The Gardens of Covington

by Joan A. Medlicott

  The next time she and Grace would see Bella would be at her funeral in the little church on Cove Road, with Arabella Maxwell laid out on blue satin in a burnished copper coffin, as pale and sweet-faced as in life.

  The church was less than half full. Hannah recognized several of the Herrill boys sitting close about Zachary, and their parents, Charlie and Velma. Jose and Anna and several other Spanish-looking people sat in the row behind Zachary. The Lunds and Tates were there, and a dozen other people that neither she nor Grace recognized. Hannah’s soul pinched with regret for not having known Bella sooner. Silently, tears inched along the ridges of Hannah’s face. Next to her, Grace wept.

  George Maxwell gave the eulogy for his wife. He stood tall in a dark gray suit and tie and quoted from, he said, Madame De Stael: “We understand death for the first time when he puts his hand upon one whom we love.” He spoke of Bella’s gentleness, told how she had abandoned a budding career in art to marry him, praised her devotion to himself and their son, spoke of the gardens she tended, the poetry she wrote. “She was an introvert,” he said, almost apologetically.

  Pastor Johnson spoke and assured the assembled that Arabella Maxwell rested in God’s bosom and would be waiting for her husband and son in heaven.

  Later, in the subdued gathering in the church hall, Maxwell approached Hannah. “Thanks for comin’, Hannah Parrish. Bella never stopped talkin’ about you. Liked you right well.”

  “I, too, liked her a great deal.” Hannah had to know. “Mr. Maxwell, I must ask, what did she pass away from?”

  “Max, my friends call me Max.”

  Hannah nodded.

  “Damn doctors never made a clear diagnosis, looked like Parkinson’s but wasn’t. Some rare, incurable thing I can’t pronounce. A long ailin’, then downhill fast.” His voice trembled.

  “I’m so very sorry.” A red-faced, swollen-eyed Zachary approached them. Maxwell put his arm about his son. Someone else stopped to talk to them. Hannah slipped her arm through Grace’s, and they stepped into the cold December day and turned away from home and north toward Anson’s land.

  Two surveyors’ vehicles were parked in the driveway of the derelict farmhouse. Rust had clearly established itself as the major color on the old tin roof. Hannah imagined it bathed in golden light, the way it looked in Bella’s painting. Silently, the women studied the horseshoe of rolling land rising to rounded hills, then to higher mountains. Hannah thought of a baseball stadium, rows of seats, up and up and up, and the seats became houses and condos. Her throat constricted. Grace tugged at her arm. “We’d best be going.”

  Two men stepped from the farmhouse and headed for one of the vans. Jake Anson, a bulky jacket held snug to his chest, grinned and waved at the men from his front steps. Ignoring the women, he went inside and slammed the door behind him.

  Grace fidgeted. Hannah surveyed the outbuildings: a tobacco barn, an old kiln half covered with vines yet identifiable by stone walls and chimney and small vents just above ground level. Hannah saw the smokehouse Harold had described to her. It was falling to one side. Harold had also said that Anson’s grandpa used to operate a water-powered sawmill back up the valley behind the house, but Anson was too lazy to keep it or anything else up. Hannah felt a small thrill of hope remembering that She would ask Wayne to try to find it. But would it meet the criterion of being of historical value? and who would determine that?

  Burdened with sadness, Hannah walked home alongside Grace. The biologist had finally called her back, but he would not come. Had he taken her for a babbling old fool? Bureaucrats from one office had merely referred her to bureaucrats in other offices, in and out of the state. They had their priorities—wetlands, barrier islands, a tiny endangered, unheard of reptile in a forest in Avery County—to preserve. Grace met someone at the tearoom who suggested that Hannah contact a philanthropic organization, the George Aracson Foundation. Hannah wrote them, but they were not interested.

  Grace tried to comfort her. “Don’t give up, Hannah. Something will happen.” But Hannah was becoming discouraged.

  “This is nice, the three of us,” Amelia said.

  Outside, rain spattered from the roof onto the edges of the porch. Battleship gray clouds shrouded the mountains. It had been weeks since they sat together, unhurried and relaxed, and a week since Bella’s funeral. How ironic that this dreary day, Hannah thought, could be pleasant, actually, with the three of us together for a change.

