by Grace Greene
Victoria stepped down from the stool. She came over to me and put her hands on my arms. “You can do this, Kara. I have no doubt whatsoever. And you don’t need to wait until spring. Get your feet wet first with day activities. Work your way into it and build your expertise with each experience.”
I must’ve opened and closed my mouth a dozen times before finally giving the words voice. “I swore I wouldn’t whine. Wouldn’t give in to fear. But what if no one wants to come here? No one.” I looked away, embarrassed.
“You are mistaken about that, I promise you. For now don’t panic; just be you, Kara. It will be wonderful.” She grabbed my hand and pulled me out of the kitchen and down the hallway. At the foyer table she released my hand and opened the drawer. She looked at me with a question. “Where’s the picture? Where are the women?”
“In the middle room. Sorry, I mean the project room.”
“What room is that?”
I took a deep breath. “Come with me.”
We stopped just past the grand staircase.
“I never noticed this door before, Kara.”
I opened it, as I had with Nicole, and invited her in. “This is where I work on the business stuff. The business plan, project plan, and all that.”
Victoria entered. She bypassed the stacks of papers and the computer on the table and even ignored the framed photo that was still atop the bookcase. She stopped directly in front of the large white paper taped to the wall.
“What is this?”
“A map. A fun map. You know, just something for marketing, maybe. I’ll have a professional do the final, polished version and get it printed properly.”
She leaned into it, closely examining the nooks, the special spots like the picnic area and the carriage house. I was pretty sure she didn’t miss anything on that paper.
“Did you draw this?”
“I did. It’s rough.”
Victoria laughed. It didn’t resemble Nicole’s sedate chuckle in the least. She laughed so loudly that I wanted to muffle her somehow, but she did it herself, putting her hands over her mouth. When she removed them, she whispered, “Now I get it.”
“Whoa. Wait.” This was too much like Nicole’s reaction but magnified.
“No, seriously,” Victoria said. “I wondered why you were doing this whole creative retreat thing.”
“Apparently everyone was.”
“Hold on, Kara. Just listen. I love the idea. I’d do this”—she waved her hands to encompass the house—“this retreat thing myself if I had the opportunity. But that didn’t explain why you were.”
“What?” My reliable default, cynicism, came forth to protect me. “Please don’t go on about the artist thing. That’s what Nicole said, but frankly, I’m drawing a map. That’s all it is. It’s helped me get the business details worked out.”
Victoria snorted. “Sorry. I’m trying not to laugh, so I’d appreciate it if you’d be a little less oblivious.”
I was angry now. “Oblivious? Me? I deal in reality.”
But Victoria ignored me. She said, “Nicole is right. You have talent. You are an artist.”
“It was never part of my life, Victoria. Never. An artist creates art. I never have.”
She pointed at the map. “Again, you’re missing the obvious. But let me say this: If you are an artist, then you are. The only choice you have is what you do with it.” She lowered her voice again, so low that I had to listen very carefully to hear what she said. “You, Kara Lange Hart, couldn’t settle for a paint by number or even a little happy doodling. You are building an entire retreat. You aren’t going somewhere to learn art. You are bringing the artists and creatives to you.” She stepped back and said in a more normal voice, “I was always impressed by your strength, your resilience, but I never realized you were building your own world.
“You are creating the world you want to live in. You’d darn well better use it to its fullest, or you’ll hear about it from me.” She picked up the picture of the women. “Look at them. Look at their faces. They’ve waited long enough.”
Abruptly, she exited the project room with the photograph in hand.
“It’s a picture. Just a picture,” I said to her retreating back, in a sudden rush of panic.
She stopped in front of the foyer table. “Hang it.”
“I will. I’ll get it taken care of.”
“Hang it now. And hang the samplers too.”
I waved my hands. “No, listen. I’m not procrastinating. I don’t have the right hardware. A nail isn’t enough. Not with these old walls.”
“I can hang it for you,” Will said. “I have the hardware.”
He had joined us in the foyer. I’d forgotten he was nearby. How much had he heard? Now I was trapped between Victoria on one side, holding the frame, and Will on the other, holding a hammer.
Accept help when it’s offered and available? That sounded like advice from Dad. Did he feel nearby this time, as he had when I’d tried to hang it before?
“Where do you want it?” Will asked.
I pointed to an area on the wall. “Hang it right there. I want the needlework frames to be on either side of it.” I pulled them out of the drawer.
“I’ve never seen these,” he said. His curiosity and question were implicit in his tone.
“I stitched them right after Dad died. I intended to hang them here with the photo, but I . . . I hadn’t gotten around to it.”
I shot a look at Victoria. She met my eyes and grinned.
“No time like the present,” Will said.
Victoria held the photo up against the wall. “How’s this?”
I touched her arm. “Just about perfect.”
“And when we’re done, I’m going upstairs and doing you a huge favor by packing away your dad’s stuff.”
It was a long, almost endless moment of silence. No one breathed. Not even Victoria. Finally, I spoke.
“I appreciate the offer. More than I can say. But it’s something I have to do for him myself.”
“I’ll do it with you. I’ll help you.”
