The Gardens of Covington

by Joan A. Medlicott

  A section of the wraparound first-floor porch was glassed in, and one end had been curtained in green-and-white-striped broadcloth. There was plenty of room for the long pine table, painted apple green, and eight matching chairs that occupied the center. A dark green hutch trimmed in mustard yellow flowers, with open shelves on top and drawers below, stood against the white clapboard wall. It housed a collection of crockery plates and platters, mugs, and tumblers.

  Hannah let the front doorbell chime and chime again before the door was opened by a stout, olive-skinned woman with dark springy hair. “Missy no home,” she said in broken English.

  Not expecting a housekeeper, Hannah was surprised. The Maxwells obviously exceeded their neighbors financially. Perhaps that was why there was such a skinning up of noses and all the snide comments whenever their name was mentioned. They seemed alien, strange folk to the others on Cove Road. Hannah wondered who did the shunning. Only Zachary had attended that first meeting at the church hall, and she had assumed he represented his family.

  “Mr. Maxwell, then,” Hannah said.

  The woman shook her head and shrugged. “Mister no at home.”

  Beyond and above the solid body of the little woman, a highly polished railing and stairs curved up to the second-floor landing. “Thank you.” Hannah turned from the door.

  It was another of those unexpectedly warm December days. A slight breeze caused a rocker close by to stir slightly, inviting Hannah to sit. She did. Across Cove Road their farmhouse looked small but cheerful, with its bright yellow windows and front door. Next May, red roses would explode in color, drawing the admiration of everyone on Cove Road.

  It was so peaceful that Hannah had no idea how long she sat before the blue truck turned into the drive. When it drew up to the front steps to discharge its passenger, a slim-hipped, long-legged woman with graying hair waved off her husband’s help as she eased slowly from the cab. Hannah saw that the truck bed was piled high with bales of hay. “Max” Maxwell tipped his baseball cap at her and mouthed “Howdy,” then shifted into gear and drove toward the first barn. Hannah stood and waited, uncertain what to do, as Bella Maxwell grasped the railing and hesitantly, one uncertain, painstakingly slow step at a time, climbed to the porch. She stood grasping the railing with both hands and took long, uneven breaths. She isn’t well, Hannah thought.

  Bella Maxwell shuffled haltingly toward Hannah, smiling. “Are you Amelia?” she asked, as she folded like a fan into a rocking chair. She was pretty and as frail as one of Amelia’s treasured fans.

  “I’m Hannah. Hannah Parrish.”

  “How nice to meet you.” The lightness of her Southern accent indicated that she was not from these parts, or that she had lived, or been educated, elsewhere, and Hannah wondered that they could have lived across from one another for a year and a half and never met, and that no one, not even Brenda Tate, had told them anything of consequence about the Maxwells, other than that they had money and were not disposed to welcome visitors. Bella, however, seemed genuinely glad to see her.

  “You okay, Bella darlin’?” A loud, blustering voice came from the end of the porch where it curved to wrap the house. Maxwell rounded the corner. He wore overalls and mud-caked boots with thick soles. He stood a moment, hands in his pockets, surveying the two women through worried, dark eyes set firmly above thick pouches in his grave, weathered face. Then he clomped over to where they sat.

  “I’m fine, Max, dear, just fine.” Hannah noticed then that Bella’s hand, the hand she extended to her husband, the hand he clasped in both his big, thick hands, trembled, a fine slight tremor, as did her other hand and her head.

  “Next time we have a doctor’s appointment, let me know ahead. That dern old track’s the last thing you oughta be ridin’ in.”

  “You just go on back to your barn. I know you’re busy, honey. Hannah from across the road’s come to visit. She’ll see me inside, won’t you, Hannah?” She turned to Hannah, who nodded. Bella’s eyes were golden brown, and shot through with resignation. Her oval face was marred by sprays of spiderweb lines, and her sweet smile gave way to signs of discomfort. Hannah’s heart went out to her.

  “I’ll do whatever you need me to do,” Hannah said.