  Amelia sorted pictures. Grace bent over accumulated items that needed mending. Hannah tried to concentrate on a novel. But the memory of Bella haunted her. The funeral, Max’s eulogy, confirmed for her that Bella, involved in her own private projects, had been a shy loner, not hostile to the community. What was it Voltaire said? “The happiest of all lives is a busy solitude.” Was it, really? In her brief encounter with Bella Maxwell, Hannah sensed within her a yearning for companionship.

  “I’m sorry you didn’t have a chance to meet Bella, Amelia,” she said.

  “I was always going to go over there tomorrow.”

  “And tomorrow never came.”

  “I’m glad we’re alone today,” Amelia said, changing the subject. “I’ve missed our times together.”

  Grace pulled thread from a spool and held the needle to the light to rethread it. She jumped as a clap of thunder sounded close by. The thread slipped past the needle, missing the opening. She lowered the needle and thread into her lap.

  Hannah said, “I remember a song about thunder Miranda used to sing to the boys when they were little. How did that go?” She tapped her forehead. “Come on, mind, remember. Oh, yes. ‘Who’s afraid of thunder? Thunder’s just a lot of noise.’ ” She stopped.

  “What’s the rest of it?” Grace asked.

  “I don’t remember.”

  “Lightning scares me. I can handle thunder, usually,” Amelia said, as she straightened the box of photographs on her lap.

  “Where’s Lance?” Grace asked.

  Amelia’s eyes clouded. “Gone again, twice this month. He never says where.”

  Hannah folded a flap of the cover into the book to mark her place and set it on the table. “Have you asked him?”

  There was a long pause, so long that Hannah reached for her book, and Grace lifted her needle. This time the thread slipped through its eye.

  “Of course I ask him, or used to. I’ve learned not to probe.”

  “That would annoy the hell out of me.” Hannah closed her book with a slam.

  “You think it doesn’t bother me?” Amelia tossed her head. “Well, at least with Lance away, I can spend time with Mike.”

  Hannah wanted to scream, Can’t you see Lance for what he is? A liar, deceptive, secretive, controlling? Instead, she clamped her lips tight and silently blessed Grace for changing the subject.

  “You’re never going to believe this,” Grace said.

  “What? Want us to guess?” Amelia leaned forward. Guessing had become a game with them. Their guesses were invariably off the mark, but they laughed.

  “You’ll never guess.”

  “Oh, let’s try,” Amelia pressed.

  “All right,” Grace said. “You go first.”

  Amelia rubbed her hands together. “They’re opening a four-star restaurant and a massage parlor in the shopping strip on Elk Road.”

  Grace shook her head. No matter how silly the guesses, she loved the game. When Amelia had suggested such a game several months ago, she had considered it foolish, but it was fun and made them laugh. Today, however, it wasn’t a game Hannah wanted to play. Nevertheless, she sighed and went along. “All the schoolkids in Mrs. Bennet’s first-grade class came for tea at the tearoom.”

  “No, silly,” Grace replied laughing. “But they’d be more fun than some of the people who do come in.”

  “So, tell us,” Amelia urged. Like Miss Muffet on her tuffet, Amelia sat on the hassock, her hands dangling loosely over the edge of the box of photographs.

  Grace slipped the needl
e into a lapel of the pajama top bundled in her lap. Her eyes twinkled. They would be speechless when she told them.

  “That call I took earlier. It was Lurina. She and Old Man have decided to get married.”

  “No,” Hannah said. “Impossible.” The book fell from her lap. “Old Lurina and Old Man. Scamp Wayne’s said not a word.”

  “Lurina and Old Man haven’t told anyone but me, not even Wayne. They’re concerned about family interference. Old Man’s telling him tonight, Lurina said, so she felt she could tell me.” She laughed lightly. “I’m to be her matron of honor. She wants to be married in a ‘right proper white wedding dress,’ and I’m to help her find it.”

  “Eighty-one and she wants to be married in white?” Amelia snickered.

  “First time for her. Virgin bride,” Grace replied.

  “No,” Hannah said.

