The Gardens of Covington

by Joan A. Medlicott

  Amelia sought to mark the spot in her mind, some fallen tree, or bent branch, something she would recognize and be able to lead her friends back to, in June, when the rhododendrons exploded into flower.

  Nothing seemed familiar. Was she lost in her own woods? Through the trees, the angle of the sun glittered on the metal roof of their farmhouse. She was further north from where she, or she and Hannah and Grace, usually walked.

  A fallen tree trunk offered Amelia a place to sit, and in a little while, her breathing slowed, and she relaxed. The woods, in this place, were mainly pine. Perky gray squirrels leaped from one stiff, needled branch to another. Ants marched along the rough, scaly bark of a tree, toting bits of white. Somewhere a bird chirped. In the highest canopy, sunlight engaged pine needles in a shimmering dance.

  Closing her eyes, Amelia listened: a snap of twigs in the underbrush, birdsong, soughing wind. A lightness came over her, and then a sense that she was floating. The farmhouse came into full view now, and the tops of trees, acres of them, and Cove Road all around to the top of Snowman’s Cap. Harold Tate’s truck drove slowly along the road. Maxwell, hands shoved into deep pockets, stood talking to Jose outside his red barn. Amelia waved. He looked up, but apparently did not see her. A horse and its colt stood near a fence. The horse lifted its head and snorted. Its long tawny mane fluttered in the breeze. How enchanting it was to drift like this over her world. Drift? The thought stunned her. Amelia opened her eyes. Her feet were firmly planted on dry pine needles. The breeze had diminished. It was so still that she heard, not only her breath, in and out, in and out, but her own heartbeat. Overwhelmed, yet oddly serene, Amelia sat silent for a long, long time remembering the time in Pisgah Forest, when she thought she was going to die, and she had floated briefly over her prone body. At the time, she had confided in Mike, who told her it sounded to him like an OBE.

  “What’s that?” she’d asked.

  “An out-of-body experience.” He had explained to her that this was not such an uncommon phenomenon. “There’s a man, Robert Monroe, in Virginia who has a center where he teaches people how to go out of body.”

  “Who would want to learn that?” she’d asked.

  “You know Dr. Elisabeth Kubler-Ross, who wrote On Death and Dying?”

  “Yes. Someone gave it to me after Thomas died, but I couldn’t bear to read it.”

  “Well, Dr. Kubler-Ross went there to learn. She thought it would be wonderful for paraplegics and bedridden people to be able to leave their bodies, get out a bit, you know.”

  It seemed a joke, then. Now, she wasn’t so sure, having enjoyed the sensation of weightlessness, and the wider perspective it offered.

  For a time, Amelia kept secret her OBE. It seemed sacred, special. If she told Hannah, Hannah would listen and say nothing, but she knew that Hannah was contemptuous of other worldly matters. Grace would be open-minded, but cautious. But as the days passed and she hashed it over and over in her mind, it was too much for Amelia to suppress. She phoned Mike, met him for lunch in Weaverville, and told him about her rather marvelous experience. But before she did, Amelia apologized for her behavior during the Lance time. “I’m truly sorry for treating you as I did. An apology hardly seems enough. Can you ever forgive me, Mike? I am so sorry.”

  “Way I see it,” he replied, “you were temporarily out of your mind.” He took her hands. “Of course I forgive you. I’m just glad it’s over. You’re going to be fine.”

  She lifted his hand to her lips and kissed it. “My dear, dear friend. I do love you.” Then she told him about floating over Cove Road.

  “Incredible,” he said, looking at her with wide and admiring eyes. “That’s twice. You’re lucky. I’ve always wanted to go out of body. Never have, though.”

  They talked a bit about Robert Monroe’s place in Virginia, and Amelia decided she’d take out-of-body experiences as they came, and not go seeking them. She didn’t know why, but the experience changed her perspective about Lance and their relationship. The awful pain in her heart on awakening each morning diminished day by day. The knot in her stomach loosened, and she could eat, wanted to eat again. She felt peaceful more often, even if only for a minute, and with every passing day, Amelia grew more certain that her life was larger and wider then she had ever imagined.

