The Gardens of Covington

by Joan A. Medlicott

  “I’m on my way. I’m hanging up now, Bob.”

  It was Sunday. Hannah and Amelia slept late on Sunday. She slipped a note for them under a dog magnet on the fridge, grabbed a glass of orange juice, and ran.

  The thermometer on the porch read forty-two degrees. Grace needed a heavier coat and went back inside for it. Back outside, she thought how her legs would freeze while the car warmed up, while the world warmed up. She thought of Hannah, who wore tights under her slacks every winter morning.

  “They can easily be removed in any bathroom, anywhere, when they get uncomfortable,” she had once told Grace.

  Grace would consider tights, but hated their snugness and worried about what she would do with the tights after removing them—sling them over her shoulder?

  “Get a tote bag,” Hannah said.

  A tote bag and tights. Today she wished she had listened to Hannah.

  Russell Richardson’s home nestled in a grove of pine trees at the end of a cul-de-sac. It was one of a dozen brick-and-wood ranch houses in a one-street development located between Covington and Caster that the builder had, unimaginatively, named the Circle. The fifteen-minute drive to the Circle paralleled a wide, shallow river spanned intermittently by wooden bridges the width of one car. Brenda had told Grace that several years ago spring rains had turned the languid river into a torrent, washing out underpinnings and dashing bridges into the rampaging water.

  From then on, Grace pictured the easygoing river as Dr. Jekyll, and the rampaging river as Mr. Hyde. Now, rebuilt and reinforced with high guardrails, the bridges seemed to say “stay out,” and this notion whetted Grace’s curiosity about the people who lived across the river, across deep green fields, in homes tucked high in the woods.

  “Who lives over there across the river?” Grace had asked Brenda.

  “Wealthy locals, and some folks from out of state. The land was owned by one family, the Colemans. They sold it in large parcels with the restriction that it could never be subdivided.”

  Ah, Grace thought, no developer will torture these hillsides with condos.

  Immediately, as Bob met Grace at the door of the house, he put his arms about her. “Tyler hid in his room until his father drove out this morning.”

  “We go to IHOP?” Grace asked.

  Bob nodded.

  “Hey, Tyler, love,” Grace called as she headed down the bedroom hallway.

  Flinging wide his door, Tyler met Grace halfway. Pitching his little body against her fullness, he attached like a barnacle. “Granny Grace.” Huge teary eyes looked pleadingly at her. “Daddy brought that stupid, ugly Emily home last night. Can I come live with you and the ladies? Please, please, Granny Grace.”

  “We’ll see,” she said. “So it’s ugly, stupid Emily, eh?” Grace half hauled Tyler down the hall to where Bob waited.

  “Ugly, yes.”

  “You sure about that?”

  “Well,” he admitted grudgingly, “maybe she’s not ugly, but I don’t like her.”

  This conversation would get them nowhere. Grace rubbed her tummy. “Grandpa and I feel like waffles at IHOP. What about you?”

  Tyler rubbed his tummy. A tiny smile etched the corners of his mouth. His eyes were big and teary. “I’m hungry” What are we waiting for then? Let’s hit the road.” Bob stood at the end of the hall, their coats in hand, and moments later they were cruising the back roads, heading for Highway 19-23 to Asheville, and Grace trying to lift Tyler’s spirits by singing, Mares eat oats, and does eat oats, and little lambs eat ivy, off-key.

  That night Grace and Bob baby-sat Tyler. After a light dinner of chicken salad andfruit, after Tyler had been told a story by Grace, reassured of their love, cuddled, and kissed good night, they sat on the blue corduroy love seat in the den. A cheery fire warmed the room. Grace’s head fell onto Bob’s shoulder. Bob smoothed hair from her forehead. The hairy knuckles of his hands, and the tiny ripple of freckles across his nose, were the first things Grace had noticed when she met him, and his eyes, of course, his honest, kind eyes. He was tall; she short, a regular Mutt and Jeff, but so compatible.

  “You helped Tyler so much after Amy’s death. You brought him back to us,” Bob said. “If anyone can talk to him, help him now, you can.”

