“That’s a good call.”
Neither of us speaks as we continue down to the lake, our easy banter from earlier noticeably missing.
I lead him to the summer house. “This is just an idea. Not worth mentioning to Brian yet.”
Jack drags an imaginary zipper across his lips. “Mum’s the word.”
“We should capitalize on the hot spring since it’s such a unique feature. I’d like to convert the summer house into a spa, a multistory building with lots of windows overlooking the lake. A casual restaurant would occupy the ground level. The spa would take up a whole floor and the other would be dedicated to fitness with all the latest exercise equipment, yoga rooms, and an indoor lap pool.”
“To add authenticity, we could incorporate the hot springs hut. If you widened the pier, you could offer kayaks and paddleboards.”
Tingles of excitement dance across my chest. “So, you approve of my idea for a spa?”
“Wholeheartedly. Your spa would create enormous opportunity for growth.” Shielding his eyes against the falling sun, Jack looks off in the distance. “I’ve always wondered why the Jamesons allowed Cottage Row to deteriorate. Those were once the best accommodations on the property.”
“What’s Cottage Row?”
“Come with me, and I’ll show you,” Jack says and starts off down a gravel path bordering the lake.
When we come to a stand of trees, Jack steps out of the way for me to enter the woods.
I shake my head. “No way. I’m not going first.”
“Chicken,” he says and ducks below the low-hanging tree branches. We fight through sticks and brambles for a short distance. When we enter a clearing, six cottages in a row—each standing one and a half stories tall and having a front porch and dormer windows—stretch out in front of us.
“Why would anyone wanna stay back here?”
“Believe it or not, those woods were once a manicured rose garden. Tennis courts were over there.” I follow his finger to where the top of a green chain-link fence peeks out from the trees. He draws a line through the air. “There was a pool and playground over there.” All evidence of both are now gone. “From what I understand, families spent whole summers here.”
We walk over to the nearest cottage and peek through the window. On the inside, the ceiling and walls have begun to collapse.
“So why do you think the Jamesons allowed Cottage Row to deteriorate?”
“Billy had so much tragedy in his life,” Jack says, leaning back against the porch railing. “I can only—” The railing gives way beneath his weight and he scrambles to prevent himself from falling.
“Are you okay?” I hold onto his arm while he steadies himself.
“I’m fine, but the cottages are in worse shape than I thought.”
Stepping to the safety of solid ground, we move to the edge of the water. A boardwalk runs along the lakefront, but we don’t dare test it, to see if it’s sturdy.
“What were you saying about Billy having tragedy in his life?”
Jack lets out a sigh. “Sometime in the late eighties, Billy’s older brother, Ethan, was killed in a plane crash. He was living in DC at the time. He’d chartered a small plane to fly him home for his wedding. Ethan was the golden child in the family, a hotshot lawyer who one day hoped to run for congress. The family was grief-stricken, especially Billy’s parents. Even though they were still young at the time, barely in their sixties, they both died a few years after Ethan—his mother from a massive stroke and his father from a heart attack.”
My heart aches, as though I knew these people. They were my grandparents. Ethan was my uncle. His bride would’ve been my aunt. Their children, when they had them, my cousins. “That is the saddest thing I’ve ever heard.”
His lips turn down. “Isn’t it? Ethan was Billy’s idol. And to lose his parents so soon afterward. He was a mess for a long time. Just as he was showing signs of coming out of his depression, he became ill.”
“So that’s what Naomi meant when she said, ‘Billy’s heart wasn’t into running the inn.’”
Jack nods. “There were too many ghosts here. He couldn’t escape them.”
Nine
Rain sets in during the night on Friday. The dim glow of headlights from the police cruiser patrolling the grounds offers some comfort, but I feel unsettled, not only by my run-in with Bernard but by what I learned about the Jamesons and their family’s tragedy. Even though I stay up late, creating Pinterest boards and researching interior decorators on my new computer, I get up early on Saturday morning.