  Once again, Amelia became engrossed in photography, this time focusing on Madison County. She photographed an old man, nearly ninety, fiddling and singing ballads brought by ancestors from Scotland and Ireland. She photographed towns: Hot Springs deep in the valley along the French Broad River, once the mecca of the rich, and now making a comeback with new upgraded hot spring baths. Mars Hill, home to Mars Hill College, absorbed many hours, and she shot ten rolls of film there. But she spent the most time in Marshall, the county seat. The town had a long and picturesque history, and seemed stuck in time, wedged as it was between steep cliffs and the French Broad River. A school was built on an island in the river, and she attended picnics and other events at a park near the school.

  Amelia also wandered the countryside, where she photographed wood cabins tucked into thickets or perched on slopes. The holes in her Nikes widened as she scrambled down gravel-strewn hillsides to caves reputed to hold treasure, and she cooled her feet in creeks with names like Spillcorn, Shut-In, and Crooked Branch. Amelia thrilled to the sight of hawks soaring from four-thousand-foot peaks, and remembered her OBE. Would it ever happen again? she wondered, and hoped it would.

  At first, still recovering from Lance, she pushed herself, and her work began to consume her thoughts and her time. Sunburned, blistered, and peeling, she began to relish every minute spent photographing. From Such a County would be the name of her second book of photographs. She liked the way it sounded. She had taken the words from a delightful and informative book borrowed from the library titled The Kingdom of Madison, by Manly Wade Wellman. And healing came. Lance and his hold on her, once gargantuan, diminished, until it devolved into a blip rather than a blurring smear on the screen of her life.

  43

  When the Unexpected Happens

  No sooner was the tearoom offered for sale than three buyers materialized, two of them residents of Loring Valley, one from out of state. The bidding was on. An excited realtor called in a new figure every day. Although their bid was several thousand dollars lower than the highest, Bob and Grace decided to sell to Mary and Jim Amsterdam, new residents of Loring Valley. Grace liked the woman’s eyes. “Honest eyes, a good face,” she declared.

  Bob laughed. “Hardly a reason to sell to someone.”

  But the Amsterdams’ credit proved sound, and once the papers were signed and the closing date set for May 29, Bob surprised Grace with tickets to Ragtime, onstage in Charlotte, a two-hour drive down the mountain.

  After hours of anguished discussions with Grace and Amelia, who both refused to advise her, Hannah stopped pursuing the business of dating the old cemetery Wayne had found on Jake Anson’s land. It was just as well, for the next day Harold dropped by to talk about the possum, to warn Hannah that if she didn’t get it out, it might have babies in her wall.

  “And then there’ll be more noise. The smell’ll drive you out if any of them die in there,” he said. Harold urged her to call animal protection, and have them come and set traps. Finally she agreed. He lingered, working the rim of his hat round and round in his hands. “Hannah, Brenda and I like you ladies right much. I’m not one to interfere, but you best hear me now. Heaven and hell workin’ together aren’t gonna stop Anson sellin’. Once he makes his mind to something, no stoppin’ him.” He hesitated, took a few short steps back from her. “Bracken and Woodward got a bad name after what happened in Loring Valley this winter. They’re pullin’ out. Deal’s off for now.”

  Hannah’s eyes lit up.

  “Hold it,” Harold said, “don’t go gettin’ all excited. Anson’s gonna sell, just a matter of when and to whom.”

  Hannah’s spirits sank. Still, it bought time. With Bracken and Woodward p
ulling out, maybe there would be no buyer for years and years. She felt better, and for the next few days Hannah hit the plant nurseries and returned with flats and more flats of annuals, and perennials. It felt good to plunge into something over which she had control.

  Then Charles called to talk to her.

  “We want to create an entry into the space where we’ll have the reception. What would you say’s the distance between the big oak and the end of the porch?”

  “Fifteen, twenty feet.”

  “Could you get Wayne to build an arbor between the two? If it’s too wide a span, could you set a post in the center? After the posts are up, cover the ends with lattice, also across the top.”

  “I imagine we could do that.”

  She heard the smack of a kiss on the phone. “Hannah. You’re a darling. I knew we could count on you.”

