Dream Big, Stella!

by Ashley Farley

  I waste no time in throwing my belongings in my suitcase and hightailing it back down to the lobby. I wait for the pizza deliveryman out front, under the portico. After he leaves, I manage to transport my pizza, suitcase, and the stack of books from the lobby to the cottage in a single trip.

  With doors locked and lights on, I feel safer in the cramped quarters of my new home. Rolling my suitcase into Billy’s room, I unpack the few clothes I brought with me in the antique chest and small closet. Changing into my pajamas, I return to the living room. Clicking on the gas logs in the small fireplace, I curl up at one end of the sofa with the pizza box and stack of books on the coffee table beside me.

  I activate my debit card, and after confirming the balance of five thousand dollars, I spend a few minutes researching laptops before purchasing a basic, thirteen-inch MacBook Air. My dinosaur Dell PC went to its final resting place at the electronics recycling center months ago. Almost instantly, I get an email notifying me of my new computer’s arrival tomorrow. And not a moment too soon, considering the amount of research I need to conduct.

  I spend hours studying the photographs in the glossy books and making lists and notes on my phone. When I finally turn out the light and go to bed, I have the strangest feeling I’m not alone. There’s not a soul on this seventy-acre farm except me, but instead of being afraid, I’m oddly comforted by Billy’s prized memorabilia. I’m at home in this small cottage. Billy wanted me here. Even though he didn’t know me, he trusted me with this monumental task, and I will do everything in my power not to let him down.

  Seven

  First thing Friday morning, I tick off the top item on my to-do list by calling the contractor Jack Snyder, who sounds excited to hear from me. When I ask about his availability to meet on Monday, he says, “Is there any chance you’re free this afternoon? I’d like to take the weekend to work up some numbers.”

  Once I commit to meeting with him, there’s no turning back. “This afternoon works great. How does three o’clock sound?”

  “I’ll see you at three.”

  Seated at the reception desk, I spend some time acquainting myself with the reservation system, which is similar to the ones I’ve worked on in the past. We have only thirty-six bookings on our calendar from now through the end of August. Twenty of those are for Jefferson College’s graduation in May. I place the dreaded calls and cancel the reservations. For the guests I’m unable to reach, I leave detailed messages explaining the situation. I offer our sincere apologies for any inconvenience and invite them back for a complimentary weekend after we reopen in the fall. Of those I speak with, a few are angry, but most agree the inn is way overdue a face-lift. I make meticulous notes in each of the reservations for future reference. No more sloppy work from me.

  By eleven o’clock, having consumed a whole pot of coffee and two stale muffins, I’m ready for a healthy lunch. I set out for the grocery store but get sidetracked by the flower bed in the center of the circular drive where only a few sad daffodils and tulips remain amongst clumps of weeds. In the past, I know from the glossy books that this bed was always planted with bright flowers—in yellows and oranges during the fall and reds, whites, and blues for the Fourth of July.

  I’m snapping images with my phone for the before and after album I’m planning when a lemon-yellow Mini Cooper convertible careens up the driveway with an old Wild Hollers song blasting from the radio. Opal blows the horn and waves at me over the top of the windshield. Cupping her hands around her mouth, she yells, “Have you been to the grocery yet?”

  “I’m on my way there now!”

  She waves me over to the car. “Get in, and I’ll give you a ride.”

  Something about this woman warms my heart. And I’d be crazy to turn down a lift to the store.

  I slide into the passenger side, and she speeds off before I can buckle my seat belt. At the end of the driveway, she zips onto Main Street. She turns down the volume but still has to shout to be heard over the sound of nearby car engines. “If the wind is too much, you can roll up your window.”

  I nod, but the fresh air feels good, and I leave my window down.

  “How’s your day been so far?”

  I offer her a thumbs-up. “How about yours?”

  “Just dandy.”

  Dandy. I repeat the word in my head. Another word I don’t hear often, but it fits her spunky personality.

