The Gardens of Covington

by Joan A. Medlicott

  Outside at the feeder, the smaller female cardinal joined her mate. She was not as richly colored as he was. When Bob heard Tyler’s voice, he turned his attention from the birds to his grandson. Something was different. Tyler was smiling, and he was not bad-mouthing Emily.

  “Maybe Emily’s not so bad, Dad,” Tyler said as his father spooned a second helping of cheese-topped scalloped potatoes onto his plate.

  “Emily’s a very nice person, if you’d give her a chance.”

  Tyler speared a potato slice, blew on it to cool it, and popped it into his mouth. He chewed vigorously. “Hmm,” he said. “This tastes as good as when Granny Grace makes it.” Tyler was a connoisseur of Grace’s food. He loved every morsel of anything she cooked, even meatballs and prunes. They tasted great, he thought, with the rice and gravy Grace served them with.

  “That’s a compliment, Tyler. Thanks,” his dad replied.

  The clock on the wall of the dining alcove, another of Russell’s treasures, seemed to tick louder as they sat and ate in silence and watched the cardinals at the bird feeder. After a time, Tyler downed another glass of juice, after which he turned to his father. “You planning to hitch Emily, Dad?”

  Russell nearly choked on a piece of ham. He coughed and reached for his water.

  Bob patted his back. “You okay, son?”

  Russell nodded. He looked at Tyler. “Hitch her? Where’d you get that expression?”

  Tyler shrugged, raised his arms a bit, and opened his palms in a “you know” kind of gesture. He grinned. “Old cowboy movies. They hitch their horses to posts outside saloons, and they get hitched to ladies.” He shrugged again. “That’s what they did in the old West. Hitched,” he said. “Funny word.” Tyler chortled, and bent double until his face reddened and his eyes watered.

  Bob glanced at Russell, then at his grandson. He patted Tyler’s arm. “Tyler, eat up, now. We can’t keep Grace waiting.” He looked at his watch.

  Tyler frowned and studied his watch, a smaller version of Bob’s, that Grace had given him on his ninth birthday. “It’s not eleven yet, Grandpa.” But he set to work finishing his potatoes and ham.

  “We don’t open on Sundays, generally, but today we have two buses coming in to the tearoom from Maggie Valley at two this afternoon,” Bob said. “They’ve ordered special. Tyler’s going to help us make sandwiches.”

  “Think we’ll get to make that green mushy stuff?” Tyler asked.

  “Avocado dip?”

  Tyler nodded.

  “Isn’t that a bit spicy?” Russell asked, suddenly aware that he was taking large mouthfuls, guzzling his food as if he were in a race with them. Deliberately he set his fork on his plate and sat back. A hush fell over the room, broken only by the clink of forks on china plates.

  Then Tyler said, “Yes, avocado dip. But Dad, Granny Grace’s recipe’s sweet.”

  “Sweet?” Russell looked at his father.

  “Sweet. A Grace special with crushed pineapple, and a touch of orange brandy.”

  “It’s good, Dad. Want us to bring you home some?”

  “Thanks, but, no thanks. I like my guacamole piquant.”

  Tyler’s freckled face grew serious. “Piquant?”

  “Spicy, Mexican-style,” his father replied.

  “Piquant,” Tyler repeated, folding his napkin and placing his knife and fork on the plate side by side, pointing inward. Grace had taught him that in restaurants this indicated to waiters that you were finished. He shook his head. “We never serve older folks spicy food, Dad. Their stomachs can’t handle it, Granny Grace says.”

  Bob laughed. “Grace’s natural sweet tooth has a lot to do with the menu.”

  They cleared the table and set plates and utensils in the dishwasher. As they were filing from the kitchen, Tyler tugged on his father’s hand. “It’s okay if you get hitched to Emily. I’m going to live with Granny Grace.” He stopped, turned, and studied his grandfather. “What about you, Grandpa? They only have one extra bedroom at the ladies’ farmhouse, and that’s mine.” He scowled, and put his hands on his hips. “Dad, where’s Grandpa going to live?”

  Neither adult replied. Several weeks earlier, anticipating that Russell might marry Emily, Bob had told Russell his idea about building himself a small cottage on the ladies’ land, if they’d sell or rent him a piece.