  Grace stirred. “I’m no therapist. I tried to talk to him back at the restaurant, when you had to wait in line at the cashier. We went outside, remember?”

  He nodded.

  “He wouldn’t talk about Emily or his dad, just clammed up, like he did about his mother.”

  “Maybe you could get him to draw pictures again, like he did then.”

  “Art therapy. Amelia told me about it. She’d seen it used very effectively with children who lost families after an earthquake in Mexico.”

  “Well, it worked for Tyler.”

  “He’s older now. I feel so sorry for what he’s going through. I know how shattering change can be. Why wouldn’t Tyler be upset?” Grace snuggled tight against Bob’s chest. “Maybe there’s some kind of guilt thing going on for Tyler. If he loves or even likes Emily, he’s betrayed his mother.”

  “Tough on the little fellow, losing his mother. You’re so wise, Grace.”

  They sat quietly for a moment, then Bob changed the subject. “Have you spoken to Hannah and Amelia yet about my idea?”

  Grace tried not to tighten her shoulders. Things with herself and Bob had been going along so well. Russell and Emily’s involvement was changing more than Tyler’s life. “When have I had the time? We had an opening at the tearoom, remember?”

  “Don’t get upset; it’s just a question.”

  She felt a tightening of his chest and shoulders.

  “I’m sorry, Bob. I’m tired, and I’m worried about Tyler. I will talk to them, soon.” She nuzzled his neck. His lemony aftershave pleased her. Such a clean, neat man, she thought, then wondered, if they lived together would he fall into patterns like Ted had? Would he expect meals, perhaps even lunch every day at a certain time? She cooked dinner most nights, but for breakfast and lunches the ladies were on their own. Would he leave socks and underwear on the floor for her to pick up? Would her time still be her own? She doubted that. Soon she’d be apologizing and feeling guilty just going to a movie with Hannah.

  A clock bonged, deep and resonant. Russell collected clocks. The sound came from his 1885, ornate, iron-fronted, mother-of-pearl-inlaid clock on the mantel. Suddenly it was competing with Russell’s prized nine-foot-tall grandfather clock that dated back to 1745, which stood against one wall and bonged nine times.

  “It’s ten o’clock,” Bob said, checking his wristwatch. “That clock’s never right.”

  Grace’s mind remained fastened on his request to buy or lease land from them to build a cottage for himself. If he did that, would he expect to eat with them every night? Would he show up at the door any old time? Would he intrude on their teatime? Even if he did not, would she, Grace, feel obliged or anxious thinking she ought to invite him to join them at tea? Men, the best of them, by their very presence, changed the tone of women’s exchanges, inhibited the essence of their conversations. “I’ll talk to the others, I promise.” Grace dropped her head back onto his chest, for fear he would see the concern in her eyes.

  “If you all agree,” he said, “I’d build out of sight of the farmhouse. Don’t want to be looking down on you ladies wondering what you’re doing.” He squeezed her shoulder, kissed the top of her head. He laughed. “Seriously, I’d try to be unobtrusive.”

  As he talked and the clocks ticked, she realized how serious he was about this cottage, and Grace hated herself for the irritation she felt at his asking.

  15

  What About Bob?

  Monday dawned exceptionally warm, and since Lance was away, again, and the tearoom had closed early, Amelia and Grace joined Hannah for tea on the porch.

  “Probably the last time this winter we’ll have a day as warm as this,” Hannah said. “Look what that hard freeze last week did to ou
r planter boxes. Everything’s shriveled and brown.”

  As usual, they sipped their first cup of tea in silence. Then Grace told them about Tyler’s crisis.

  “Russell’s fault,” Hannah said unequivocally. “Just because he’s enamored with Emily, he can’t expect the boy to feel the same.”

  “Poor little fellow.” Amelia looked worried. “What will happen now?”

  “And on top of that,” Grace blurted out, unable to put it off longer, “Bob expects them to marry, and he’s planning to move out. And . . .” She hesitated a moment. “. . . he’s asked if we’d sell or lease him a piece of our land so he can build a cottage to live in.”

  Surprise registered in Hannah’s eyes and her brow furrowed. “So, Bob wants to live here.” She said it without affect, not pleased or disapproving.

