The Gardens of Covington

by Joan A. Medlicott

  The beauty of a woman must be seen in her eyes because that is the doorway to her heart, the place where love resides.

  The beauty of a woman is not in a facial mole, but the true beauty of a woman is reflected in her soul. It is the caring that she lovingly gives, the passion that she shows.

  And the beauty of a woman, with passing years, only grows!

  It came in an e-mail Bob got. “Sort of a chain e-mail letter” was the best he could tell Grace when she asked where he had gotten it and who wrote it.

  Thanks to the anonymous sender, whoever it was. Dear Bob. Lucky me. She thought, then, of Lurina Masterson alone in her rambling old house. Meeting Lurina was a happening that had quite caught Grace up. Having noticed the quick twist of the older woman’s head, the brightening of her blue eyes, when she, or Old Man, or Wayne spoke, and the slump of Lurina’s shoulders when Grace said good-bye, she was certain that Lurina was lonely. Had she no family? Why, at her advanced age, did she live alone in that weather-beaten old farmhouse? Grace determined to take her cookies and tell her about the church hall meeting.

  But now Grace needed to focus on Russell and Emily, and where this relationship might lead, and its effect on nine-year-old Tyler, who had become her surrogate grandson, and whom she loved as if he were her very own. Grace smoothed her hair and looked into her own direct, warm brown eyes.

  The beauty of a woman must be seen in her eyes. . . .

  If the compliments paid her eyes over the years were true, then she must judge herself beautiful. Nonsense. Her father’s often-used phrase, “Pride cometh before the fall,” kicked at her mind. Still, feeling a bit beautiful helped when you were nervous about meeting new people. Grace pinched her cheeks for color and applied a pale rose lipstick. She inserted simple pearl studs in her ears. Below, the doorbell rang. “Get it, will you, Amelia?” Grace called from her bedroom door. “I’m almost ready. It’s probably the Richardsons come to take Hannah and myself to lunch at the Hammers’.”

  Grace heard the front door open and close, but not the sound of Bob’s, or Russell’s, or Tyler’s voices. What she did hear was Amelia’s muffled scream.

  Clasping her purse in one hand, Grace grasped the railing and followed Hannah down the stairs. Since hip replacement surgery last year, Hannah handled steps with careful deliberation.

  In the center of the Kerman Oriental, among the arabesque designs of the new carpet, Amelia sat cross-legged clutching something white with blue trim to her bosom. The front door stood slightly ajar, allowing the cool October air to chill the foyer.

  “It’s come,” she said, her lovely blue eyes huge.

  “What’s come?”

  “The letter from the developers.”

  Hannah reached for the envelope, but it was as if Amelia and the Federal Express she had just signed for were fused like wet fingers to a frozen ice tray. Amelia’s eyes were blank.

  Hannah tugged at the envelope.

  Slowly, reluctantly, Amelia released the missive. “Don’t open it.”

  Avoidance and denial, Grace thought. Typical of how Amelia reacts when something threatens the routine and security of her life, Grace’s heart softened. Perhaps Amelia’s need to hold things firmly in place, to not trust life, resulted from the trauma of having lost her nine-year-old child, Caroline, to some rare parasite, and then her husband in that horrible car accident.

  “Let me see it,” Hannah said. “The Richardsons’ll be here any minute now.”

  “I’m not going with you to meet those people in Loring Valley. Things are getting complicated since they came,” Amelia said.

  Grace offered Amelia her hand, and helped her to her feet. Amelia’s hand was small, her fingers slim yet strong and dexterous, Grace knew, for she had seen Amelia speedily change camera bodies, and lenses, and set up her tripod with alacrity. “We know that. Don’t you remember, you agreed to baby-sit Tyler?”

  Outside, car doors slammed. A child’s feet hammered the steps and pummeled the porch floor. The front door opened, admitting a freckle-faced, red-haired boy of nine. He stopped, reared back on his heels, and stared at Amelia, then turned to Grace. “What’s wrong, Granny Grace?”

  From their first meeting, when Grace sat precariously on a child-sized chair in the hall outside of Tyler’s classroom tutoring him in reading, he had called her Mrs. Grace. Then last December, he had announced to his grandfather, “I love Mrs. Grace. She loves me. You love Mrs. Grace, don’t you?”

  “Sure do,” Bob replied from the sofa where he lay reading.