I find an old quilt in the linen closet, and wrapped up against the damp air, I rock for hours on the porch with the rain pounding the tin roof. I can’t stop thinking about my father and how difficult it must have been for him to lose his brother and parents in a matter of years. I yearn to know more about the Jamesons. My family. I don’t feel comfortable asking Brian. Opal might tell me, but she won’t be painting in the rain.
Around ten o’clock, I dress in jeans and a hoodie. My raincoat will arrive with the rest of my wardrobe in the shipment of boxes on Monday. I make a dash across the lawn and up the stone steps to the main building where I discover an umbrella and a mildewy yellow slicker in a closet in the manager’s office. My office now. Seated at the mammoth wooden desk, I run my hand across the smooth leather top. Billy once worked here and his father before him. I know from the glossy books that my grandmother’s name was Janis and my grandfather was Ethan, like his eldest son. Ethan Senior was the last successful manager of Hope Springs Farm. Before the plane crash, Ethan Junior’s career path had taken him into law with the possibility of a future in politics. Where did that leave Billy? Was he teed up to become his father’s successor? And what about his music? Would he have gone on to become a rock and roll star if his music career hadn’t been cut short by the untimely death of his father?
Coming from behind the desk, I study the framed black-and-white photographs lining the walls of the Jameson family posing with famous people who have visited the inn over the decades. Maybe it’s wishful thinking, but I see something of myself in my grandmother. Janis was an elegant woman, poised and immaculately dressed.
More eager than ever for information about my long-lost family, I set off on foot to the public library. I stop in at Caffeine on the Corner for a hot beverage to take with me. The interior of the coffee shop is cheerful with ochre-colored walls and gas logs burning in the fireplace. Customers of every age occupy the booths and free-standing tables as well as stools at the counter that stretches across the front window. As I stand in line to place my order, I eavesdrop on a group of Jefferson College students rehashing last night’s big party.
When my turn comes, I ask the attractive barista for her opinion of the caffe mocha.
“It’s my personal favorite.” She raises her right hand. “And I promise I’m not just saying that.”
She’s about my age with thick honey-colored hair and flawless skin. Her blue eyes twinkle, and even though I don’t know her, I’m drawn to her easygoing manner and smile that hints at mischief. Is it possible I’m about to make my first friend in Hope Springs?
I smile at her. “I trust you. One caffe mocha, please.”
As she rings up my order, she says, “You’re new in town.” It’s not a question but a statement.
“Do I wear the dazed expression of a city girl in a small-town world?”
She laughs. “Yes! I recognize the expression from my own reflection in the mirror when I first moved to Hope Springs eighteen months ago.”
I stick my credit card in the reader, and while it’s processing, I say, “I’m Stella Boor, native New Yorker.”
“And I’m Cecily Weber, native everywhere else but here.” When I squint my eyes at her, she adds, “It’s a long story.”
The person behind me in line clears his throat, signaling for me to move on. Leaning across the counter toward Cecily, I say in a lowered voice, “What’s the public library like here? I i
magine gloomy catacombs of dusty classics and World Book encyclopedias. Will I escape alive?”
She whispers back, “You’ll survive. I visit the library all the time. I’m an avid reader, but I’ve never warmed up to e-books. I like the feel of the book in my hands.”
“I know what you mean,” I say, even though I can’t remember the last book I read for entertainment.
The guy behind me clears his throat again, louder this time, and I move to the end of the counter to await my order. Drink in hand, I make the short walk, down a block and over another, to the Hope Springs public library. The two-story stone building nestles between City Hall on the right and the local branch of the Blue Ridge Bank on the left. An older woman at the front desk welcomes me with a warm smile, and when I tell her what I’m looking for, she escorts me to the microfiche room on the second floor.
