The Gardens of Covington

by Joan A. Medlicott

  Sitting in the front row, a woman blew her nose. Someone coughed. Someone else asked roughly, “Whadda you know about us?”

  “I know you’re hardworking people, religious, close to your families. Grace, Amelia, and I feel some small part of your community because some of you, Harold and Brenda Tate, Pastor Johnson, the Lunds, the Herrills, have opened your hearts to us, and we thank you for that.” Hannah’s voice cracked. “Community. Belonging. My God, I believe that’s worth saving.”

  “Who are you to talk? You moved here,” someone called from the back of the room.

  “We moved into a house that was already here and repaired it. We didn’t tear it down to build a modern glass and stone house. Go on over to Loring Valley and take a good long look at what they’ve done there. They’ve built right on the floodplain of Little River. They’ve cut trees, torn up the hillsides. Just stand in front of Anson’s land and look at the size of it, picture the houses, condos, denuded hillsides.” Hannah ticked off on her fingers. “And after the construction we’ll have the traffic from homeowners, their families and guests, from garbage trucks and delivery vans, from gas trucks and meter readers. It will not stop.” She paused, and waited for a moment, and heard the shuffling of feet, a cough, a whisper, but no outpouring of protest. “We like to sit out at night and watch the stars. Do you?”

  Hands went up around the room.

  “Development means lights: houselights, safety lights, streetlights, lights on the golf course and tennis courts at night.” Hannah shook her head. A murmur rose mainly from the women, who nodded agreement. Hannah leaned forward. Slowly her eyes moved across the room meeting misty eyes, worried eyes, defiant and angry eyes. “Well,” she said, “one sure thing. We can say good-bye to the stars. Light pollution’ll see to that.”

  There was clapping when Hannah stepped from the podium.

  Her place was taken by one of Velma Herrill’s sons, an accountant at the county courthouse. “You’re all aware how taxes are going up every year. It’s gettin’ harder for a man to hold on to his land. We ought to be thinkin’ about ways to stop tax increases, or there’ll be more folks than Jake Anson lookin’ to sell their land.”

  One after the other, Harold recognized those whose hands were raised. John Stokes, a grandson of the Craines’, ambled up the aisle. He had his say in favor of Anson selling. “We got to make sure we’re free to do what we want with our property,” he finished. All the cheers and whistles caused Harold to pound on the podium for silence. Shortly after, he brought the meeting to a close.

  Although many people patted her back and shook her hand as she left the church, Hannah felt frustrated that she had not come to the meeting anticipating that someone would want to sell, and had offered no solution.

  “Good talk. You laid it out for them,” Bob said as they walked the quarter of a mile back to the farmhouse.

  “What use was it without offering a concrete next step? I didn’t have a plan.”

  Russell fell into step alongside Hannah. “Don’t blame yourself. You had no idea Jake Anson was going to announce he’s intending to sell.”

  “I should have anticipated that someone might.”

  “You stirred them up, got them thinking, Hannah,” Russell said.

  “I watched their faces,” Amelia added. “People were visibly moved.”

  Hannah did not want to be consoled or coddled. Many in that audience had been in the palm of her hand, and she’d turned them loose without a follow-up meeting, without a plan. She felt duty-bound to stop Anson from selling to the developers, but how?

  Gusts of chill wind beat at their backs, and they drew their jackets about them and walked more briskly. Overhead a fringe of black cloud dangled like a windblown toupee atop a half-full moon. Ahead of them loomed the farmhouse, porch lights glowing. Home. Hannah loved coming home. She was putting down roots here, as were Amelia and Grace. She looked at Grace swinging along like a teenager, her hand fastened in Bob’s, and Amelia, chatting with Russell, tossing her head, walking lightly as if she trod on clouds.

  Hannah wondered if any of them felt the apprehension, the sense of urgency she felt. Deep in thought, she strode past them. It wouldn’t be easy, she knew that, but when had something difficult ever stopped Hannah Parrish? She must, she would find a way to preserve the beauty, the quiet, the integrity of Cove Road. Her spirits lifted, fired by the idea that important work, perhaps the most important work of her life, lay before her.