  With a jump, Tyler landed atop his grandfather’s chest, straddled him, and, bending, rubbed his nose against Bob’s. “Well, you’re my grandpa. We both love her, so Mrs. Grace can be my grandma.”

  His grandfather rubbed Tyler’s nose back and did not disagree. Tyler went on. “Granny Grace is what I’m going to call her.”

  “Don’t you think you ought to ask her first?”

  “Nah! She’ll say yes. She’ll be glad, I know.” Tyler had run his fingers across his grandfather’s eyebrows and eyed him coyly. “She doesn’t have any grandchildren.” Tyler’s smile lit his face. “She really loves me.” And so it was.

  Standing in the foyer, Amelia’s face was pink, her eyes teary. “You sad?” the child asked her.

  Brushing her arm across her face, Amelia smiled at him. “No, mon petit chou. I was surprised about something. I’m fine now.” She held out her hand to him. “Come, let’s get out the Chinese checkers.”

  A quick nod from Grace assured Tyler that it was all right, and he took Amelia’s hand. They headed into the kitchen, from where Amelia’s voice sounded a bit too high-pitched as she offered him a choice of Rocky Road, cherry vanilla, or butter pecan ice cream. Earlier, she had promised Tyler that they would play his favorite board game, Chinese checkers. The marble game, he called it.

  Bob and Russell appeared in the doorway. They hardly looked like father and son: Bob tall with a shock of thick white hair, Russell short, a bit stocky, slightly balding. “Ready, ladies?” Russell asked. His voice was tight, nervous. He fidgeted, shifting weight from one leg to the other.

  Hannah had torn open the missive and retreated to the stairs, where she hunched on the bottom step reading the offer from the developers, Bracken and Woodward Corporation, to buy any and all land on Cove Road. Her voice was hard. “They start with a pitch about how beautiful, how environmentally sound, how fast they’ve sold all of their one hundred condos and villas in Loring Valley. They use the words ‘community,’ and ‘ideal,’ and ‘growth’ a time too much for me.” She looked from one to the other of them.

  “It’s true, then. Harold was right,” Grace said.

  “I guess they’re pitching everyone on Cove Road, and touting the benefits of a strip mall. A food market, pharmacy, beauty parlor, Hallmark store, and a golf shop have already committed to the land along Elk Road that Grover Masterson set aside for commercial use, they say.”

  “Guess we can expect a phone call about another meeting at the church hall,” Grace said. It was appallingly real; development would mean that Cove Road would change and drastically. Suddenly, she felt powerless in the face of it all. She did not want to meet the Hammers and their daughter, Emily, didn’t want to meet any of the new residents of Loring Valley, people from Florida, Washington, Chicago, wherever. Grace looked at Bob. He was waiting, holding her jacket. It meant a great deal to him to meet this woman Russell had known for only a month and who had so captivated his son. Unease wrapped itself uncomfortably around Grace like a hot towel on a summer day. Why Emily? Why now? Tyler did not need a change like this. Smiling at Bob, Grace fought back apprehension. “Could we sit a minute and talk about this letter?” she asked.

  Russell looked at his watch, once, twice. He collected antique clocks and watches, elegant machines that kept time to the minute, all but one. “We’re invited for eleven-thirty. I’ll need to call and let them know.” He headed for the kitchen.

  Grace stopped him. “No. Let
’s just go. We can talk about this later.”

  From the kitchen came Tyler’s, and then Amelia’s, laughter, and Tyler’s voice. “I’m getting good at this, Aunt Amelia, ain’t I?”

  “Ain’t is very poor use of our language,” Amelia said.

  “All the kids at school say ain’t.”

  “Anyone in your home say ain’t?”

  “Nope,” Tyler said.

  Hannah started out of the door. “I deluded myself that there would be no letter,” she muttered.

  Outside, the winds, at seventeen miles an hour, added to the chill of the day, and Grace was glad for her fleece jacket. “Someone on this road will want to sell. I feel it. I just pray it’s not the Maxwells,” she said.

  Head high, eyes dilated with anger, Hannah stopped and looked back at Grace. “If anyone does, I’m going to fight it. Don’t know how, yet. But I’m not going to sit back and just let this happen.”