  Russell had strongly advised against it. “Good Lord, Dad, what are you trying to do?” he asked. “Remember how you pressured Grace to get married last year? Nothing’s changed. She likes it this way, and you seem content. Separate living quarters seem to work just fine for you two.”

  “We’d still be separate, but maybe you’re right, my boy.” Bob’s arm had circled his son. “The way it is with Grace and me, now, is just fine.”

  “You’re welcome to live with us, Dad. Emily likes you. We’ll move to a bigger house, with an apartment for you. It’ll be easier on Tyler,” Russell said, dropping his eyes.

  Bob shook his head. “I’ve lived with you for a couple of years now. Time I was on my own.” He refrained from telling his son how hurt and rejected he felt that after almost two weeks Grace had given him neither a yes nor a no regarding his request. “I’m going to check out a condo over in Loring Valley. There are one or two resales.”

  “I’d like it if you stayed with us,” Russell replied.

  Now, as they moved from the kitchen to the front hall to get their sweaters, Tyler kept up a running commentary. “That way, I can teach Aunt Hannah how to use her new computer. She asked me if I would, you know. That’s why she got it, ’cause she knew I could teach her how to use the Internet and do e-mail.” The sweater he shoved his arms into was made of soft mohair with big blue and yellow checks. Grace knitted it for him for Christmas this year, but he’d had to try it on so many times to get the arms right, she’d given it to him way ahead of time, the moment it was finished—a trifle baggy here, one sleeve a bit longer than the other, but it was Tyler’s absolute favorite.

  “What did you say?” Russell asked, turning on his heel to face his son.

  “I said,” Tyler rested his hands on his hips. He reminded Bob of Grace herself. “I’ll live with Granny Grace and the ladies, and then I’ll be there after school so I can teach Aunt Hannah about her new computer.”

  “Your home is with me, remember that, son.”

  Tyler pouted. “You’ll have Emily and Grandpa too.”

  Russell’s eyes narrowed. His mouth tightened. Bob put a hand on his son’s arm. “Not now, Russell.”

  Russell relaxed. Tyler tugged at his father’s arm. From habit Russell bent for a hug. Tyler squeezed tight. “I love you, Dad,” he said. “Please let me live with the ladies. I’ll come for brunch every Sunday, and I’ll be very nice to Emily. I promise.”

  17

  The Condominium in Loring Valley

  For Grace, transforming ingredients into satisfying meals or desserts was a practical activity that usually nurtured her soul. Today, however, as she mixed the batter for coffee cakes, formed tarts, and prepared sandwiches for two busloads of customers from Maggie Valley, she wondered why in heaven’s name they had agreed to open on a Sunday afternoon to accommodate these people. She had planned on cleaning out her closet, putting away her summer clothes, and here she was, working, and all because it was business, and she felt she couldn’t say no.

  The door flung wide, admitting Bob into the kitchen, with Tyler in tow. Tyler’s hair looked as if it had not been combed and Bob’s face was red.

  Bob rubbed his hands together briskly. Tyler followed suit. “Windy out there. A real chill in the air.”

  “I’ve come to mash avocados for the dip,” Tyler announced. He flung his jacket on a chair.

  “No dip today,” Grace said, “but you can help me stamp out these sugar cookies. Pick the shapes you’d like.” She shoved a low box toward him across the worktable.

  Tyler examined the metal forms: angel, butterfly, dog, rabbit, cow, Christmas tree, crescent moon, star, wom
an, man, train. “It feels like an angel and a butterfly day,” he said.

  From a yellow bowl, Grace lifted a round lump of dough. “Fine. Bob, you roll out this dough. You’ve got stronger arms than I do. Make it real thin. Tyler, get the cookies as close together as possible, but not touching.”

  “I can do that,” he said, brandishing the butterfly cutter.

  Grace noticed that Tyler looked happier than she had seen him in weeks.

  At two o’clock in the afternoon the buses arrived, and soon the tearoom filled with chatter and laughter. The customers seemed happy to be there, and ate with gusto. And when, at three-thirty, right on schedule, the buses pulled away from their parking lot, Grace began pulling off tablecloths. Moments later, Russell arrived to pick up Tyler.