  So Wayne, with a helper, set about to build the arbor, eight feet and a post and another eight feet wide and post but not to the porch, only to the end of her flower bed beside the porch. And then she helped Wayne and his helper paint the latticework white.

  It came as a surprise when George Maxwell strolled over one afternoon while Hannah was on her knees at work on her new perennial bed. She didn’t hear him, and it was not until he stooped and tapped her on the back that she was aware of his presence.

  “You lose yourself in gardenin’, don’t you?” he asked. “Same as Bella. I could talk to her, and she’d shake her head, and never know what I’d said.”

  Squatting beside Hannah, Max punched out the small plants from the flat and handed them to her. Taking them, she set them into the earth. They worked like this for a time, in silence, until the flat was empty. Hannah looked up at him as if surprised to see him.

  “I know that look.” Max laughed. “Seen it a hundred times on Bella’s face.”

  “Thanks for the help,” she said. She smiled then, and for a few minutes they sat on the grass saying nothing before Hannah was suddenly aware of the wet patches on her knees, the straggles of hair in her eyes, and the perspiration glistening on her face.

  “A pleasure. Reminds me of old times with my Bella.” He sighed and his dark eyes, usually serious, twinkled. “I’ve good news, Hannah. But first, let me help you up.” He offered her hand. She accepted his help. “Here, let’s sit on the steps over there.”

  Tall as she was, he was a good seven inches taller, and they sat on the same step and looked across at his house and windmill across the way. “Bella loved the land, like you do, Hannah. She considered Jake Anson a coarse, ignorant man, and when she heard about his sellin’ out she was so upset I had to call the doctor, I was so frightened for her. One of the things she said to me in those last days was, ‘Don’t let Anson destroy this valley, Max.’ ”

  “What are you saying?” Hannah managed. Their eyes met and held a moment. His closeness, the very smell of him disturbed her. He was Bella’s husband. She shifted away from him.

  “Bella inherited money which we never used, never had to. It doubled and more than tripled these last few years. Bella wanted the money used for educational purposes. Knowing how she felt about Anson and that land, I decided to do something about it.”

  Hannah gasped. Her hand flew to her mouth. Inside her chest her heart began to race.

  “So, I hired a consultant, a park designer from Atlanta. I brought him on here. Anson chased us off a time or two with that old shotgun of his. But that was when he thought he had a deal with those developers. When that fell through, he changed his tune darn quick. “Hank Baines, that’s the fellow’s name, and I tromped that land up and down, and he came up with a plan that I feel would please Bella.”

  The fingers of Hannah’s right hand clutched the post of the steps. Max had hired a man who designed parks. It made sense; it made no sense.

  Max took a deep breath and continued. “Hank Baines came up with a plan I think you’ll like. If you like it, I know Bella’d like it. We’ll turn part of it into livin’ history museums goin’ back to the time when the Indians lived here, how they hunted, lived, used, and preserved the land. Then we’ll move on to white settlers, and how they lived, tools, furnishin’s, how they used, and abused, the land, from simple farmin’ to ruthless tree cuttin’. Your cemetery’ll be preserved as part of that, and we’ll put in a miniature dairy farm, with calves that kids can pet, and cows, and a milkin’ barn. Like it so far, Hannah?” He grinned.

  His smile warmed his face and warmed her heart. She could hardly believe this was true. She had let it go, given up, accepted defeat, and now this. “I like it a lot, Max.”

  “You’re gonna like this next part even more. What do you think about gardens where children could come to learn about gardenin’, and soil, and conservation? Every schoolkid in Madison County, and Buncombe County too, could come. And whatever other kinds of gardens you want to have.” He drew himself up, squared his shoulders, and his dark eyes looked deep into Hannah’s blue eyes. “And Bella and me, we’d like you, Hannah Parrish, to be the director of gardens, or whatever name suits you, of that section of this park, with a salary, of course, ma’am. What do you say, Hannah?”

  Hannah could hardly take a breath. Her mind zoomed from Indian tents to log cabins to a sawmill to rows of green beans tied to poles in a children’s garden. “What about traffic and crowds coming to the park?”