  7

  The Tearoom

  “Should we postpone the opening of the tearoom so we can help Hannah?” Grace asked as they hefted themselves up into Bob’s Jeep.

  “I think not. Hannah’s got plenty of work to do first. She’ll let us know when she needs us.”

  They turned right onto Cove Road from the farmhouse driveway and then left onto Elk Road, which at this juncture was heavily wooded on both sides.

  “It’s almost as if old Grover Masterson had a premonition,” Grace said.

  “A premonition about what?”

  “About growth, here in Covington. Maybe he sensed that even in this remote area change would come, and people, and they’d want stores closer than Mars Hill. So he set aside this strip of his land for commercial use.”

  Bob nodded. They passed the run-down gas station, after which the trees dwindled away, leaving open patches through which one could see fields and Bad River bisecting Lurina’s land, and beyond the river to more fields and the old farmhouse. About a mile further, Bob turned the Jeep into the parking lot neighboring a delightful cottage perched just off the road.

  “Funny,” Grace said, “that our tearoom will be the first new business to open.”

  Following their shadows, his long and lean, hers short and round, Grace and Bob walked across the freshly paved parking area. Hand in hand they moved along the curving brick pathway that led to three porch steps. Every last nail had been hammered, every last wall painted or papered, every last shutter hung.

  Bob gave her hand a squeeze. “It’s perfect.” He pointed to the oval sign hanging from the peaked roof just above their heads. It read, COTTAGE TEAROOM.

  Even at fifteen hundred square feet inside, and with an extra-wide front porch, the tearoom appeared every bit the charming country cottage they had initially visualized: double-hung eight-pane windows, cheerful rose-colored shutters and front door, white clapboard siding, intricate fretwork above the porch. Grace pictured pink roses climbing in and out of slats on the porch railing by next May. They had planned the tearoom, its size, the position of its windows, mainly west and south for light and air. And after dreaming it for months, here it was bright and fresh, its kitchen ready to go, chairs and tables due tomorrow. Grace sighed as they walked to the front door. The finger sandwiches, the pastries, the cookies she would make, the exotic variety of teas from around the world, the cozy, comfortable ambience would assure success, so she told herself in those clammy, heart-racing moments when doubt pried her from sleep.

  In the weeks prior to construction, they had studied the architect’s plans for hours at the farmhouse kitchen table with Amelia or Hannah hovering, making suggestions, or at Russell’s dining room table. Smiling, they listened attentively to everyone’s input: buy round tables, buy square tables. They take up less room. The kitchen should be larger. The floors must be carpeted. Tile or vinyl would hold up better. Then, alone in Bob’s Jeep, the plans spread out between them, they finalized their decisions according to their own likes and dislikes.

  Tom Findley, the young carpenter who had handled the renovation of the farmhouse for the ladies, now operated his own construction company. He had been infinitely patient with Grace and Bob as they decided, undecided, changed this or that. How much space needed for how many tables, or should there be booths also? They visited restaurants, evaluated space, and Bob made templates of round and square tables and chairs before they chose round for the aesthetic of it. They considered flow to and from the kitchen. Equipment for the kitchen opene
d a new world for them as they pored over magazines and visited commercial salesrooms. Here Bob had to restrain Grace’s culinary enthusiasm.

  “A bigger oven,” she kept saying, or, “Don’t we need another sink?”

  “It’s not a restaurant, darling,” he reminded her. “It’s a tearoom, pastries and finger sandwiches. Knowing you, you’ll probably do most of the preparation at home.”

  The tearoom had been her idea. “But, what if we decide to serve lunches, salads, soufflés?” she asked.

  “Grace.” Soberly Bob had placed his hands on her shoulders and turned her to look at him. “Please focus. This is a tearoom, open from two to five in the afternoons. We planned it that way.”

  “I know that’s what we said, but what if people want lunch?”

  “Let them eat in the new restaurant they’re building in Loring Valley at their clubhouse. If we serve lunch, we won’t own our lives.” He kissed her nose.

