The Single Dad Finds a Wife

by Felicia Mason

  “I wanted to,” he said without turning around. “But I hoped you would come out.”

  Still standing in the doorway, the screen door open, Spring asked, “Why?”

  “Because even more than I wanted to leave, I wanted to hear from you why you did this. Why you thought it would be all right to lure me under false pretenses out here to your family’s home. Was it so you and your friends could have some fun at my expense?”

  Chapter Eleven

  “That wasn’t the case at all,” she said, dismayed by the very idea.

  Spring closed the door and indicated the swing on the front porch. “Would you like to sit?” she asked.

  “No.”

  He had yet to face her. He stood on the top step, hands shoved in his pockets, his back erect. Spring imagined he was holding on to his temper with everything he had in him. She knew if the tables were reversed, she’d be giving him more than a piece of her mind; she would be giving him the riot act with a righteous dose of Southern indignation.

  Spring moved forward until she stood next to him.

  “I’m sorry,” she said as she, too, stared into the distance. “It seemed like a good way to introduce you to some of the members of the historical society. What you saw at the planning commission meeting was, well, a more vocal faction, and things got out of hand.”

  “At least Mrs. Lundsford was honest and up-front about where she stood.”

  “I was angry,” she said. “When you walked into that room and I realized who you were and what your business was here, I was just...” She shook her head. “Ambushing you seemed irresistible. Gerald, Cecelia and I along with Roger and Carol Delaney and Johnson Gray are all historical society members as well as in the supper club. We...” She paused. “No, I thought we could show rather than tell you how much this property means not just to me and my family but to the history of Cedar Springs. Don’t blame them for a plan that was my idea.”

  She chanced a glance in his direction to see how her words affected him.

  If they had any type of impact, it didn’t show. She could read nothing in the features, which had grown hard right before her eyes.

  “You made me the butt of the joke with your friends.”

  “It wasn’t intended that way,” Spring said, feeling miserable about what she had done. “I won’t harbor you any ill will if your recommendation is for land the Darlings own, either outright or in trust.”

  He snorted. “In trust? You mean you own even more of the town?”

  Spring’s eyes narrowed. “Every bit of real estate that my family owns is in the public record.”

  “I’m sure it is,” he said drily.

  Spring’s pique at him was starting to take wing. “David, staging an intervention of sorts wasn’t one of my better ideas, but it was well intended,” she said, gathering steam for her argument. “There are a lot of people in Cedar Springs, in eastern North Carolina, who could care less about the history of this place. But there are a lot who do. We can’t just have placards or road markers put up at every site that has historic significance. All of the state would be one big ‘This happened here in 1789 or 1882 or 1952 or yesterday’ sign. But we can keep that history alive, the history of then and the history we’re making now.”

  She went down a couple of steps and spread her hand out to indicate the acres of land surrounding the house. “Green space is to be cherished,” she said. “It may look like a lot to you, someone who makes a living getting maximum density out of every available square foot of land, but there are only so many shopping centers and subdivisions and mixed-use developments that a city or town needs.

  “You and Mayor Howell are expecting some sort of population boom. You’re operating under the pie-in-the-sky notion of if you build it, they will come.”

  She came up one step so that she stood just beneath him. “The earth,” she said, “this ground, is all there is. We can’t grow another.”

  He folded his arms across his chest. “Spring, tell me something. What did you hope to get out of this—dinner party—today?” he said putting an emphasis on dinner party, letting her know he knew it was anything but a party.

  “I wanted you to see how much of Cedar Springs is actually living history.”

  “So all of that business about your and Cecelia’s great-great-grandparents was just fabrication to make the story more compelling?”

  She shook her head. “It’s all true,” she said. “Cecelia is one of the preeminent African American historians here in North Carolina. She’s a Rhodes Scholar, has degrees from Duke, Harvard and Oxford. All of them doctorates. She can trace her ancestry almost as far back as I can. We both believe in historic preservation,” she added, putting emphasis on the word preservation, “not just footnotes in history books. If we don’t preserve the past, it will be forgotten.”

  David let out a puff of air, then relaxed his arms.

  “Where the city council ultimately decides to put a mixed-used development isn’t up to me.”

  “No, but just like with what happened with the planning commission, you’ll make a recommendation and that recommendation will hold sway with the council.”

  His mouth quirked up in what could only be described as a sardonic smile. “So your Not-In-My-Backyard campaign is about getting this in another part of town?”

  Summer shook her head. “It’s not about this parcel of land or the ones you call parcels one and three. If we had our druthers, there would be little or no new development in the city. There’s plenty here to preserve or to restore. But we, the historical society members, recognize that time marches on, names are forgotten. And in this case, if a road is built through here, the final resting places of countless men and women and children will be right here, under tons of concrete and asphalt, lost forever until a millennia from now explorers and archaeologists come through wondering what it all means. We have the opportunity here and now to give our children’s children something to be proud of.”