  Bob looked at Hannah intently. “Any help you need, let me know.” Bob loved Cove Road, loved its quiet pastoral, as well as its powerful mountain views. Several times, of late, he toyed with the idea of asking the women to lease him a small piece of land up in their hills where he could build a cottage. Only his concern about tipping the balance of relationships stopped him. Grace was adamant about not marrying, about not moving out of the farmhouse she shared with Amelia and Hannah. That had taken getting used to, but he’d come to terms with her need for independence and appreciated their way of life, the way they seemed to understand and care for one another, even as he envied the support system the ladies provided each other. There was something special about the way women could do this. But still, at times he wished he had Grace to come home to, wished he had her all to himself.

  Hannah started down the porch steps and stopped. “You all go. Give my regards to your Emily, Russell, and to her folks. I need to make some phone calls, see what’s happening.”

  4

  Meeting the Hammers

  Emily Hammer opened the wood door with the leaded glass pane in the center and extended her hand in welcome. Emily was in her early thirties, petite, with soft blue eyes fringed with long lashes, and the firm, quick handshake of a busy professional, which indeed she was, for Emily had a private law practice in Ocala, Florida. She was smartly dressed in dark blue slacks and a pinstriped vest, out of which a lush cream-colored silk blouse spilled. Her no-nonsense Rolex watch contrasted with a decidedly feminine pearl ring designed as a cluster of grapes. Grace could not imagine Emily settling down to the unsophisticated lifestyle of rural Madison County.

  Russell introduced his father and Grace to Emily, who smiled broadly at them. “Grace, Bob,” Emily said cheerfully, “meet my parents, Ginger and Martin Hammer.”

  Martin welcomed Grace with a bear hug and Bob with a hearty slap on the back while Ginger held out a hand to them both. Drinks were served on the back patio of the Victorian-style three-bedroom villa. From the edge of the flagstone patio, the lawn rolled gently to the bank of Little River, to a tumble of boulders that hid the water from view. They’re meant to be a dike, Grace thought. The builders know that after heavy rains rivers in this area, large and small, overflow their banks. I wonder if the Hammers know this?

  Grace watched Russell and Emily saunter away to sit on a boulder by the river. Emily’s head reached a trifle above Russell’s shoulder, and when she tilted it slightly, as she did now, her head fit easily into the curve of his shoulder. Grace turned her attention to Ginger Hammer.

  Grace hated being judged, and did not usually judge others by their appearance. But there was absolutely nothing warm or appealing about Ginger Hammer. She struck Grace instantly as a deliberately theatrical woman whose plum lipstick matched her fingernail polish and her enormous hoop earrings. She had a way of flinging back her head, seeming to address the sky or the ceiling even while talking to you. Grace endured. She listened to Ginger evaluate her home in terms of price. “It was terribly overpriced, but I told Martin . . .” Ginger nodded toward her husband. “. . . if we didn’t have a riverfront villa, I wouldn’t put my foot in Loring Valley.” She gave Grace a smooth, calculating stare. “There are only twenty-eight villas on the river, you know.”

  Grace was aware of a woman’s shadow passing behind the shades of the glass-sliding patio door. Ginger saw the shadow also and rose, then clapped her hands. The couple by the river abandoned their boulder seat and walked slowly to the patio. “Lunch,” Ginger said.

  It was a relief when they were finally ushered into the dining room. Decorated in prints and solids in all shades of apricot, the dining room was pleasing to the eye. Grace finally relaxed and watched Russell devour Emily with his eyes. Over lunch, Emily spoke about the sprawling growth taking place in central Florida, and the hot summers, and told them how much she loved to bicycle and hike. Grace changed her mind. Maybe Emily could make a life here. She proceeded then to create in her mind a scenario in which Emily and Russell married, and Emily opened a law practice in Mars Hill. She was busy blessing them with children, a boy and a girl or even twins that she could grandmother, when Ginger’s voice interrupted.

  “Emily tells me you volunteer at an elementary school nearby.”

  Grace stopped cutting her chicken Florentine, and placed her knife on the edge of her plate. “Yes. Caster Elementary. I work with second graders on their reading.”