  On the porch, they leaned against the railing and looked up and down the street. She relished this delay. Once inside she would face reality. She wondered if Bob worried too. Down the road to their left, the shabby gas station was out of their line of sight, and about two miles down Elk Road to the right, the red tin roof of P. J. Prancer’s hardware store loomed above a line of mature oaks whose leaves had turned a copper color. Beyond the hardware store, the unseen walls of a strip mall mushroomed from the red clay soil. No denying the convenience of shopping close by, even if it came courtesy of Loring Valley. Even if another house or condo was never built in its environs, Covington, Grace knew, had already changed, and like it or not, there was an excitement in that fact. Who were they, these new residents? Where had they come from? Why had they chosen this remote, rural area? How would their being here affect the lives of those entrenched in Covington?

  Two large sedans, one blue, the other gray, drove slowly by. Someone in the gray sedan waved from behind closed windows. Grace waved back and thought of something her new friend, Lurina Masterson, had said to her just yesterday as they visited and drank much-too-sweet iced tea on Lurina’s porch.

  “I been countin’ them cars, Grace. Must be a thousand new ones comin’ and goin’ day and night. In all my years I ain’t never seen nothin’ like it.”

  Grace patted her hand. “I hate change too.”

  Lurina had squeezed Grace’s fingers hard, and they had sat in silent understanding for a time.

  Now, Grace turned to Bob. “I’d like to invite Lurina Masterson to our tearoom opening.”

  Bob smiled at her. “Of course.”

  “I’ll deliver the invitation to her personally.”

  Another car passed. A zing of excitement swept through Grace. The Hammers were the only residents in Loring Valley that she had met. Maybe, with the tearoom, she would meet more likable people. A thought crossed her mind. Maybe this desire for a tearoom sprang from her unspoken wish to prove that she too could work out in the world. Was it also fueled by a desire to meet the newcomers, to be part of the change, and to be recognized in the orb of their small world? It all got jumbled in her mind when she lay in bed at night and tried to sort it out.

  Bob rummaged in the pocket of his slacks, pulled out two rings of shiny new keys. He handed her one set. Grace slipped the keys into her purse, even as her doubts intensified. Be optimistic, she told herself. It’s going to be just fine. Bob and I are equal partners. Remember how powerful and confident you felt writing your check at the bank?

  The funds from her share of the sale of her home in Dentry, wisely invested in a Fidelity account, had yielded a 23 percent profit. Feeling financially independent for the first time in her life, Grace had used some of these funds for this investment. But now, having the shiny keys, symbols of responsibility and liability in her purse, her stomach lurched. Would she like running a business? Already she could see it would tie her down, interfere with her volunteer work at Caster Elementary, the time she would have to spend with Hannah and Amelia.

  An October sun, low in the heavens, spilled golden light across the porch. Grace forced her attention to matters of the moment. It was hot out here. Would it be too hot to sit and drink tea outside in summer? Bob had suggested fans, and she had pooh-poohed them. Perhaps they would need awnings, and fans. Grace looked at Bob unlocking the front door. Her heart swelled with love remembering the feel of his broad back beneath her hands, the way his thick, white hair parted under her fingers. How wonderful to lie in his strong arms. She marveled that, at seventy-one, he was so virile. Then she smiled. She wasn’t so bad herself. I am lucky, Grace thought. Stepping forward, she slipped her arms about his waist and leaned into his back. Turning, he held her close, her face against his chest, low, between his ribs. The steady beat of his heart reassured her. Had she loved Ted like this? She must have, once, when they were young. She just couldn’t remember.

  “A new phase in our lives, darling,” he said, swinging wide the door. “Our own business.”

  A disturbing thought struck Grace. Was his enthusiasm for the tearoom Bob’s way of capturing most of her time? She brushed the idea away, stepped into the room, and was immediately overcome by a sense of pride, as if seeing the pleasant friendliness of the tearoom for the first time. The room seemed enormous, yet softened and warmed by nostalgic floral wallpaper. Tom and his wife, Marie, had hung the rods, and gossamer cream-colored curtains. Bob opened the windows, inviting the last of the day’s sunlight to sneak in and play cat and mouse on the polished wood floors, and the wind to flutter the curtains.

