a lovely home. We were comfortable there, and we had each other, but it was like a long-term settling in—not intended to be permanent. At least, not permanent for me. When I thought of Ellen and me, I thought of Rose Lane. When I thought of comfort, I saw, smelled, and experienced the old house out in the Hollow.

  After Spencer left, the door to reality—or to facing reality and perhaps being destroyed by it—had cracked open. It was only a hairline crack, but the strength of the truth behind it shone through that crack in a blinding jolt. It was more than a confirmation of the unraveling I’d feared last night. My breakdown in the garden unnerved me. After I pulled myself together, I grabbed my purse and set out for the Hollow. I needed to think about the future and what Ellen and I were planning, in a place where I could also find peace.

  I stopped at the usual place on the driveway, not in memory of the fire but rather in awe of the changed landscape. The shed was gone. The springhouse was still there but looked different. Someone had been doing something with it. The erosion swale blocked most of the view of the creek, but the cemetery was clearly in view up the hill on the far side, and the area around it appeared untouched.

  The framing work was still in progress. Somehow, I’d thought that would move faster.

  No other vehicles were in sight. I was alone here, and that suited my need- perfectly. The area to the left of the driveway had been leveled to allow for parking. I pulled in and parked.

  When the construction was done, would this become an orchard? Was it sunny enough? Vineyards were becoming popular in central Virginia. I could grow a few grapes . . . Or not. Maybe I’d stick with tomatoes and cucumbers.

  I walked up to the house and tried to visualize the final product. This corner, nearest the drive, was where the garage began. Beyond it would be the great room with the kitchen on the back at this end. On the far end would be Ellen’s bedroom, a guest room, and a study for me. My bedroom and another guest room would be upstairs. All large, airy rooms.

  Roger had cautioned me that people judge building projects by walls and roofs, that erecting the house frame was early days for a construction project and sometimes gave a false impression of progress toward completion. He’d said the majority of the work wouldn’t begin until after the walls were up, and to please be patient. I would try.

  I found a spot where I could climb into the house without too much effort, and then wandered through it, the wood sub-flooring feeling like a giant stage. No wiring yet. No pipes. Windows and doors were still in the future. I exited via the low spot and walked around back.

  A short distance from the house was the cabin. It was the original Cooper home before it became my pottery cabin. Someone had cleared a downed branch from the tin roof, but otherwise, it looked the same as it ever had in my memory. The glass in the small front window looked cleaner, I thought.

  Had someone been messing around in there? Roger had said they’d be fixing up the cabin, but I’d told him I wanted to be here, onsite, for any work like that.

  I pushed open the heavy door, then paused on the threshold, allowing my eyes to adjust to the gloom and avoid the webs, both spider webs and cobwebs, lurking to catch in one’s hair or face. The air felt clearer and fresher. I stared into the room, trying to discern what was different.

  The cabin was about fifteen by twenty feet, thick logs and chinked. The fireplace hearth was at one end. At the other end was a narrow, enclosed corner stairway to the loft above. Grand had stored bushel baskets up there and old farm implements in the corners downstairs. There’d been other things stored there, too, most of which he’d moved out when he set it up for me and my pottery. In the winter leading up to Ellen’s birth, the first Ellen, I hadn’t been out here much. In those months after her birth, I hadn’t had the energy. What little clay work I did during that time was while she slept, and mostly, I worked by hand on the kitchen table where I could stay close.

  After she left us, though I did some work in fits and starts, it was too hard to give it consistent effort. After Ellen fou
nd the butterfly pot, I’d fiddled with the clay a bit, teaching Ellen and entertaining Gran. I hadn’t gone back to the clay with any degree of dedication until after we’d settled into the house on Rose Lane and Ellen had started school. That’s when I rented the storefront, mostly because I didn’t have space for the pottery wheel and the kiln and the clay at the house. I’d set up the shop and thought I’d do great work with the modern facilities and lots of hours to dedicate to it, but I hadn’t. I sold a few pieces to design agencies and such and gave some lessons. Not much to show for so many years.

  It would be different when I was working in the Hollow again. In this cabin, I’d make the leap to more authentic creativity. But the building needed work. The old propane lines . . . everything—it all needed overhauling and updating.