I spend the afternoon researching old newspaper articles from the town’s Daily Post for information about the Jameson family as well as the inn. Ethan was killed on Friday, October 5, 1990. He was to have wed Meredith Brown the following day. One newspaper account pictures Meredith, wearing a veil over her face, with Billy and his parents at Ethan’s funeral. My grandparents both received quarter-page features at the time of their deaths, Ethan Senior in 1992 and Janis in 1994. Loved by the entire community, Ethan Senior served on boards of many civic organizations and was known for his generosity in supporting nonprofit organizations. A dedicated gardener, Janis served terms as both the president of the Hope Springs Garden Club and the Garden Club of Virginia. I print a copy of The Virginia Gardener magazine article that features photographs of a young Janis in her perennial and herb gardens. I’ve seen no evidence of those gardens during my walks around the farm. My grandmother would roll over in her grave if she knew her hard work had gone to waste.
I pore over every article I can find about the inn, but I don’t discover anything I haven’t already learned from the glossy books. Nor do I find any mention whatsoever of my mother. Of all the dozens of photographs I’ve seen in the books and on the walls at the inn, Hannah is not pictured in a single one of them. So, how did I end up in my mother’s womb? Was she involved in a relationship with Billy? If so, how does Marnie fit in?
The library is preparing to close when I emerge from the microfiche room around five. On my way through the lobby, I ask the same pleasant librarian for a recommendation on a current best seller. From behind the desk, she presents me a copy of Where the Crawdads Sing.
“Been on the bestseller list for months. Certain aspects remind me of To Kill a Mockingbird.”
Harper Lee’s classic was one of my favorites in high school. “I’ll take it. Thank you.”
When I reach for the novel, she jerks it away from me. “You must fill this out first.” She slides an application for a library card across the desk. “I’ll need to see a valid Virginia driver’s license.”
“I don’t have a Virginia driver’s license. I don’t have any kind of driver’s license, actually. I just moved here from New York.” I remove my wallet from my bag. “I have a valid ID card issued by the state of New York.”
“I’m sorry, but I need verification of your local address.” She hugs the book to her chest possessively. “We must protect our property from theft.”
“But I plan to get a license soon. I’ve only been in town for . . .” When I pause to count the number of days since my arrival, I’m surprised the number is only three, including today. So much has happened during that time. “Three days. Can’t you give me a break?” Propping my elbows on the counter, I say, “Would it help if Brian Powers vouches for me? I am Billy Jameson’s daughter, the new manager of the Inn at Hope Springs.”
“Billy Jameson,” she says, her pale eyes glassing over with unshed tears. “Well, I’ll be darn. I knew his family well.”
She taps the library card application. “Fill it out, using the inn as your local address. I’ll issue you a card as long as you promise to bring me your driver’s license as soon as you get one.”
Once I’ve completed my end of the process, she scans my card and the book. “The book is due in two weeks. Don’t make me come looking for you.”
I finger an x across my heart. “I promise. I won’t.”
She walks me to the door. “I’m Rose Mitchell, by the way. Welcome to town, Billy Jameson’s daughter.”
“Thank you,” I say with a smile.
Tucking the hardback book under my arm beneath my raincoat to prevent it from getting wet, I leave the library and dash across the street to the Local Market. I purchase a loaf of seedy bread, several thick slices of cheddar cheese from the deli, and a container of homemade tomato bisque.
Back at the cottage, I heat up the soup and make a grilled cheese sandwich. While I eat my dinner, with the gas logs keeping me company, I listen to my father’s music. His stereo system is antiquated, and even though his vinyl collection is extensive, most of his own music is recorded on cassette tapes. I pay close attention to the lyrics. His music prior to 1990 is upbeat with songs about love and hope and good times had with friends. There’s a twelve-month gap in his recordings following the plane crash. From 1991 onward, his songs are dark.
After putting my dishes away, I rummage through the contents of Billy’s bookshelves. When I find a relatively new model DSLR Canon camera, I spend two hours watching YouTube videos to learn how to use it.
I download the handbook from the Virginia Department of Motor Vehicles with every intention of studying, but my eyes are too computer weary. A few minutes after nine, I change into my pajamas and crawl into bed with the novel I checked out at the library. I’m hooked on page one, and four hours later, I’m still reading.