  Yesterday, she instructed me to take a right at the light onto Maple to get to the store, but today, she continues straight. “Why don’t I give you the nickel tour of Hope Springs before we go grocery shopping?”

  I smile. “I’d like that.”

  As we drive down Main Street, Opal directs my attention to various points of interest. There’s the town’s only coffee shop. An art gallery that frequently exhibits her work. An old-fashioned theatre with a retro billboard announcing show times for the spring’s hot new movie, I Still Believe. And a multitude of men’s and women’s clothing boutiques displaying high-end merchandise in their windows, suggesting an upscale clientele.

  “Can college kids afford to shop in those places?”

  “Some of them can,” Opal says. “Their parents certainly do. We also get a lot of tourists who come just for the day to shop.”

  “There’s certainly no shortage of eating establishments for the tourists to have lunch.”

  “Some of the restaurants cater primarily to the college students. Like that one.” Opal points to a corner restaurant with an outdoor seating area. “I wouldn’t be caught dead in the Town Tavern, but I order takeout from there a lot. They make a mean hamburger.”

  “I’ll keep that in mind.”

  “Nothing can compare to the restaurant at the inn when Chef Hugo was alive,” Opal says. “The inn itself was once a hubbub of activity for our townsfolk."

  “My goal is to make it that again one day.”

  “I have no doubt that you will.”

  The noise level dies down as we leave the busiest part of Main Street. I tie my knotted hair back with a scrunchie. “As of yesterday evening, the inn is officially closed for business. All reservations from now until September have been canceled, and I’m meeting with a contractor this afternoon.”

  She smiles her approval. “Good for you! You don’t waste any time.”

  “I already made one screwup. I somehow managed to run Naomi off.”

  “She’ll come back,” Opal says in a dismissive tone. “And if she doesn’t, it’s not the end of the world. I’ve been trying to get rid of that one for years.”

  “Opal!” I can’t help but laugh at her lack of restraint. “I thought it was just me. I take it you had a problem with Naomi as well.”

  “Naomi has a problem with me. She cops an attitude with everyone. Not the guests, of course. She’s very gracious to them. She’s good at her job. She knows this inn better than anyone.” Opal grips the steering wheel. “I’m being unfair to her. The truth is, I owe Naomi a huge debt of gratitude for the kindness she showed Billy during his illness.”

  She says this in such a territorial way I can’t help but wonder if Billy was more than a friend to Opal. Maybe he was family. According to Powers, Billy’s parents—my grandparents—are deceased. I want to press her for more information, but the faraway look in Opal’s eye warns me against it.

  We make a loop through the Jefferson College campus. Ivy-covered stone buildings form a rectangle around a central common area. Students in shorts with backpacks slung over their shoulders move about on the sidewalks and stretch out on blankets on the grass.

  As we’re exiting the campus, Opal asks, “Do you have time for me to show you one more thing before we head to the store?”

  “Sure! I’m free until my meeting with Jack Snyder at three.”

  “Oh good! I’m glad you’re meeting with Jack. You’ll like him.”

  We exit the college campus and drive back through town. As we’re passing the inn, heading toward the mountains, I ask Opal about the house that a
ppears to be a mini version of the inn.

  “That’s the manor house. Your great grandfather built it as his primary residence. Both your father and grandfather grew up here.”

  “Who lives there now?”

  “I’m not sure.”

  Opal punches the accelerator, and within minutes, we’re on open road, passing rolling fields and horse farms as we race toward the mountains. Zipping around in a sporty convertible is the most alive I’ve felt in as long as I can remember.

  Opal navigates the curving roads with ease. We drive for miles, and my ears are beginning to pop, when she veers off the road onto an overlook. She kills the engine and stands up in her seat, helping me to my feet. Three picnic tables are lined up directly in front of us. Beyond the picnic area is the town of Hope Springs.

  “There’s your farm down there.” She sweeps her arm in front of her. “And that’s just the thirty acres that have been cleared. There’s an additional forty wooded acres of hiking paths and fishing streams.”