  “Now, Grace,” Bob said, as if reading her mind. “Remember, we laid it all out on paper. Once the tables, and chairs, and the credenzas arrive tomorrow, it’s going to look just right, believe me.”

  She smiled at him, and nodded. She was scared. If she spoke, at that moment, she might not be able to control a trembling chin, or even tears. Gaining control, she tugged at his arm. “Maybe this is a mistake. Aren’t you scared? Suppose we’ve wasted our money, made a huge mistake?”

  “Darling, I’m not scared. A trifle nervous, and excited, but I don’t believe in mistakes,” he said, his face and eyes serious. “They’re blips on a screen, a challenge, a learning experience.”

  “And I suppose you believe you can rebuild bridges you’ve burned?” she asked, jesting, but he looked at her, and his eyes grew serious. He was silent for several seconds. “Yes, I think I do believe that. As long as we’re alive, it’s possible, I think, to mend fences, rebuild bridges to places, relationships.”

  “How optimistic that is. I wish someone had suggested such a possibility to me years ago. I’ve spent most of my life afraid to leave my cocoon.” Grace frowned. “When Amelia and Hannah first knew me, I was afraid to take risks.” She made a quick pass of her hand through the air. “But you know all that.” Snuggling against him, she took his arm.

  “It’s going to be fine, sweetheart.” He pulled her close, bent to lift her face, smoothed back the light brown hair that fell in soft waves just below her ears. “Such wonderful eyes,” he said. “Kind, gentle. Did I ever tell you it was your eyes that first drew me to you?” And with that he kissed her softly.

  8

  Lunch Beneath the Great Oak

  On Saturday, the day prior to Grace’s big lunch beneath the great oak, the ladies sat on their porch. Hannah said, “I need your creative input.” She picked up her pad. “I’ve been over to the county seat in Marshall. There’s a preponderant attitude that a man’s land is his domain. I could not persuade the powers that be to intervene to prevent Cove Road from going the way of Loring Valley. One of the commissioners asked me what we needed another park for, since the Mastersons left the state a whole chunk of land. Looks like funding will have to come from elsewhere if we ever hope to buy that land from Anson. We need a name for the project so we can rally people around this cause. Any ideas?”

  “Cove Road Project,” Grace threw out.

  “Sounds like road construction,” Amelia said. She nibbled on a fingernail.
“How about Cove Road Preserve Coalition?”

  At that moment, Mike’s car crunched the gravel of the driveway and Amelia sprang to her feet. “We’re going over into Jackson County today, near Sylva. The terrain there’s spectacular, rugged.” Amelia’s eyes filled with enthusiasm. “Mike’s a terrific photography instructor, seems there’s always something more to learn. We’re doing low-light photography these days.” And with a wave of her hand, she trotted down the steps and was gone.

  “Working on another book, she tells me,” Hannah said.

  “Black-and-white photos, this time. It’s a lot of work. I never realized how many rolls of film a photographer has to shoot to get a few great pictures.”

  “Doesn’t seem to bother her. She’s enjoying herself,” Hannah said.

  Hannah looked at her pad. She had written Cove Road Preserve Coalition. “Sounds as if hundreds of people are behind this project.”

  “And maybe they will be,” Grace said.

  It was the second Sunday in October, and merely a hint of fall in the air. By one o’clock in the afternoon only the Richardsons and Mike had arrived for lunch. Under the great oak, four tables stood decorated with centerpieces of multicolored gourds and various-sized pumpkins on festive orange tablecloths.

  “It’s totally, utterly wonderful,” Mike said, and the Richardsons agreed.

  At the Tates’ farmhouse, Brenda stopped to look in the hall mirror and fuss with her hair. Harold and Pastor Johnson were waiting near the front door. “Come on, Brenda, it’s gettin’ late. Ladies are waitin’ dinner for us,” Harold said.