  They sat awhile, rocked gently, and did not speak. Cars rolled past on Cove Road. Molly Lund, Frank Craine, Ted Lund, Brenda Tate. Grace’s car turned into the ladies’ driveway and moments later Grace emerged, her arms filled with packages.

  “Which one of the ladies is that?” Bella Maxwell asked.

  “That’s Grace.”

  “I hear she’s a fine cook, well known for her cookies and some exotic dish she makes with meat and prunes.” Bella said it simply, seeming not to need a response from Hannah. Silence closed about them again, and when she spoke it was to say, “My name is Arabella. Max prefers Bella.”

  Hannah’s head spun with questions. Where are you from? With what are you ill? Why are you so isolated from the other residents of Cove Road? She remained silent, allowing the gentle, sad-faced woman to decide when they would talk and what about. Wisps of white clouds drifted past. One moment the air seemed warm, then breezes cooled it, and then it died down and grew warm again. Across the street, Grace slammed the front door and returned to the car for yet another package.

  Brown, curled oak leaves chased one another along the floor of the porch, making a rattling sound. “I hate it when winter comes. For me in December the world goes bleak,” Bella said in almost a whisper. She shuddered slightly. “I guess I should go in, but it’s so nice sitting here visiting with you.”

  Hannah was surprised as they had hardly spoken, and yet Bella considered that they were visiting. Perhaps she had little or no company. In their year and more in Covington, they had never seen this woman in her yard, or out walking, or sitting on this porch, or driving a car. A pang of guilt struck Hannah. They had simply listened to others, and had never paid a call on their closest neighbor.

  “I’d like to say, ‘I’m fine, Hannah,’ and that I’ll manage to navigate into the house by myself. But the truth is, I’ve been sittin’ here hopin’ and prayin’ for the energy to pry myself from this rocker. Will you help me?”

  “Certainly,” Hannah said, glad for something to do.

  “To get me up, you need to stand in front of me, then bend over and hook your arms under my arms and pull.” Her voice had a sing-song quality. “Can you do it? It won’t hurt your back, will it? Are you all right? You did have surgery on, what was it, your hip, last year?”

  “Hip,” Hannah said, wondering how Bella knew this. The woman was light, wispy and easy to lift. She can’t weigh a hundred pounds, Hannah thought. Moments later, supported by Hannah, Bella shambled to the door and into the house.

  “Ah, Anna, my dear.” Bella spoke to the stout, dark-haired woman who hurried toward them, her face filled with worry. “This is Miss Hannah from across the road. She’s going to help me to my room.”

  “I take Missy Bella,” Anna said, reaching out, but Hannah shook her head. “Just tell me where.”

  “Just a follow me, Miss Hannah,” Anna said.

  Bella’s pale skin was cool, thin, and dry, papery to the touch. Supporting her, Hannah moved tentatively across the foyer, following Anna, who kept turning, Hannah was sure, to make certain that Bella was all right. She led the way into what must have been the original dining room of the big house. A high tray ceiling rose above a fine old mahogany bed. A wall of windows looked out onto the porch and across Cove Road to their farmhouse and the hills behind. Faces east. She cannot see the spectacular sunsets here, Hannah thought. A pity. And Hannah wondered if she would ever sit with Amelia and Grace on their porch again without thinking of this woman lying in her mahogany bed, perhaps watching them?

  Hannah eased Bella onto the bed. With one deft hand, Anna fluffed pillows, and with the other, mounded them to support Bella’s back. Gently, Anna lifted Bella’s legs and slipped additional pillows under her knees. “She make more comfortable
like this,” Anna said. “I bring soup, now, yes?”

  “Yes. Thank you, Anna,” Bella said. “Would you like fresh homemade vegetable soup?” she asked Hannah. “I prefer chicken soup, but this is what Anna does best. It’s quite good.”

  “No, thanks.” Hannah had forgotten completely what she came to the Maxwells’ home for. In the face of whatever affliction Bella had, it didn’t matter.