  “Bet one of those magazine shows would like to get their hands on that story.” Amelia waved her hand across an imaginary marquee. “Ninety-one-year-old mountain man takes eighty-one-year-old virgin bride.” Throwing back her head, Amelia laughed. The box on her lap bounced, sending photos spilling onto the carpet.

  “Not funny. Don’t you go calling one of those shows,” Hannah said.

  Amelia shrugged. “Just an idea.”

  “All we need’s a gaggle of reporters and cameras all over Covington.”

  “The publicity might help with Anson’s place.” Amelia raised her eyebrows.

  Grace leaned toward Hannah. “Amelia may have a point. What if we could convince them to include something about the Cove Road Preserve Coalition? Maybe a conservationist-minded philanthropist would see it, and bingo.” She snapped her fingers. “Land saved.”

  “A pipe dream.” But for a moment such a prospect set Hannah’s heart skittering.

  “I’m chilly.” Grace got up, knelt before the hearth, and turned a knob. The gas fire leaped between fixed logs. Grace missed the crackle of a wood-burning fireplace, but not the mess of ashes or creosote in the flue.

  “Good,” Hannah said. “I don’t even realize this old house is chilling until I find myself rubbing my arms.”

  Amelia asked, “What interference are Lurina and Old Man concerned with?”

  “Jealousies maybe, or inheritance. She wasn’t specific. I imagine in time I’ll hear, whatever it is.”

  “Marriage. At their ages. Imagine.” Amelia laughed. “Why not just move in together?”

  “Not proper. Their heads are in the 1940s, when decent people didn’t do that,” Grace said.

  “When’s this wedding going to happen?” Hannah asked. “And where?”

  “Cove Road Church, of course. July. Lurina says she must be married in summer. Says she’s not wearing a satin wedding gown out in the cold.”

  Hannah interrupted, “Do you realize Christmas is two weeks away? Where’s our tree, Grace?”

  “The Richardsons will bring one fresh off a farm over by Little Switzerland this weekend.”

  “Good.” Hannah cleared her throat. “Jose and Anna are going to Ecuador for the holidays. I want to ask George Maxwell for Christmas dinner, and Zachary of course, if he’s back.”

  “Where is he?” Grace asked.

  “On some kind of an Outward Bound program he’d signed up for months before his mother died. His father urged him to go, thought it would be good for him.”

  “How thoughtful of you,” Amelia said. “And you hardly know Maxwell. He gave me a ride home that dreadful night of the accident with Lance. Maybe / should ask him.”

  “I know Maxwell enough to invite him,” Hannah said sharply.

  “Well.” Amelia’s eyebrows shot up. “Okay with me. I’ve asked Lance, if he’s here, and Mike, of course, and Grace has Bob and family. Looks like we’ll all have dates.” Amelia’s laugh sounded false.

  Hannah wanted to choke her. “Max is a neighbor who’s just lost his wife, not a date.”

  Grace raised her hand. “Let’s count heads, see if we need another table? With Emily, Lance, and Maxwell, that’s ten. We’ll be fine with two leaves added.”

  The phone rang. Amelia scrambled from the hassock. More photos landed on the carpet. She picked up the phone. “Oh, bonjour, Russell, how are you? Fine, just fine, thanks. Hold on.” She handed Grace the phone. “Russell.”

  “Hi,” Grace said. As Russell talked, Grace’s face grew brighter. “Oh, I’m so happy for you, Russell. I’m so pleased with Tyler. Hug him for me. Tell him I’m terribly proud of him. When’s Emily coming? Maybe we can all go to IHOP together.” When she hung up, she said, “Looks like we’re going to have another wedding. Tyler’s come around, at last. He asked Emily to come back.”

  “So,” Hannah said, “Tyler changed his mind. Must have been hard for him, he was so adamant.”

  “I think he actually got to like Emily, but couldn’t extricate himself from his position. Thanks to you, Hannah, for bringing the issue to a head, getting everyone to talk. I’m sure Tyler’s change of heart started there, so we’ll have Emily for Christmas too.”

  28

  Tyler as Hero

  Russell and Tyler leaned against the glass pane of the waiting area. Their eyes followed Emily’s plane as it turned and slowly made its way back to the terminal.