Ten
Hannah and Marnie stopped going to church years ago, but I consider myself a regular attendee. By regular, I mean once or twice a month and all the major holidays. But I didn’t think to pack a dress, and I don’t have anything appropriate to wear to the pretty little Episcopal church with the stone facade and tall steeple I spotted in town yesterday. I dress in gray slacks and a white silk blouse and head over to Jefferson College for the eleven o’clock service in their chapel. As I stroll through town, I think about the six-year-old protagonist in Where the Crawdads Sing. One by one, her mother and siblings abandoned her, leaving her alone at their shack in the swamp with only her angry alcoholic father to take care of her. How sad her little life must have been. My anger toward my mother softens. While she and Marnie lied to me about my father, they were always loving parents and good providers.
I’m surprised to find the pews in the chapel filled with students—some who look as though they just rolled out of bed. But I understand the attraction when the young female minister delivers her sermon. All eyes focus on Reverend Malone as she counsels her young congregation about making the most of our God-given talents. I feel like she’s talking solely to me when she says, “At some point in your future, opportunity will come knocking on your door. Don’t be afraid when it does. Have confidence in your abilities, commit to doing your best, and put your faith in the Lord.”
I leave the service believing in my heart that I’ve done the right thing in coming to Virginia.
Yesterday’s rain is gone, the sky is clear, and the air warm. I stop in at Caffeine on the Corner on my way home. The coffee shop is empty except for a middle-aged man wearing a gray suit, sipping a warm beverage from a fat white mug while reading the Sunday edition of the Richmond Times Dispatch.
“Welcome back!” Cecily says cheerfully from behind the counter. “How was the library?”
“Productive. I checked out Where the Crawdads Sing. I started it last night. Couldn’t put it down. Have you read it?”
Cecily nods her head, her copper ponytail dancing around her shoulders. “Twice, actually. Finish the book, then we’ll talk.”
“Deal.”
“What’s it gonna be?” Cecily asks. “Another caffe mocha?”
I smile. “I’m surprised you rem
ember with all the orders you must fill.”
“Comes from years of waitressing experience.”
I study the menu on the wall behind her, considering several options. “I’ll have an iced coffee, please.”
She removes a disposable cup from the stack and fills it with ice. “So . . . what brings you to Hope Springs?”
“I inherited the Hope Springs Inn from a father I didn’t know I had.”
“Seriously.” She laughs and then sees from my expression that I’m not joking. “Holy moly!”
“Long story. Remind me to tell you sometime.” I remove my wallet from my bag to pay for my drink. “What about you? How did you end up here?”
She slides my drink across the counter. “Mine is also a long story.” I pay for the drink and she hands me my receipt. “I’m a trained chef. Why don’t I make you dinner in exchange for a tour of the inn? I drive by there every day, and I’m dying to see inside. We can exchange stories while we eat.”
“You mean tonight?” I’ve never had dinner with a virtual stranger before. She must be as desperate for friends as me.
She shrugs. “Sure! If you’re free.”
“Are you joking? I’m free for the foreseeable future. Does six o’clock work?”
“Six o’clock is perfect.”
Back at the farm, I venture over to the main building with Billy’s camera slung over my shoulder. My goal is to take before photographs for my album, but when I can’t figure out how to adjust the light sensor on the camera, and the images turn out yellow, I resort to using my phone to take the pictures.
Outside is a different story. The camera loves the blue sky and natural sunlight. I snap dozens of images, not only of the exterior of the rotting buildings but of the budding flowers and trees. I see the world through different eyes. Through my grandmother’s eyes, a woman passionate about gardening, and through Owens’s protagonist Kya’s eyes, a child living on her own in a swamp with only seagulls and herons for companions. As I walk around the grounds, I look for signs of Janis’s gardens, but it’s been twenty-seven years since her death, and a few spindly rose bushes are the only signs of her handiwork.
Dream Big, Stella! Page 7