  “You make a strong case,” David said. “But you’ve forgotten one crucial fact.”

  “What’s that?” she asked, her nose screwed up in irritation.

  “It’s not my call to make. The city council votes on where they want the development. My role is to create uses for space, to make land-use recommendations.”

  “That’s just it,” Spring said. “Don’t you see? What you design will be here for a long, long time. The homes and businesses built to your plans can enhance or detract from Cedar Springs. I’m not naive, David. And I’m not antidevelopment. What I am concerned about is how and if the city will mark and honor this new phase of its growth. With respect to what you do, your new urbanism plan, homes with shops and businesses to walk to and whatnot, is more of the same and misses the mark.”

  “And having a sit-down adult business meeting doesn’t fit in with that concern?”

  Spring, remembering the kiss they’d shared just a couple of hours ago, tried to reconcile that strong and appealing man with the cold and calculating businessman in front of her now.

  No, she thought. Not cold and calculating—he was cold and ambivalent. And given the way she’d gone about this dinner party, maybe he had a right to be.

  What Cedar Springs needed was not historical society members waving their banners about what happened twenty-five, fifty, one hundred or two hundred years ago. What they needed was a public relations initiative—to get the message out there.

  Even as she looked at David Camden watching her, Spring’s mind was jumping forward, considering and then discarding the local firms that flashed through her mental Rolodex file of contacts and acquaintances. They didn’t need a lawyer to file lawsuits, they needed an image consultant, someone who could generate support and reshape public opinion by showing the benefits of preservation. Then she hit on a name: Trey Calloway at Keaton & M
yers, a top-tier management consulting firm that had offices in town. The Calloway family’s history in Cedar Springs ran deep, about as deep as Spring’s and Cecelia’s. Trey Calloway would be able to understand and appreciate the delicate task of balancing preservation and progress.

  In the meantime, she could share what she loved with David Camden...if he’d let her.

  Spring held out her hand in both invitation and supplication. “David, I’d like to show you some things.”

  “What? Do you have more historical society members in the barn with digestifs to finish the Magnolia Supper Club’s little soiree?”

  “No,” she said. “It’s just us. I want to show you the farm.”

  “Farm?”

  She nodded and waited for him to make up his mind about joining her.

  After what seemed an interminable period, he nodded and took a step down, clasping her hand in his. They walked a short distance from the house.

  “My earliest memory is of this house and lands, of feeding ducks at this pond,” she told him. “I had to have been three or maybe almost four. Winter was an infant, I remember that because I was upset that a crying, pooping, squiggly pink thing had usurped my position in the house. Mom and Dad didn’t seem to notice me anymore. In my young opinion, they were only interested in the baby. We were living here then. Daddy had not yet built The Compound for Mom or the space that would be his office.”

  “What was a four-year-old doing alone near a pond?”

  “Exactly my grandmother’s question,” Spring said. “She must have seen me leave the house and followed me. There was a family of ducks, a mama and her ducklings, who would come here to sun themselves.”

  Spring took off her shoes and stood at the water’s edge as if the ducks from long ago were still there waiting for her.

  “Without scolding me for venturing away from the house, Grandma put some bread crumbs in my hand and told me to toss them out for the ducks. The mama duck, she explained, had a lot of work to do. She needed to tend to the babies while looking out for predators like hawks, who would swoop down and snatch a baby, or the hounds that liked to chase the ducks until they tired, leaving them too exhausted to fend off other hungry predators.”

  “So she likened your parents with the new baby to the mother duck?”

  “Exactly,” Spring said. “The lesson I learned that day, the one that stayed with me for the rest of my life, was that the elders have to care for and look out for the younger ones, be they human or animal. You know, the least of us.”

  David nodded. “I see the parallel to the Scripture in Matthew.”

  “So,” Spring said, “I stopped resenting my little sister. It’s a good thing I did since two more would come in short order. I took the whole older sister bit to heart. Probably too much, they would say,” she added. “But the die was cast. Later, as I grew up and could appreciate it more, my grandfather told me about the history of this land, the slaves who came through on their way to freedom. The migrants who worked the fields here before heading north to the eastern shores of both Virginia and Maryland.

  “I soaked all of that information in, David. I became a living and breathing history lesson.”

  “What does that have to do with the mixed-use development project?”

  “Everything,” she said. “I became a doctor because that’s in my DNA. My father and my grandfather were doctors. But from my grandmothers, I got the love of and appreciation for history. I don’t want this land preserved because I want it in my family. I want it preserved so all of the families in Cedar Springs and elsewhere can learn the stories of what this area meant.”

  “Then why haven’t you done something about it?” David asked. “All I see is a nice house, some well-maintained fields and nothing else.”

  Spring was hoping he’d ask.