  I’m rendered speechless at the sheer magnitude of what’s been handed to me. My farm. Wanting to better understand Billy’s motivations, I ask, “Why would Billy gift such valuable property to someone he never met?”

  “I can’t answer that, child,” she says, in a tone so genuine I believe her.

  Neither of us speak on the return drive. When we make a left onto Maple, Opal says, “These neighboring streets are mostly residential. If you go a mile down this road, you’ll find chain stores like Walgreens, Target, and Lowes. There’s even a Kroger. We can go there now if you’d prefer, but the local market carries everything on a smaller scale.”

  “The local market it is.”

  When we pull into the parking lot, I laugh at the words scripted on the plate glass window. “I didn’t realize the name of the market was actually The Local Market.”

  “We’re simple folk around these parts.” Opal parks the car, and we enter the store. “They have a made-to-order sandwich bar. If you like, we could grab some sandwiches and have a picnic.” Her face reddens. “Perhaps I’ve taken enough of your time already.”

  “I would love to have a picnic with you, Opal.”

  She places our order at the sandwich bar while I shopped the aisles for supplies. The cupboards and refrigerator in Billy’s kitchen are empty, and I quickly fill a cart with the basics—coffee, yogurt, salad ingredients, protein bars. I pay for my groceries—Opal insists on buying the sandwiches—and we load my six bags of groceries in the Mini Cooper’s cargo space.

  We’re almost back at the farm, when, at the base of the driveway, Opal stops suddenly and gets out of the car. “What’re you doing?” I ask when she comes around to my side.

  “It’s your turn to drive.” She opens my door and tugs on my arm.

  “No way.” I say, jerking my arm back. “I’ve never driven a car in my life.”

  “Gotta learn sometime. Come on.”

  I let her drag me out of the car, and I reluctantly go around to the driver’s seat.

  “Consider yourself lucky,” she says. “Back in my day, we learned to drive with manual transmissions.”

  I put the car in drive, but when I take my foot off the brake, the car starts to roll backward. “Give it some gas!” Opal demands.

  I press my foot on the accelerator and the little car jerks forward. It’s easier than I thought, and I get the hang of it right away. When we near the portico, Opal instructs me to take a right onto a narrow road off to the right and I follow it around the main building. I’ve never approached from this direction, and I’m surprised to see a gray Jeep Wrangler parked beneath my bedroom window.

  “Park behind Billy’s Jeep,” Opal says, pointing at the Wrangler. “Which belongs to you now. After you get your learner’s permit, you’ll have to wait a period of time before taking the test for your license. In the meantime, the roads around the farm are perfect for practicing your driving.”

  After lunch on the porch, Opal heads off with her easel and supply tote bag. She reminds me of Mary Poppins the way she dances a little skip as though preparing to fly off into the clouds. I smile to myself. Just watching her makes me happy.

  I take in my new surroundings, the mountains and trees and blue skies, so vastly different from New York. I wonder if it’s possible for a person’s sense of place to be genetically transmitted like the color of their eyes. Hannah and Marnie love New York, and because I am their daughter, they taught me to love New York. But that is nurture. I woke this morning with a sense of belonging and purpose I’ve never known before.

  One thing’s for certain, Virginia has New York beaten hands down when it comes to pleasant weather. The sun beams bright in a cloudless sky, and a breeze delivers the sweet fragrance of flowers. I don’t know one flower from another, but with an hour to kill before my meeting with the builder, I set out on foot to find the source of the heavenly scent. I stroll the perimeter, listening to birds chirping the arrival of spring and watching the buds on trees practically open before my eyes. I’m departing the lakefront, trudging up the hill through a ground cover of leftover autumn leaves, when I trip over a log and nosedive to the ground. The knees of my jeans are dirty, but I’m otherwise unhurt. I get back on my feet, and I’m brushing off my pants, when the log moves. I jump back ten feet when a man emerges from beneath the leaves.