“I’m not ready yet. I’ll let you know when I am.”
Victoria threw her arms around me in a quick, ferocious hug. I would’ve returned it, but she’d already backed off. I gave her a smile and took her hand in mine. I said, “Thank you.”
Will finished hanging the second needlework—the one that read,
Wildflower House
You are welcome to thrive here.
I felt overwhelmed. Tears stung my eyes again, and the tightness in my chest felt like a fist. If my commitment had been less than 100 percent before, it was now in full force.
The sharp grief I’d experienced in that second week after Dad’s death had apparently returned, piggybacking on the emotion of the moment. I pressed my hand to my chest, willing the crying not to start.
Victoria put an arm around me. “Are you okay?”
I nodded. “I’m fine.” But my words were broken, and I said, “Going for a walk.”
Victoria called after me, “Need any company?”
Will asked, “Are you okay, Kara?”
I waved them back, unable to speak.
I stood on the porch, clinging to the railing. This was my perch and my view of my kingdom. A tear slid down my cheek. The kingdom I was building? My world, per Victoria? I almost laughed and then choked on the tears. I let them roll, not in grief but in gratitude with a fillip of wistful nostalgia. The wildflowers were long gone. Will, with a tractor and a tiller, had plowed under the muddy chaos the hail had left behind. Most of that area was being restored to lawn, and grass was already growing, but Will had sectioned one area—the medallion—like pie slices around a central circle. A statue of some sort would occupy the middle, and evergreens like azaleas and rhododendron would fill in the interior sections. The outermost sections would be for wildflowers, not the invasive kind but the ones that had to be planted and tended. I’d thumbed through Victoria’s book and suggested swe
et alyssum and sweet william. Will had his own ideas. We had plenty of time, he said. He’d prepare the beds now, put in the azaleas, but wait until spring to get the flowers going.
What excellent good fortune had brought Will Mercer to my door? Another tear wet my cheek. And it had brought Victoria back. She’d been a blessing. And then there was Nicole. She’d gone out of her way to support me, to help me. A lot like an older sister might have done.
I pulled up the hem of my blouse and mopped at my eyes. I was midsniffle when the door opened behind me.
Will said, “Kara. I’m sorry to disturb you. Are you okay?”
We seemed to repeat this scene, and on this porch, regularly. He always showed up when I was in the grip of some emotional storm. I smiled through the teardrops on my lashes and turned to look at him. “Don’t mind me. I’m fine. And I appreciate your help, Will. I’m grateful.”
“Well, don’t speak too soon.”
No, I told myself. Don’t assume the good stuff is about to blow up and get messy. Don’t.
“Okay? What is it?”
“Someone’s here to see you.”
“Who? Should I be concerned?”
“No. Maybe yes.” He grimaced and shook his head. “It’s my mom’s cousin. I told my mom that I was building the bookcases. She must’ve mentioned it to her cousin. She’s here and wants to see . . . and she has something for you.”
“Has something for me? Who’s your cousin?” But in that moment, I already knew. “Not Sue Deale?”
He nodded.
I said, “She’s the heir. She inherited the house and the contents.” I pressed my hand to my cheek. “Oh, but you already know all that. Did you know she’s already brought other items like the piano and the dining room furniture back here?”
“Yeah, I know. Believe me. The whole family knows how unhappy her husband is about her hoarding ways. This is a little different, though. It’s not about furniture. She brought you something else.”
I couldn’t read Will’s expression or tone, but he seemed concerned. I asked, “What is it this time?”
He smiled with encouragement. “Come see for yourself.”
I dabbed at my lashes with the back of my hand. “I got all emotional. Do I look awful?”
“You look beautiful.”
My heart skipped a beat at the words, at the way he said them. For a moment the world came to a stop.
Victoria’s voice called from inside, “Kara? Come here, please.”
Will held the door open for me. I preceded him inside but waited for him to join me on the walk back up the hallway to the front of the house.
Victoria and Sue were chatting in the foyer, standing near the parlor door. There was disorder, but since Will was doing most of the messy work out front, it didn’t look too bad, and enough shelves were up that it was easy to see how gorgeous the effect of white on soft blue-gray walls was going to be.
Sue said, “Hey, there, Kara. How’re you doing?” She gave me a close look. “Your eyes are red and puffy. Are you having allergies?”
“No, I’m good. I’m fine.”
She made a noise but didn’t question my red eyes further. She pointed toward the parlor. “You need some color in that room.”
“What did you have in mind, Sue?”
“I’ve got touches of color for you. How about books on those shelves? Colorful bindings?” She shook her head. “Before you say no, take a look. These books would be perfect here. They’ll give you exactly the look you’re going for. Vivi told me all about it.”
Will said, “Vivi is my mom. Vivian.”
Sue took a quick step around me and stopped in front of the picture and needlework we’d just hung. “I knew I was exactly right about selling this house to your father and you. This parlor is perfect, Kara. Perfectly perfect.” She shook her head. “That paper in the parlor was nasty dirty, so I’m glad you yanked it out.”
She stopped in front of the sitting room fireplace. I’d put the first fire screen painting there and felt a small thrill as she stopped to admire it.