  Bella sighed, and reached for Hannah’s hand. Hannah grasped it in both of hers and felt the tremble of the soft palm and the fine, thin bones of her fingers. “I heard you’re trying to stop Anson from selling out. He’s a fool.” She shook her head. The muscles of her neck and throat seemed to possess a life of their own, for they continued to quiver, when Hannah knew that Bella wanted them to stop. “Thank you, Hannah Parrish, for helping me. Will you come again? Bring the others?”

  “I’ll come, and I’ll bring the others,” Hannah replied. “I hope you feel better.” Then she turned and walked quickly through the foyer and let herself onto the porch. She grasped the post at the top of the steps. The farmhouse across the road, and the women who lived there with her, had never seemed as precious.

  24

  Wishing Will Make It So

  Grace could not get Tyler out of her mind. At Hannah’s lunch he had seemed to grasp the idea that he could change the course of his father’s and Emily’s lives. Yet, from what Bob told her, Emily had nonetheless returned to Florida with no intention of returning.

  With Russell’s permission, Grace picked Tyler up after school one day. She was able to get away because, after many discussions about it, they had decided to hire help at the tearoom. The young woman, a college student named Sybil, seemed to be getting the hang of things, though she would never be clean or neat enough to satisfy Grace. Still, having her there gave Grace more flexibility.

  Tyler raced down the school steps beaming. “Granny Grace.” He scrambled into the car and hugged her tight before fastening his seat belt. “It’s good you came for me. Dad doesn’t talk anymore, he grunts or snarls.”

  “Your father’s unhappy, Tyler, and I think you know why.”

  He looked sheepishly at her. “I drove Emily away.”

  They were on the highway now, heading south toward Weaverville. “I’m afraid you did. How do you feel about that?”

  His eyes misted. “Not so good.”

  “Do you want to do something about it?”

  He shook his head. “Can’t.”

  “Why?”

  “I wished her gone.”

  A huge truck came up beside them. Grace clutched the wheel and slowed down. The truck zoomed past with a roar. Grace relaxed. “You what?”

  “I wished Emily would go away.”

  Somehow, Grace was not surprised, and they were silent until they reached the Burger King in Weaverville. “You want to go in or eat in the car?” Grace asked.

  “Eat in the car.”

  They ordered, then Grace parked the car in a spot that faced the mountains in the parking lot of the Weaverville Shopping Plaza. One thing she loved about the area was that almost anywhere you went, you could see mountains.

  “All right,” Grace said when they had almost finished their burgers. “What’s this business about wishing Emily gone?”

  Tyler blushed. “Since Dad met Emily, every time I saw a falling star, or an eyelash of mine came out and I blew it away, or I broke a wishbone, I wished that Emily would go back to Florida.”

  Waiting for more, she handed him another napkin, and after wiping his hands he looked earnestly at Grace. “You know, Granny Grace, wishes are real. They fly away to heaven and get written in a book, and when you send enough wishes about something, it happens.”

  “Who told you that?”

  He shrugged. “Can’t remember, but wishes came true in Pinocchio.”

  “You wanted Emily gone so badly, you made this wish again and again?”

  “I did, Granny Grace, and now it’s too late. I can’t take it back.”

  Grace hugged him to her. She could feel his ribs. The boy had gotten thinner. “What happened to that appetite of yours, Tyler?”

  “It’s gone too.”

  “Your dad not feeding you?”

  “It’s not Dad. He tries to cook. He’s not good at it. Mom was a great cook, and Grandpa cooked before he started moving his things over to his new apartment. But, it’s not the food. I’m just not hungry.”

  Grace considered this. She offered a silent prayer for wisdom, for insight and the right words to help Tyler sort out what must surely be a mass of mixed emotions. “So, we have a problem here. I wonder what would happen if you reversed your wish, changed it to wishing that Emily would return, that she and your dad would be reunited? What do you think?”

  “I never thought of that.”

  “Well, you think about it.” She placed an arm about him. He unfastened his seat belt and snuggled against her. “I don’t believe you really hate Emily, Tyler, love.” When he did not argue, she continued. “You loved your mommy so very much, how could you like, maybe even love, someone else?”

