by Tena Frank
Tate reeled herself back in as much as she could. “I know this seems really weird. I’m a complete stranger to you, but I’m okay, really. I just need a few minutes to collect myself.” Tate’s crying slowed and her laughter stopped completely.
“You’re sure? You don’t need help getting up or anything?”
“Absolutely sure.”
“Well then . . .” and John started back down the aisle, turning a couple of times on his way, a puzzled and concerned look etched across his face.
Tate sat alone in the shadowed space and let her emotions run free again. They ran the gamut from grief to joy, touching along the way on the countless highs and lows of her life, the concessions she had made, the stands she had taken, the losses suffered, the battles won, all the decisions and actions—from tiny to life-changing—that had led her to this moment. They flowed over her and threatened to drown her, and as she had always done in the past, she resurfaced to find herself strong and vibrantly alive.
The cathartic experience left Tate feeling vulnerable. Given the opportunity, she would have curled up in a darkened room and slept, but she had important things to do that demanded immediate attention.
“I’ll be back to pick it up soon,” Tate told John as she paid for the mantle. It’s a gift for a dear friend and I want to give it to her as soon as possible.”
FORTY-EIGHT
2004
Cally climbed out of a deep sleep and dropped her feet to the floor. They barely touched, given the height of the bed, and she felt like falling back into the cozy nest. But she had already missed breakfast as well as the early morning hours, her favorite part of the day, so she pushed herself out of bed and into the shower.
Thirty minutes later, Dawn stopped her as she was heading out the door of the hotel. “Hey, Cally! How’d your grandfather like the brownies?”
“Dawn! Oh, sorry! I should have made it a point to stop by and see you when I got back yesterday. But I was exhausted! Will you forgive me?”
“No need to apologize, my dear. You look like you could use a cup of coffee and some breakfast.”
“I could, but I’ll get something outside. I missed breakfast by a good hour.”
“Well, that works out just fine because we have the dining room to ourselves and we can chat for a while. If you have time, that is.”
“I’ve got plenty of time, Dawn, but I don’t want to put you out. You must be cleaning up and getting ready to leave.”
“Yep, but I have time to fix an omelet and brew a fresh pot of coffee. I haven’t eaten yet myself. Will you join me?”
Cally watched as Dawn prepared their meal. Starting with organic, free-range eggs, she dressed them up with sautéed red onion and portabella mushrooms, Havarti cheese and baby spinach, then a garnish of fresh, spicy, tomato salsa. They took their omelets, a carafe of hot coffee and toasted French peasant bread to the small café table on the back patio. Although chilly morning air greeted them, the women were bathed in sunlight. Cally sank back and took in a deep, cleansing breath and let out a long sigh as she exhaled.
Dawn watched as Cally settled in. “From the sounds of that, you need to decompress as much as you need to eat!”
“That’s the truth! You’re very perceptive.”
“Vacation shouldn’t be so stressful, Cally. Was it hard seeing your grandfather yesterday?”
“I wish this were a vacation! No . . . actually I don’t wish that, but you’re right. It has been stressful, and I’m not handling it all that well.”
“Want to tell me about it? I’m a good listener as well as a good cook.”
“Let me try the cooking first.” Cally took a bite of the eggs. “Wow! That’s one of the best omelets I’ve ever eaten. What did you season it with? I must not have been paying attention.”
“That’s one of my little secrets. I’ll tell you when I get to know you better.” Dawn poured coffee for both of them.
“Well, guess I’ll have to stick around so I can learn the secret.”
“Hopefully that isn’t the only reason you’ll want to be my friend.” Dawn held Cally’s gaze.
Cally felt a familiar tug in her solar plexus and quickly changed the subject. “This is all delicious, Dawn. Thanks for offering it. I planned to grab something over at City Bakery.”
“Sounds like you’ve got plans for the day.”
“I do. I’m going to look around an old house in Montford. Tate—you know, my friend who found Gampa for me—she found this place, which led her to Gampa, and . . . wait. I’m rambling.
“Rambling is fine. There’s no place I’d rather be right now.” Dawn’s smile matched her sentiment.
“That’s very generous of you, Dawn. Are you always like this with women you hardly know?”
“Only the ones I find especially interesting.”
“Oh, I . . .” Cally didn’t respond to the obvious come-on.
“So tell me about the place and about your visit yesterday.”
As they finished breakfast and a second cup of coffee, Cally talked briefly about the old house in Montford and shared the highlights of the previous day. She emphasized how much her grandfather and the staff at Forest Glen had enjoyed the homemade brownies and thanked Dawn again for helping with them. Cally found herself relaxing into the conversation and enjoying Dawn’s company, but she took care not to mention how emotionally draining the past few days had been.
“Sounds like you’ve been in quite a whirlwind.”