  Immediately, Amelia ceased rocking and began to examine, and then push back, the cuticle at the base of her fingernail.

  Hannah drew a small pair of clippers from the pocket of the smock she wore over her clothing when she worked in the yard, and snipped away a brown and crumpled trail of verbena hanging from the planter box.

  Grace remembered an old jingle advertising tea from years ago: one line, take tea and see what a difference, went round and round like a carousel in her mind. Grace held her cup with both hands, appreciated its warmth, sipped her tea, and waited. Prinking tea calmed and soothed her and offered time to gather one’s thoughts, as when a man lights a pipe, slow and deliberate. “Bob says if we’ll let him he’ll build out of sight.” She wanted to give Bob a fair hearing, but it was obvious that his request stunned Amelia and Hannah, as it had her. Then her eyes sought Hannah’s. “He says he intends to stay out of our way.”

  “How, if he’s living up on our hill?” Amelia asked softly.

  “Start popping in whenever he wants,” Hannah said. But he did that now, Hannah reminded herself. He complemented their lives like butter on toast, was good company, helpful, like when the pump stopped working last winter. It was Bob whose fingers turned blue fixing it. Yet, living right here, on the hill behind their house, that was different. He would be—she struggled in her mind for the appropriate word—ubiquitous.

  “I was taken aback when he proposed it,” Grace said. “I should have handled it, said no right away.”

  “Why didn’t you?” Hannah asked, more in speculation than in annoyance.

  A dreamy look came over Amelia’s face. “It’s hard to say no to a man you love.”

  It was hard, and it tore at Grace’s heart imagining Bob sitting alone in a cottage up on their hillside somewhere watching the sunset, or standing disconsolately in his kitchen opening a can of tuna while they enjoyed their dinner, or being alone with his TV, while they shared their home and each other’s company. Would the lights of his cottage twinkle between tree branches in winter when the leaves had fallen? Would his aloneness lure her to abjure the quiet comfort, the independence she relished, sharing a home with Hannah and Amelia, and go to him? Grace looked toward each familiar face. “Say something, Hannah, Amelia, please.”

  But they were silent. And in that silence, her mind raced. Had she met Bob a year after Ted’s death, she would have danced naked in delight in the privacy of her own home. She would have married him and resumed doing, giving, pleasing. Before meeting Hannah, especially, she would never have envisioned that life without a husband could be so utterly satisfying. She loved Bob, yet she relished coming home to her own room, to control of her time, to privacy.

  “A ruse. He wants you living with him,” Hannah blurted.

  Grace pushed her chair vigorously with her toes. She and Bob had been all over this, and living with or marrying him was a moot issue. Grace’s fingers curled involuntarily into loose fists. Good God, she didn’t want to relinquish her independence. If she did, in time, anger and resentment would tarnish, might even destroy what they had. Butterflies played leapfrog in her stomach. Say something, she wanted to yell, say no, straight out.

  Hannah stretched her arms, making an arc. “All of Madison County, and he wants to live here.”

  “Mon Dieu. This is a problem.”

  They were angry; suddenly Grace felt the need to defend Bob. “He loves this area. He thinks Cove Road’s the loveliest part of Madison County.” So why did she resent his asking? She loved him. He loved her.

  Amelia clapped her hands as if to get their attention. “Bob’s been nothing but considerate to all of us, still . . .” Her gaze shifted to some spot off in the distance.

  “Living so close,” Hannah muttered. Why was she feeling so territorial? Twenty-eight acres could accommodate one more person, especially if he were out of sight, and there were parameters. But would Grace be able to set parameters?

  “Bob’s here a great deal, and he’s never a trouble, but when he goes home, he’s out of sight, out of mind, if I may use a cliché,” Hannah said. She wanted to say a firm no, but how could she when they owned the land together? Major decisions like this must be unanimous, and how could Grace refuse Bob? She could see it all clearly. Grace would feel obliged to have Bob for dinner every night, or take dinner to him. Then she would stay the night, the weekend, and pretty soon it would be weeks, and she’d be packing to move.