I said, “We have another that will go in the parlor.”
“Wonderful. Amazing.” She looked up and spied Will. She said, “I’ve seen these or something like them before, haven’t I?”
“Will’s sister paints them.”
Sue made a humming noise and shook her head. “Poor girl. How’s she doing, Will?”
He said, “She’s doing better.”
She moved on, pausing in the wide opening between the sitting room and the dining room. “You kept the dining room paper,” she exclaimed and clapped her hands in delight. “It looks so good!”
“Moore Blackwell did a masterful job of cleaning and repairing it.”
“I’ve always heard how talented he is with such things.” She added, “The paneling glows, and the fixtures sparkle. This house hasn’t looked this happy in a long time. Excellent work.” Then she caught a glimpse of the renovated kitchen, so we had to inspect the new cabinets, counter, and flooring. She oohed over the island and lighting fixtures and went positively ecstatic over the sliding barn doors that opened onto the pantry.
“Amazing. Just amazing. When your daddy wanted to buy this house, I knew it was fate. Small world and all that. He never knew the Forsters, of course. They lived here during the years he was off in Richmond.” She hardly paused to breathe. “My, my, but I never dreamed he could turn it into this. Oh, but that’s your touch, right? The Langes were never fancy people, and Henry, insofar as I knew him, was all business. This, though—this is beautiful. You have a gift, Kara. An eye for art.” She pressed her hands over her heart. “My cousin Mary would’ve adored this.”
“Sue, please, did you know my father? Before he bought the house, I mean.”
“I remember him as a boy. Standoffish. Kept to himself. But there was a certain sweetness to him. And he was a hard worker. It was too bad about his family.”
“You’re talking about his parents. My grandparents.”
“Well, yes, that’s true. You didn’t know them, if I’m right. Your daddy kept a lot of distance between himself and his father.”
“Yes.”
“They’ve been gone so long. I hadn’t given them a thought in decades. No one did. Especially since Henry left so young and didn’t keep in touch with anyone. Most people wouldn’t know anything about them. The county has grown so much hardly anyone knows anyone else around here anymore.”
I had other questions. Did I dare ask them? I didn’t doubt she’d be talking to other people. I needed to think about it first before blurting out stuff about my father’s siblings and asking what she might know.
And Will. What about Will? He was related to people who might have known the Langes long ago. I glanced at him, but he was busy moving boards around.
Sue added, “The boxes are on the front porch. Any books you don’t want, feel free to give away. I can’t bring myself to part with things, especially family things, but I can certainly understand you might not want all of them. Just don’t send them back to me, if you don’t mind.”
“I understand. If I can’t use them, I’ll find them new homes.”
“Thank you, dear. I just can’t dispose of . . . well, you know. My Joe thanks you too.”
I escorted Sue out to the front porch. There were six cardboard boxes stacked near the bench.
“I picked out the best books—the ones I thought you might enjoy and would look particularly fine on the shelving. I know well enough that when I die, my kids will toss all my stuff, unless they can find a way to make money from it. So I hope these will be good for you.”
I was astounded. “This was a lot of work, Sue.”
“Ah, well, I didn’t mind a bit.”
I followed her to the truck. Her husband was seated in the driver’s seat. He gave me a courteous wave and nod.
“Thank you, Sue.” I meant it.
She said, “One more thing. The red book at the top of one of those boxes is an old s
chool textbook. Keep an eye out for that one. The schools used to sell or donate old textbooks when they were being replaced. I forget how I came to have that one, but I put it in the box especially for you.”
She paused with her hand on the truck’s door handle and looked back. “I almost forgot,” she said. “My book club has a meeting next month. I was hoping we could hold it here?”
I panicked inside but did my best to keep my expression impassive. “I don’t think the house will be quite ready.”
“Oh, goodness, I’m sure it will be lovely. It doesn’t have to be perfect. Just a midday meeting. A few ladies. We’d love to sit in that parlor of yours and discuss our monthly selection.”
A couple of hours? Sitting in the parlor? Not really official or anything . . .
I took a leap. “Okay. Sure. We can make that work.”
Sue smiled, her face lighting up. “They’ll be so pleased. I told them I knew the perfect place, and when I told them where, they were so excited.” She cocked her head and winked. “I told them I had an in with the owner of Wildflower House.”
“They knew the name? Wildflower House? Nicole did tell me people are calling this the Wildflower Property.”
“Oh, sure. You betcha. Nicole’s been talking it around. I love all the great things you’re planning for this place. Mary would’ve been over-the-moon thrilled. Folks around here have always just called it the big old house where Mary and Rob Forster used to live. So much simpler to say Wildflower House.” She put one finger in the air, almost like an antenna. “Oh, and don’t worry about food. We’ll bring our own. You won’t mind if we use the kitchen, will you? Just to heat up the casseroles? If we should bring our own plates, just let me know.”
I tried twice before actually managing to speak words. “That will be fine. And I have plates.”
“Let me know what the fee is. Our little club is small, but we have petty cash set aside for such things.”
“Fee? No fee. We aren’t officially open for business yet. It will be my pleasure to host your club meeting here.”
Sue beamed.