  He began to cry. “I want Mommy back.”

  “I know you do. I wanted my husband, Ted, back after he died, and yet, in time, I met your grandpa. If I hadn’t accepted that Ted was gone, how could I love your grandpa?”

  “So, you forgot about your husband, Ted?”

  “No. I didn’t forget. I think of him often and with love, but he’s not in this world to talk to me, to comfort me, or be my friend, and I had to accept that, and go on with my life. Ted would want me to.”

  “You think my mommy wants me to . . . to like . . . someone else?”

  She nodded. “When we truly love someone, we want the best for them. Your mommy loved you with her whole heart and soul. Yes, I think she would want you to go on with your life, to care for other people, even someone your dad cares for.”

  “You think Dad still loves Mommy?”

  “I do. I’m sure he’ll love and remember her all his life.

  But just like all of us do, you, me, Grandpa, he needs people he can touch and talk to, don’t you think?”

  Tyler turned a tear-stained, smiling face to Grace. “You think I can wish Emily back?”

  “I most certainly do.” She looked down at his hand. “See, there’s an eyelash of yours. You can start right now.”

  Tyler lowered the window, lifted his hand, and blew hard. The lash disappeared into the air. “I did it.”

  Grace laughed lightly. “Another five or six wishes and you’ll have wished Emily right back into yours and your dad’s life.”

  Grace would have been proud of Tyler had she been at their home that evening when the phone rang. Russell dashed to get it, and Tyler watched his face change, soften, his eyes glow. Russell took the portable and walked from the room.

  Emily, Tyler thought. He followed his dad into the kitchen. “Is it Emily, Dad?”

  Russell glared at Tyler, then he nodded and his look softened a bit.

  “Dad, please, can I talk to her?”

  Russell placed his hand over the mouthpiece. “Why?”

  “I want to tell her I’m sorry.”

  Russell stared at him, and slowly he lowered his hand and said to Emily, “Tyler wants to speak to you.” Handing Tyler the portable, Russell sat heavily in a chair he pulled from the table.

  “Hi, Emily,” Tyler said. “How you doing?” He looked anxiously at his father and wished he had talked to Granny Grace about this. She would have told him exactly what to say, and they could have put it on a piece of paper. “I’m fine. School’s good.”

  “I thought you were going to apologize,” Russell whispered.

  Tyler covered the phone with his hand. “I am, Dad. I am. I’m looking for the right words.” Then he spoke into the phone. “Emily, I’d like it if you came home.” She must have asked what home he meant, for he replied, “This one, here, with us.”

  Then Tyler handed his father the phone and dashed
from the room.

  25

  Mike’s Consternation

  Hannah had been engrossed in transplanting in the greenhouse, and she did not see Mike’s car parked behind Grace’s in their drive until she decided she’d had enough on her feet for one day and came into the kitchen. Grace sat at the kitchen table. Mike was there and he paced, every now and then stopping to right a can of beans or corn that had spilled from a tipped-over brown paper bag on the counter near the sink. Hannah had the feeling he had helped Grace carry in the groceries and was somehow responsible for the tipped bag. For a few moments, Hannah stood in the doorway looking from one of them to the other, unnoticed by both.

  “We were fine for two days,” Mike said. “Amelia actually shot film. She seemed happy, too.” From a plate on the table Mike took a cookie, then rounded the table to the sink and filled a glass with water. After taking a sip he set the glass on the counter so hard some of the water spilled, wetting the paper bag. He grabbed a paper towel to blot up the spill. “When one person consumes another person’s life so they have no time for themselves, or old friends, or other interests, or work, it cannot be healthy.”

  “No,” said Hannah, walking into the room, “it’s not healthy.”

  “Hannah, how are you?” He turned to her. “You understand what I’m saying? Amelia’s so talented. I feel so frustrated and helpless.”

  Hannah strode over to him and grasped his shoulders firmly. “Mike. Come. Take a seat.” She maneuvered him to a chair. “We all dislike this Lance, but he’s not doing this alone. Amelia makes choices. She goes along.”