  “Are you outta your mind? You scared me to death. You tripped me just now. You’re lucky I wasn’t hurt. Who are you? And what’re you doing hiding in the leaves?”

  “I wasn’t hiding. I was taking a nap. I’m Bernard, the groundskeeper. And who the hell are you, missy?”

  Missy? Did he just call me Missy? I catch a whiff of whiskey, and my anger escalates. “I’m Stella Boor, Billy Jameson’s daughter, the new owner of Hope Springs Farm. Which makes me your new employer.”

  “I ain’t working for no dame, especially one who’s barely old enough to have her period.”

  My brow hit my hairline. Is this dude for real? I don’t care if he is my elder, I refuse to be talked to in such a derogatory manner. “Then you won’t be working here anymore. Pack your things and get off my property.”

  “Make me, little lady.”

  I’m seriously angry now, but also a little intimidated. “I’ll let the police handle that.” I whip my phone out of my pocket and stab the numbers nine-one-one on my screen. When the operator comes on the line, I say, “This is Stella Boor at the Hope Springs Farm. I have a disgruntled, drunken employee threatening violence. Can you send the police right away? We are on the property behind the red barn.”

  A long moment of silence fills the line. “I’ve dispatched a unit. They should be there momentarily. Do you need me to stay on the line with you until they arrive?”

  “Please!” I say.

  My eyes follow Bernard’s hand to the gun holster attached to his belt. “So, what? You’re gonna shoot me now?”

  “Shoot you?” the operator says in an urgent tone in the phone. “Does your employee have a gun?”

  I grip my phone. “He does.”

  Removing the handgun from its holster, with arms locked in front of him, Bernard trains it on me. “Pow, pow!” He jerks the gun up as though firing it, and I nearly pee in my pants while I wait for the bullet to hit me.

  “Bernard! You old fool! Put that gun down right now.” Opal’s voice comes from somewhere off to my right, but I don’t take my eyes off him to look for her.

  “This ain’t none of your concern, Opal. Mind your own business.”

  Behind me, I hear the sound of car doors slamming followed by the crunch of leaves. Two officers appear in my peripheral vision. One remains by my side while the other marches up to Bernard with an outstretched hand. “Give me the gun, Bernard,” he says in an indulgent tone of voice a parent might use with his child.

  Bernard reluctantly hands over the gun. “Ain’t nothing but snake shot, Pete. I wasn’t gonna shoot her.”

  Are you serious? These two know each other?

>   I glare at the old man. “How was I supposed to know that? I don’t even know what snake shot is. You used your weapon to intimidate me, which I view as a direct threat.”

  Brian appears on the scene. Where did he come from? He comes to stand beside me in what I consider a show of allegiance. “Are you okay?”

  “I think so.”

  “What happened?”

  I open my mouth and the words tumble out. I feel like a tattletale, but will do whatever’s necessary to get rid of this old drunk. “I was walking up from the lake, and I tripped over him. He was passed out drunk in the leaves. He wanted to know who I was, and when I told him, he said, and I quote, ‘I ain’t gonna work for no dame, especially one who’s barely old enough to have her period.’”

  Brian tenses, but I continue, “When I asked him to get his things and leave, he refused, and I called nine-one-one. That’s when he pulled out the gun.”

  “Come on, Brian,” Bernard says with pleading in his voice. “You know me better than that. I ain’t never hurt a flea.”

  Brian moves over to the groundskeeper. “While that may be true, Bernard, you and I both know it’s way past time for you to retire. Billy’s been warning you about your drinking for years. You’ve let things slide around here. We can’t keep you on any longer. We’ll work out a generous retirement package. You can spend your days doing something you enjoy, like fishing.”

  “Billy never would’ve fired me,” Bernard says in a childlike disgruntled voice.

  Brian squeezes the man’s shoulder. “We’re not firing you, Bernard. You quit, remember?”