  He shook his head. “Hank’s got parkin’ lots hidden behind screens of trees. Gotta give a little, Hannah, to get a lot.”

  She nodded. He was right of course. Her spirit soared. Never, ever, in her entire life, no one had ever given her a more precious gift. How could she thank Max? Her eyes brimmed as she said, “It’s an honor for me to be part of such a wonderful and exciting new venture. Thank you.” Her hands clasped over his. “Thank you.”

  “A deal, then. More details later.” Putting his arm about her shoulder, Max gave her a quick squeeze, rose, and strode across their lawn, across Cove Road, and up his driveway until he disappeared into his and Bella’s house.

  Hannah sat for a long time. Tears dried on her cheeks. Almost a stranger, George Maxwell, yet he and even Bella, in death, had performed a miracle.

  For days after her talk with Max, Hannah’s head spun as she fashioned a series of walled gardens: a children’s garden, an herb garden, a water garden, a Japanese garden, an English cottage garden, a shade garden, and on and on. She planned and dreamed as she helped paint the wedding-reception trellis that Wayne and his helper built, and while she worked on her own summer garden, amending soil with peat moss, manure, perlite. Her brain buzzed with ideas as she set out the small plants: petunias, verbenas, coneflowers, veronicas, coreopsis, columbines. She imagined children planting and later harvesting the seeds of sunflowers. As she lay out her English garden of mixed annuals and perennials, she visualized children picking the green beans they had planted from inside a wooden frame on which the beans grew. She saw a maze through a small patch of corn, and saw them pressing, drying, arranging flowers grown by their own hands.

  Hannah shared the news with Miranda on the phone. “Most amazing thing’s happened. Land on Cove Road soon to become a living history museum, plus a series of different gardens, including a children’s garden, that I am to be in charge of.” She ran off the list of gardens she planned.

  “Why, it sounds like you’ll be creating wonderful gardens in Covington. I’m thrilled for you, Mother.”

  44

  Roger and Charles Plan a Reception

  On May 17, Roger and Charles arrived exhausted. They slept until noon the following day and came down to the kitchen bubbling with talk of Miranda, and the business, and Philip, who worked at the shop every holiday and loved the business, which delighted Hannah. They talked about Branston, how it was growing, the new developments, how builders were tearing down older homes to build huge new homes, mega-malls, and soon a civic center. “If we keep growing like this, we’ll soon be a suburb of Philadelphia,” Roger said. It was clear by his voice and the way h
is eyes flashed that Roger considered this a great idea.

  After lunch, Charles, Roger, Grace, and Hannah walked about the land.

  “You’ve done a great job building and painting this arbor. It’s going to be absolutely gorgeous when we get the vines and roses on it,” Charles said. They rounded a corner of the house. “We’ll set up tents alongside the stream, and tables. Won’t that be nice? Feasting to the sound of a babbling brook.”

  “Definitely an evening reception, for the lights,” Roger said, “hundreds of tiny lights in the trees.”

  “Just back here, or will you also decorate the great oak in front?” Grace asked.

  “The great oak?” Roger turned to look at it. He stood with his hand on his chin for a minute, then asked, “What do you think Charles?”

  “I think it merits decorating.” They walked back to the oak and circled about it. “It’s definitely a great oak,” Charles said. “You know.” He took Grace’s arm, and they walked for a while together. “Sometimes simple is best. Lights, and more lights, and white tablecloths, and china, and bold dashes of color in the flowers.” He stopped and considered the east wall of the house. Would you let us paint those yellow shutters the color of the flowers we’ll use? The yellow adds such a jarring note.”

  Grace looked over at Hannah. “Why not? We’ll run it by Amelia. If it’s okay with her, it’s okay with us.”

  “We’ll repaint them yellow later if you want,” Charles said. “I’d also like to run tubs of pink peonies along the bottom of the wall. That okay?”

  “Surely.”

  “How many people will there be?” Roger asked.

  “The guest list keeps growing,” Grace replied. “Ginger insisted on sending invitations to all the people who live in the villas. Fourteen of them said yes, even though they don’t even know the Hammers.”