  “Do I have to go?” Tyler turned mournful eyes to Grace.

  “Your dad’s taking you to the Y swimming. It’ll be fun.”

  “Emily going?”

  “I don’t think so, just you and Dad,” Bob said. “Get your jacket on now.”

  After his son and grandson drove away, Bob switched on the vacuum. Its whir stirred a complementary whir in Grace’s mind. She looked about her. Even without the tables set with their crisp, white lace-edged tablecloths, the room was charming. Surely someone would buy this business, relieve her of this responsibility she was feeling more and more.

  “Too bad the Athens Restaurant isn’t open on Sundays,” Grace said. It was a favorite eatery of theirs in Weaverville.

  “I’ve been sneaking goodies all afternoon. Are you hungry?” Bob asked.

  “Not really. I’m not in the mood to go home yet.”

  Grace had stayed up half the night rehearsing how she would tell Bob that she thought it best he find another place to live. She would offer to house or apartment hunt with him and help him furnish it. Also, sooner or later, she must tell him that much as she loved cooking, she hated being tied to baking on demand. He might not understand about a cottage on their land, but he would surely understand her tiredness. Pulling out a chair, Grace flopped into it and stretched out her legs. They ached, so did her back. She wiped the sweat from her face with her bandanna. “Too much,” she said softly.

  “Too much of everything, baking, cooking, waiting tables, being on our feet,” Bob said. “We need to consider getting some help in this place.” His car keys jingled as he dug them from his pocket. “Let’s get out of here.”

  Untying her apron, Grace rolled it into a wad, opened the utility room door to dump the apron into the washing machine, and changed her mind. “I’ll do this with my things back at the house tonight.”

  “Let’s go,” Bob said. “I want to show you something.”

  “A surprise?” Her face lit up.

  He wiped a smudge of flour from her chin and nodded. “I hope you’ll like this one.” They left the tearoom, and moments later his Cherokee turned into Loring Valley.

  “Tell me we’re not going to the Hammers’.”

  He chuckled. “Your favorite people. No, we’re not going there.”

  The road was new and freshly paved, the roadside newly planted with large, mature rhododendrons interspersed with twenty-foot-tall dogwoods. She recognized them by their bark. Hannah was helping her identify trees and shrubs. They must have cost a fortune, Grace thought.

  The Victorian motif of the condominiums, of the entire development, was, Grace had to admit, quite attractive. There was none of the boxy sameness one often saw in developments. These structures had been carefully designed, the colors carefully, tastefully chosen. All boasted covered porches dripping with fretwork, and many of the porches were furnished with wicker or wrought-iron chairs, tables, swings.

  Still, the natural contour of the land lay ravaged. The hairpin curved road had been gouged from the mountainside, leaving insufficient vegetation to hold the slopes under pressure of a heavy rain, Grace was certain. Bob negotiated one sharp curve after another, and suddenly Grace’s negative feelings were overridden by the splendid view that spread below and across the valley. Alongside the river, the villas seemed no more than dollhouses, while across the river, the mountainside—too steep to vanquish—rose pristine in shadowed folds and layers to meet the sky.

  Bob pulled the Cherokee into a driveway in front of a closed garage. “Who lives here?” Grace asked.

  “You’ll see.” Rounding the Jeep, he offered her his hand. The height of his Cherokee was forever a challenge to Grace, though it was easier to slide down and out than to clamber up. She placed her hand on his arm, and he slid his other hand about her waist and eased her to the ground. “Thanks,” she said, then smoothed her dress. She felt, and probably looked like, a rumpled hen, and he was taking her to meet new people. Rummaging in her purse yielded no comb. Grace smoothed her hair with her hands. “Okay, let’s go.”

  From his pocket Bob fished a set of shiny keys. He opened the front door, swung it wide, stepped back, and waved her in.

  “What?” Grace stepped into an entry hall, and then into a lovely, large empty living room graced with a stunning crystal chandelier hanging from the center of a rosette medallion. Deep dental molding joined walls to ceiling. French doors opened to the porch.