  “Cecelia and I are in the process of writing a grant application for just that,” she said, hoping the note of pride and confidence she heard in her own voice didn’t sound quite as sanctimonious as she thought it did. “Until Mayor Howell popped up with this mixed-use development idea, there was no need to announce or make public what we were working on. All the pieces were fitting together. My family was donating the land to the project. We had a solid business plan. All we needed was the rest of the funding.”

  She looked away for a moment and sighed heavily. “We learned the hard way about making things public before all the i’s were dotted and all the t’s crossed.”

  “What do you mean?”

  She then told him the history of the Junction at Commerce Plaza. “The historical society wanted that land to build a history and interpretive center. Before we knew it, though, gas pumps and twenty-four-hour flashing lights were there. That junction—we believed then and still believe now—has a major historical site beneath it, a mill and a cemetery. But because the project was rushed through and done so hush-hush without anything approximating public comment, we’ll never know for sure now.”

  “Hmm,” he said. “So, this history and interpretive center you’re talking about would be here?”

  Spring nodded. “With an archeological research aspect to it. That’s where the grant writing comes in,” she said. “When we say ‘history’ or ‘archeology’ to the public, people’s eyes generally glaze over. But that doesn’t have to be the case. There are actually waiting lists for the seminars Cecelia teaches at the university.”

  “Why didn’t you just tell me this?” David asked. “Why lure me into the lion’s den to attack?”

  She sighed again. “This is going to sound lame, and it is lame, but, well, it seemed like it a good idea at the time. It was the best I could come up with. Things seem to be moving very fast as far as the city’s official channels are concerned.”

  He contemplated her for a moment, as if weighing the veracity of her words. She tried to imagine how she would feel if their roles and the situation were reversed.

  “That’s not good enough, Spring,” he said.

  “I thought you might say something like that.”

  She leaned her head back and regarded the sky for a moment as if the right words might shower down on her. When she faced him again, it was with a newfound resolve.

  “There’s a bench over there,” she said, indicating a shady grove a few yards away. She didn’t wait for him to respond to the implied invitation; she just starting walking toward it, her shoe straps dangling in her hands.

  She had to make this man, this man she was starting to care way too much about despite their differences, she had to make him understand why this meant so much to her.

  They settled on the wooden bench, placed strategically by one of her grandparents for optimum views of both the pond and the garden.

  He indicated with a motion of his head that he was ready to listen to her.

  Spring wasn’t quite sure where to begin and told him just that.

  “Then start at the beginning,” he said.

  Her laugh sounded to her ears more bitter than humor filled. “That, my friend, would take all night.”

  “I don’t mind.”

  The softly spoken words startled her, and she tucked a foot under herself as she faced him. For a moment, she said nothing, just stared into eyes that held no censure. What she saw was patience and promise and something else she recognized: gentleness and understanding. Maybe David Camden, and what his company represented, was not the enemy as she’d initially perceived him at the planning commission meeting. Maybe he was simply a man who believed in what he did as strongly as she believed in the causes and programs that were her own personal passions.

  And maybe the beginning is where she needed to start.

  “My sisters and I,” she began, “grew up in a wealthy family. But we were all taught from a very young age that to whom much is given, much is required. Summer, Winter
, Autumn and I learned by the examples set for us by our parents and grandparents. Giving to the community in some form or fashion wasn’t just expected—it was simply part of having the Darling last name.”

  When he nodded, she continued. “My father and grandfather were doctors who worked long hours, and their wives, my mother and grandmother, were far from simply the garden club ladies who lunched. Granted, Lovie does both and in style, but she also gets her hands dirty.” She smiled. “You’re probably wondering what this has to do with anything.”

  He reached for her hand and laced his fingers with hers. “The thought had crossed my mind.”

  Her mouth quirked up in amusement at that as she contemplated their joined hands.

  “How old were you when you had Jeremy?”

  “Is that your roundabout way of asking how old I am? I’m thirty-six. Jeremy is four.”

  “I’m thirty-five,” she said. “When I was a little girl, there was no doubt that I would be a doctor. That’s all I ever wanted to do. But I also assumed I’d have a family, a husband and children to share my life. When I started college, I knew that by thirty-two—the age you were when Jeremy was born—I just knew for sure that I would be living the white-picket-fence life. Preferably here at the farmhouse because of course the man I married would want to live here,” she added with a small, wry laugh. “But it didn’t happen that way for me. And so when I finished medical school, I gave all of my energy to the work that I loved. That meant building not just my career, but my community. Before long, that’s all there was. It’s who I am and what I am.”

  “You’re wrong, Spring,” he said, the words so quiet she would have missed them had she not been sitting right next to him. “You’re more than how you fill the hours of each day.”

  “I know,” she said. “I have my family, my sisters and mother, good friends, an active church community—”

  He paused the rush of words with a finger at her mouth.

  “Do you know why I was first attracted to you?”

  Her eyes darted across his features, indicating the confusion his words wrought.