  Yet someone had been working in here. Cleaning it, and what else? The old half-finished clay pieces had been arranged neatly on the shelves—and the shelves looked sturdier. I went closer, noting the similarity of the pieces. A row of small figures, almost cherublike. Little girls. Some were more finished than others, but it was a strange lineup. All the stranger because I didn’t recall doing this many. That would have been when we were grieving. I turned away.

  The antique potter’s wheel was still in its corner out of the main floor space, and it appeared unharmed. Someone had cleared out the old fireplace, the hearth—both unused for decades. Before my time, at any rate. A chair was situated by the hearth. Not the same chair Gran had used. This one was in better shape and well padded.

  The mantel over the old hearth, the massive mantel, had also been cleared of junk. The few glazed pieces I’d left in the cabin were lined up there.

  Roger. It must’ve been Roger. He touched my heart. He often did.

  I owed him much more than I could repay. He offered support and steadiness. With minimal encouragement, he would offer more. There were times when I wondered if I could accept what he offered without feeling guilt. I would be short-changing him. He deserved someone with a ready heart. That wasn’t me.

  Standing there with a sigh fresh upon my lips, I heard a sound behind me.

  Someone cleared his throat. I turned, startled, to see a man just inside the front door. Inside, but not moving forward. I was acutely aware I was totally alone here at the moment—well, except for this man. He made me instantly uneasy.

  Dell’s Diner. It had been more than a month. I’d seen him from the back and could hardly get out of there fast enough.

  Years had passed since I’d seen this man face-to-face. He was older than me, and I hadn’t been around him much back then. But I knew.

  And I knew for sure that fate had put the final piece into play. That shimmery feeling was back in my chest. I fought not to cross my arms but lost the battle.

  Liam Bridger.

  He was a tall man with curly, unruly hair that needed a cut. He wore an oft-washed cotton shirt and jeans. His boots looked well worn, too. Other than the dark hair, which more than half the people on the planet had, there was nothing of Ellen in his appearance.

  “You’re Hannah Cooper, right?”

  “I am.”

  “I’m Liam Bridger. I’m sure you don’t recognize me.”

  I nodded. “I do. Or, rather, I was pretty sure. It has been a while. Years, actually.”

  “Yes, it has. I moved back a few weeks ago.”

  I tried to match his demeanor. “Welcome home. I spoke with your cousin, Mamie Cheatham, not too long ago. How long do you plan to stay? Or is this a . . .” I fumbled for a word. “Permanent return home?”

  “For now. Beyond that, I’m not sure.” He smiled, but only slightly. “Actually, I was looking for Roger Westray. His office said he might be here.”

  “I haven’t seen him today.”

  He looked around again, up at the rafters, at the one-room framing that allowed the full view from one end to the other. “This is nice. I remember the cabin. Sorry about your grandparents and the house fire.”

  “Times change. Nothing lasts forever.”

  “I heard about the fire. Long after, that is. Many times I expected to get word that our own homeplace had fallen in or caught fire or something. Mamie has done a good job with it. The house is as stubborn as the Bridgers themselves, I guess.”

  “No interest in restoring it?”

  “Takes money. Takes interest, too. Not sure I have enough of either.” He nodded. “Well, anyway, sorry to have bothered you. I’ll be on my way. If you see Mr. Westray, would you let him know I was here looking for him?”

  “Sure.” I couldn’t resist. “Have you worked for him before? Or are you old friends?”

  “No. I do construction work. Some specialty projects.”

  “I see.”

  “Looks good in here, I think.”

  “It does. Roger said he’d clean it up for me.” I laughed politely. “I guess he did.”

  “Roger told me not to make any changes but to clear it out and make note of any bad wood or crumbling chinking.”

  I stopped and did a quick rethink. “You cleaned it up?”

  “Yes. I was careful, especially with the pots and little sculptures. They’re really good.”

  I felt like something was trying to communicate itself to me—but I was closed off and didn’t want to receive it. Liam, or the miasma around Liam, was telling me more than I could bear to hear. I tried to sound civilized and reasonable.