  “You like it?” Bob asked. His eyes twinkled, and a mischievous grin plastered itself across his face. Opening the French doors, he took her arm and guided her outside. The view was stunning. If she focused only on the pristine mountainside, she could forget what was below. “Lovely, eh?” he asked.

  It was cooler up here than in the valley. The air was so clear that when a hawk appeared from a cleft in a rocky outcropping across the valley, and plunged from its perch, free-falling, then extending its wings to soar on billowing currents of air, Grace gasped and clutched Bob’s arm. “Did you see that? I thought it was injured or someone had shot it, the way it fell. Amazing, those great powerful wings.”

  “Like a symphony, wind, and wings, and bird,” he said softly, holding her close.

  “Yes.” She turned to face him. “So, whose place is this?”

  Light flickered in his eyes. He smiled. “Mine.”

  “Yours?” Grace gasped. “But I thought . . .”

  “I know, love. It was foolish of me to even suggest living on your land. With your sense of responsibility and you being such a caretaker, it would have confounded your life. Martin Hammer and I played golf one day, and he suggested I look at a condo here. I said no initially, but when he brought me up here, well, you see . . .” He waved an arm. “So, I went ahead and made an offer, and the owners agreed last evening and left the message with Russell.”

  Grace drew back. “You bought this without telling me, without showing it to me?” All this time she had been fretting and worrying. Stepping out of his arm, she backed away, turned, and started inside.

  Bob followed. “Talk to me, Grace.”

  She stood silent for many moments, her back to him, then she turned. “Why didn’t you tell me, Bob?” She was angry. Why? He should be angry with her. She was the one who had rudely ignored his initial request, had not even brought it up to Hannah and Amelia until yesterday. His buying this condo lifted the burden from her shoulders. But, they were a couple, and he hadn’t told her. Come off it, Grace, her mind said. Bob knew just how you felt, even if you said not a word. He did this as much for you as for himself. She went to him then, and standing on tiptoe eased her arms about his neck and kissed him. He held her tight, and they did not speak. Love, Grace thought, is both a puzzle and a seesaw. She snuggled close to him, remembering a cozy moment in bed recently, a shared time that had warmed a place deep within her.

  “It’s beautiful here,” she said.

  “You’re not angry? You like it?”

  “Not angry. I do like it. It’s lovely inside and out. Show me the rest.”

  There were two large bedrooms, each with a wall of windows, and there were two baths, one with a double Jacuzzi. The second bedroom was large enough to hold two beds for Tyler and a friend he might invite to
sleep over. The kitchen and dining alcove were cheery and light and overlooked the view. What troubled her were the hills directly below them. Eight hundred feet above the river, they had been heavily wooded with pine and deciduous growth that were now gone. The scarred earth would heal, in time, she knew, but would it before the rains that sometimes pounded the area? The condominiums on either side of Bob’s, and below his, seemed like mountain climbers clinging to the rock face for dear life. Were they firmly rooted into the bedrock? She did not realize that she was frowning.

  “You’re thinking they’ll do this to Anson’s land, aren’t you?” Bob asked.

  She nodded.

  “Not if Hannah has her way, and I think she’s going to find a way to stop him.”

  Below in the valley and on either side of the condo, lights came on. Behind the mountain, a magenta sunset changed, softened to peach and gold. Amazing colors, amazing sky. It would be pleasant to visit here, to stay overnight. Everything would be all right.

  He looked at his watch. “It’s early. What say we go find me some furniture, a bed at least so I can start moving my things over here.”

  On the way to the furniture store Bob asked Grace, “Not angry about the condo anymore?”

  Grace twisted a hand back and forth in the air. “No. You’re the one who ought to be angry. I didn’t get back to you about the land and your cottage.”

  “I pouted,” he said, “for a while, but, I got over it. It was a dumb request. You’d end up spending your time worrying about how I was doing, what I was doing, eating, whatever.”

  With her fingers she traced the white, springy hairs on the knuckles of his hand on the steering wheel. How large and square his hands were, how small hers were, and pale by comparison. “I worried so about it. I couldn’t even talk to the others until last night.”

  “How’d they react?”

  “Amelia and Hannah said it was my decision.”