  Their lifestyle, even with Amelia going through this thing with Lance (which she was sure would come to no good), suited Hannah perfectly. Last year, the thought of Grace marrying and moving out had distressed her deeply and forced her to acknowledge her own jealousy. Grace was the best, the only real friend she’d had in more years than she could remember, and it had been a huge relief when Grace decided not to marry. Confound it. Why hadn’t Grace simply said no to Bob now? Didn’t she realize how Bob living in their backyard would change her life? Change Hannah’s life. Waves of anxiety, possessiveness, and guilt for wanting to hold things static, for her lack of consideration of Grace’s needs, washed over Hannah. Grace was the glue that held their home together. She was tolerant where Hannah was not. Grace radiated sunshine. She filled their home with warmth and love. Enough self-centeredness. Hannah looked intently at Grace. “Will you be able to sleep nights knowing Bob’s up there alone?”

  “You speak as if he’s there already. Don’t you understand? I don’t want this. I just didn’t know how not to hurt Bob. When Russell remarries, Bob’ll be alone again, like he was in Florida, before Amy’s death brought him here. I feel selfish.”

  Amelia, lost in her own thoughts, simply stared into space. The click-clack sound of her rocker on the uneven boards of the porch floor suddenly irritated Hannah. She wanted to reach across Grace and stop Amelia from rocking. “It’s got to be your decision.” Hannah began to gather up the tea things. “Let’s go inside. It’s getting dark.”

  “But, I don’t want it to be my decision.”

  “Does this decision have to be made now? Can’t we all think about this for a few days?” Amelia asked, slowing her rocking chair. Her teeth grazed the top of her lip.

  Grace stacked saucers on the tray. “Help me find a way to say no without making him feel rejected.” Her eyes misted.

  They were silent. Amelia rose, and held the door open for them. Hannah picked up the tray and started inside with Grace following.

  The kitchen was warm and cozy, one of their favorite gathering places. Recently, Grace had bought thick new cushions in a rich purple and white stripe for the chair backs and seats. Purple complemented the yellow walls and seemed to complete the decor. Hannah set the tray on the counter and began to load the dishwasher. “One damn tough decision after the other. That’s what life’s about, it seems to me.”

  “At least Bob’s not pressuring me to get married,” Grace said.

  Hannah wondered how long that would last, and she stifled her growing exasperation with Bob for creating this situation in the first place.

  Amelia’s face was capable of amazingly quick changes of expression, and now it went from consternation to consideration to soft and caring. “This is hard on you, Gr
ace, I know. Sleep on it.”

  “Fine,” Grace agreed, “I’ll sleep on it.” And Grace wondered if some divine providence were testing her newfound independence. She had seen retired couples in the mall, in restaurants, in markets, their faces masks of frustration, or boredom, or indifference, or resignation. There were, thank God, spaces in her and Bob’s togetherness. What they did together, they thoroughly enjoyed. An idea formed and nagged at her. Was the tearoom, and now Bob wanting to live on their land, a ruse, as Hannah had put it, to seduce her into living with him?

  16

  Tyler Speaks of Moving Out

  Facing south, the long galley kitchen in Russell Richardson’s home was both bright and functional. At one end the room widened into a bay window, and every Sunday morning in this sun-drenched dining alcove Russell cooked and served a special brunch of grilled ham over baked scalloped potatoes—recipe courtesy of Grace—to family and friends. Sometimes Grace and Hannah joined them, and Emily, once. Rather a silent meal that was. Amelia never came for breakfast.

  “Mike and I always take Sunday brunch in Asheville,” she had explained to Tyler, who wondered, since they took lunch, why they didn’t just stay in Covington instead of packing a picnic and taking it into Asheville. Someday he’d ask. But today it was just Tyler and his father and grandfather.

  Outside the bay window, on a wide-rimmed bird feeder, a red cardinal, its wings whirring, pecked, pushed, and chased other birds away. Territoriality, Bob thought, and possessiveness. He identified with the cardinal. He wanted Grace to himself. Yet if he stopped to think about it, he knew that he also liked not worrying about having smelly feet after hours on the golf course, or leaving dirty dishes in the sink, or flinging his legs and arms wide on his bed without concern for another’s space.