  “Thanks. They’re old pieces. It takes me back to my childhood to see them. Happy memories. The place looks good.”

  “Thanks.” He kind of half smiled. “That old treadle wheel? I don’t think I’ve ever seen one that old. Weighs a ton. I left it in the corner rather than risk it pulling apart. If you want to move it—”

  “No, that’s fine. It was my grandmother’s. Rather, her mother’s. Grand surprised me with the motorized wheel when he set up the cabin for me to do my clay work. He bought it secondhand from a clay shop that was going out of business.” I brushed my hair back behind my ear. “I moved that one to the shop in town after we got settled in Mineral . . . after the fire. Along with the kiln and other stuff.”

  He seemed very meek. My recollection of him was of someone brash and rowdy. Wild. Had problems. Nothing I knew about personally. It was probably what I’d heard my grandparents say, and even Mr. Bridger.

  “Hannah?”

  Roger was suddenly there at the cabin door, filling the doorway behind Liam.

  Liam backed aside and nodded toward Roger.

  Roger was clearly surprised to see me there, and he said, “I saw your car, Hannah, and a truck, too. I wondered who else was here.” He took a quick look at my face, reading it, I thought, then he said, “Liam is our wood expert. He’s checking on the wood we’ll use for the porch, and I asked him to give the cabin a once-over.” He turned to Liam. “How’s it looking in here?”

  “Good. Cabin’s sound. I found a couple of places on the exterior, the shady side, but minor. I’ll take care of them.”

  Roger nodded. “Right.” He looked at me. “What do you think?”

  “It’s beautiful,” I said. “It’s never looked this good. I don’t recognize the chair, though.”

  “Oh.” Roger laughed. “I hope you don’t mind. I came by it secondhand. Thought it would be useful out here.”

  “It’s perfect.” I wanted to hug him but felt constrained with Liam there. I didn’t think Roger would’ve minded a public display of affection. It was just me.

  “Glad you like it. Hannah, do you mind if we move on? Liam is an expert on old buildings and specialized carpentry. I wanted to go look over the springhouse with him.”

  “Mind?” I laughed. “No, indeed. You weren’t expecting me to be here anyway. I dropped by on impulse.”

  He walked over to me and touched my arms. “Then it’s my lucky day.”

  “Mine, I think. Don’t let me get in the way. I’m daydreaming here.”

  “The cabin won’t have power or water for a while yet. I h
ave some ideas, too, about setting up the kiln and equipment that I’d like to discuss with you.”

  His tone sounded far more tender than the literal meaning of the words, and I was conscious that our sweet little exchange was onstage and happening in front of Liam.

  “I’m looking forward to it. Please carry on.”

  Roger dropped his hands, saying, “I’ll see you later,” and stepped away. He nodded toward Liam. “Over this way. Did you take a look at it yet?”

  He and Liam walked out beyond the end of the swale and doubled back to the bridge to cross the creek to the springhouse. Our plans for the front of the house depended on being able to utilize the wood from it. I hoped it was in better shape than it looked.

  I turned and went back into the cabin. I took one more look at the shelves, at the swept hearth and the glazed pieces on the mantel. Above the mantel, on a hook that had been empty for years, hung an old picture. I could only guess that Liam had found it amid the junk stored in the corners or in the loft. It was a piece of battered tin, but not randomly or accidentally battered. The marks and dents and hole punches were precise. As I stared at it, the marks and shapes merged into a picture—a landscape. The creek. The trees. It showed the springhouse at one end and the cabin at the other.

  It was a thoughtful touch to hang it here.

  I went to the window and looked outside. Roger and Liam were still down at the spring, barely visible through the trees from this angle.

  While the men were busy, I slipped away. This visit hadn’t gone quite as I’d planned.

  I tried to relax as I drove, but Liam had compounded the unease resulting from Spencer’s visit, which I’d come here to escape. It seemed to me that no matter how many improved roads or cleaned cabins I distracted myself with—at some point, my nerves would stretch too tightly, and then what would happen? Would I explode? Would that be any better than simply telling Ellen the truth?

  The car swerved. I nearly left the road. Where had that thought come from?