  Ginger’s fingers toyed with the stem of her wineglass. “I was A Number One in real estate sales in New York and in Florida. Of course, years ago . . .” She waved her hand. “My degree was in education. I never taught.” Ginger leaned toward Grace, half covered her full, plum-daubed mouth with her palm, and spoke softly, though she needn’t have, for the men were engrossed in conversation. “Martin picked this place.” She rolled her eyes. “Why, I’ll never fathom. He’s got to go to Weaverville, or Asheville to play golf.” Ginger’s eyes narrowed. One long plum fingernail tapped the table. “He was tough, one hell of an investment banker. He adored the rat race, New York. Before his heart attack, that is. After we moved to Florida, Martin really slowed down.” Brushing back strands of curly dark hair, Ginger raised an impeccably plucked eyebrow.

  “Real estate” Grace pondered. Would she go back to selling real estate, resales in Loring Valley? Grace would never use her as a realtor.

  “Look at him. He’s gotten so old,” Ginger was saying, and she shivered slightly. Into Grace’s imagination walked the final portrait of Dorian Gray. “Oh, well.” Ginger raised the wine to her lips and drank deeply, leaving behind on the crystal goblet the pale plum shape of her lips.

  A maid in a crisp blue uniform cleared the table, served coffee and pecan pie for dessert. Martin sat at the head, or foot, of the table with Bob to his right. Then came Grace, and across from her, Emily and Russell, their chairs squished together, their eyes warm, their conversation animated, but only with each other. Ginger at the foot, or head, smiled benignly and nodded her head toward them. “Cute couple, aren’t they? He’s well established here, is he?”

  “Russell’s a computer network consultant. He’s very busy.”

  “Oh, well.” Ginger sighed. “Young people today. They change careers, change locations, marry, divorce, remarry, try to blend families. Russell has a child, Emily tells me.” She splashed a dash of cream into her coffee.

  ‘Tyler. Red hair, freckles.” Like his mom, Grace almost said. “He’s nine now. Very dear to me.”

  “So,” Ginger said, done with Tyler. “What’s with you and Bob? Emily says you’re not married. Are you planning to be?”

  Whooh! Grace thought. You don’t waste much time before snooping into other people’s lives, do you? Her face heated, but she smiled. “We have no plans.” She looked at the men, hoping for a lull in their conversation, hoping to catch Bob’s eye, wishing they had decided on a signal, hoping he would recognize her need to leave, as soon as politely possible.

  When Ginger spoke again, there was in her voice a challenge and not a hint of resignation. �
��Well, if I’m stuck here, I’m going to have to find something to keep me busy.”

  Relax, Grace warned herself. Take a breath. The woman is all pretense. It was hard for Grace to like someone like Ginger, and that bothered her. “The hospitals and the three museums at Pack Place in Asheville have strong volunteer programs.”

  “Three museums?” Ginger asked.

  “The art museum, the children’s museum, the gem and mineral museum. A really fine complex.”

  “Yes, that might be better than trying to fit into some provincial school out here.”

  Ginger’s cool words did not surprise Grace. She glanced at Bob. He and Martin had pushed back coffee cups and dessert plates and were gesticulating enthusiastically. Russell was focused on Emily. Grace tried again with Ginger. “Do you have hobbies like gardening, sewing, bridge?”

  “Scrabble,” Ginger replied, her eyes suddenly interested. “I compete nationally in Scrabble contests.”

  Suddenly Grace felt sorry for Ginger. She and Hannah and Amelia lived in Covington out of love and choice. To use a gardening metaphor, this woman’s roots had been rudely yanked from the soil, and no new hole lovingly dug, watered, fertilized for her to grow in. She studied the hard lines of Ginger’s face and found no trace of the softness visible in Emily’s face. Ginger’s round hazel eyes were her best feature, and in those eyes, fleetingly, Grace detected pain. She felt a stab of empathy. “I didn’t know they had Scrabble contests.”

  “Oh, yes. People gather from all over the country. There are international competitions too, but I haven’t gone overseas. Martin won’t travel, so . . .” She shrugged. The light in her eyes faded.

  Martin would not travel, so Ginger did not go, but set aside an activity she felt so passionate about. This touched a chord in Grace that sent her shooting back in time to Ted, who, in his own quiet way, had controlled her life. Imagine, all those years, never driving far from Dentry, what with Ted’s fear of highways and flying, and her father’s crushing and limited vision of the world. She thought it was their generation, hers, and Amelia’s, and Hannah’s, who gave over control of their lives to their husbands, but here was Ginger, ten, maybe fifteen years younger than she, or Amelia, or Hannah, and still giving over control to her husband.