  It seemed a long wait, but then Emily came toward them, her arms opened wide, and Russell rushed to embrace her. Tyler hung back. Then Emily was on her knees beside the boy. “Tyler, I’m so glad to see you.”

  She hesitated, then hugged him. He returned her hug, then, suddenly, shy, hung back while they identified Emily’s bags, three big ones, and stowed them in the car, and then they went to the cafeteria near the airport. Tyler was so nervous he selected only Jell-O and mashed potatoes.

  “That’s no supper, Tyler,” Emily said.

  For a moment Tyler was sorry she had come back. Now he’d have someone else telling him what to do, but she was looking at him with such warmth that his heart melted. She was kind, and she was pretty, not as pretty as his mom, but he could see why his father liked her so much. Tyler added cake to his tray, and she did not make a fuss. Good!

  The next morning, Emily took Tyler Christmas shopping. “Help me find the perfect gift for your dad, your grandpa. . . .”

  “And Granny Grace.”

  “Of course, Granny Grace, and I think it would be nice to get something for Miss Hannah.”

  “The best present for Aunt Hannah is computer paper, lots of it. You never saw anyone use so much paper.” He rolled his eyes. “She’s always making mistakes and printing things over and over.”

  Ten days before Christmas the mall was manic, bristling with teenagers dashing about in groups, worried-looking adults rushing by, their arms loaded with packages and trying to avoid the teenagers. It took them four hours, but in the end they got everything. They picked up a screen saver for Russell’s computer, one of those things he talked about getting and never did, and cashmere sweaters for Bob, and Russell, and Tyler, all in the same red color. “You’ll look like triplets,” Emily said.

  “A sweater for Granny Grace in blue, and one for you too, in blue. You look nice in blue.” Tyler held out a roll of bills his grandpa had given him for this purpose.

  “Get those two ladies of ours something real special,” Grandpa had said.

  Of course gifts had to be bought for Emily’s parents, and something for the house, and for the ladies’ house, and they were loaded with packages when they wearily wended their way back to the car.

  The lot was crowded. Dad’s Toyota, which Emily had borrowed, looked like every other white car, and they wandered a bit until Tyler recognized it by the bumper sticker, I HAVE A GREAT KID AT CASTER ELEMENTARY SCHOOL, and he ran toward it. Tyler had just reached the car when he heard Emily scream. He turned and froze. A man wearing a black wool cap pulled low on his face was yanking at Emily’s purse.

  When Emily tried to fight him off, her packages flew helter-skelter. “No,” she screamed, then, “help me.” Emily fell t
o the ground, and the thief grasping her purse began to run in Tyler’s direction toward a van with dark windows and its motor going.

  Emily lay crumpled on the ground, and Tyler was certain that the man had killed her. Pain sliced his heart. The thief ran past him, and as he did, something snapped in Tyler. The dark van pulled close, and when the man opened its door, Tyler lunged, grabbed the man’s leg, and sunk his teeth into his calf.

  The man yelled in pain and kicked at Tyler with his other leg. Tyler fell back, clutching his stomach, and passed out. Tyler did not see the van pull away, nor the van and the thief being apprehended by the police.

  When he opened his eyes, Emily was bending over him, holding him, calling him, and crying. They had died, both of them, he thought, and gone to heaven, but then Tyler saw policemen pressing back people, who seemed to be leaning toward them. Some of the people were crying, others looked stunned, and when Tyler attempted to sit up, he fell back holding his ribs and they cheered, and he heard people say, “Brave little fellow” and “Slowed them down so the cops could get them.”

  Tyler clung to Emily, and hid his face in her shoulder. All he wanted was to go home and be with his father.

  Grace wept when Bob phoned to tell her what had happened outside the mall.

  “Don’t cry,” Bob said. “Our little hero’s couple of broken ribs will heal fast.” There was pride in Bob’s voice; Grace felt only concern for Tyler. “Little fellow slowed the bastard down, so the cops could get him.”

  Grace imagined the scene, and how Tyler must have felt, and that awful man kicking her baby. She wanted to go to the jail and wring the man’s neck, or as Hannah would say, “Kick him good, you know where.”