“For sure. It’s been up and down, but mostly up and filled with surprises. I can’t even begin to say what it’s been like to find Gampa again after all these years. That’s probably the best thing that’s ever happened in my entire life.”
“I guess it’ll be pretty hard to leave him when you head back to Los Angeles.”
“Funny you should bring that up.” Cally considered how much to share. “I may not be going back.”
“Really?”
“This place feels like home to me. It is home. There’s no reason to go back to L.A. At least not a good enough one to make me want to return.”
“But what about work? And all your friends?”
“I don’t need to work . . . at least not for a while. And it’s obvious to me I can make friends here.”
A broad smile creased Dawn’s face. “I’m happy to hear that.”
“I’ve only known Tate for a few days, and she’s the best friend I’ve ever had. Sounds strange, but . . .”
“It doesn’t sound strange to me. She gave you back your grandfather, and from what I can tell, you’ve been longing for a connection to your past your whole life.”
Cally began weeping. She dabbed her tears away with her napkin and took a deep breath to help rein in her emotions.
“It’s okay, Cally. You can cry in front of me.”
“It may be okay with you, but it isn’t with me. I’m a pretty strong woman . . . very strong, really. But I’ve been crying at the drop of a hat for days, and I’m getting pretty tired of it.”
“Well, then. I won’t encourage any more of it!” Dawn clapped her hands together twice. “Buck up, little cowgirl!” Cally burst into laughter and Dawn joined in.
“Now that’s just what I needed. Thanks!”
“You’re more than welcome.” Dawn noticed Cally had not finished her meal. “Are you done with that, or would you like to finish it? I can brew more coffee . . .”
“I’m done. You have things to do, I’m sure, and so do I. But thanks, Dawn. This has been an unexpected pleasure.”
“I’m glad you joined me, Cally. I hope we’ll have more little get-togethers like this in the future.”
“I’m looking forward to it. I’ll see you again, soon, I’m sure.”
Dawn sang a little song to herself as she began picking up the dishes and watching Cally depart.
Finding her way around Asheville became easier each time Cally ventured out on her own. Everything had seemed a jumble when she’d first arrived, but now sh
e recognized the old streets from her childhood and had a good understanding of the new routes that had emerged when the Interstate cut a wide swath through town. She took her time, winding her way through the pretty side streets, checking out the trendy shops and restaurants that now occupied the old, restored buildings. Eventually she parked at the curb in front of 305 Chestnut Street.
Yesterday she’d sat at this same spot with Tate after the intense meeting with Richard Price, and she’d felt overwhelmed. Huge, dilapidated, ugly . . . those words flooded her mind then and she made a vow now that she would try to see the place as Tate saw it: a thing worthy of being cherished and brought back to life. It would be demolished unless someone took immediate action. But, try as she might, no vision of beauty materialized as she studied the tired, old house. She wanted to simply drive away and forget Tate’s haunting words of the previous afternoon: “I think it belongs to you, now, Cally.”
But those words had been spoken, and they had landed hard on Cally. She’d felt the truth of them reverberating through her body. An unwelcome responsibility. That’s what this place is. Why does Tate love it so much? What on earth will I ever do with it? Those thoughts rolled around in Cally’s mind as she left the car and reluctantly climbed the crumbling steps to inspect her destiny. Most often, life’s challenges are immediately obvious. The same cannot be said for life’s blessings.
Cally noticed everything wrong with the house and property at 305 Chestnut—its overgrown and ragged landscaping, tawdry bits of colored glass embedded in the retaining wall, moldy paint, missing cedar shakes, sagging gutters, grimy windows, pock-marked front door. Everywhere she looked she saw decay and sadness. She felt it, too, as if by stepping onto the property, she’d crossed an invisible boundary into a web of gloom and sorrow and left the living world behind.
A man passing on the sidewalk below noticed her car, looked up and saw her. A startled expression captured his face as he quickened his pace and hurried away as if he’d seen a ghost. No one loves this place. They even try not to see it. That thought broke through Cally’s sense of dysphoria, and she remembered seeing people respond in a similar way to her mother. Rita had become invisible the deeper she sank into depression and alcoholism, and the world had shrunk away from her until only Cally remained. Ragged, sagging, tawdry—they could all describe Mom, too.
Anguish took Cally prisoner as the unexpected comparison between her mother and the old house exploded. She doubled over from a piercing pain in her solar plexus. Willing herself to move, she stumbled whimpering around the corner to the back porch where she dropped to the floor under the long row of kitchen windows. She curled into a fetal position and sobbed until her grief-induced flash flood of tears subsided.
Exhausted, she rolled onto her back, pulled her knees up and stuffed her bunched-up jacket under her head, then fell into a state of deep contemplation. She lay there for a long time, drifting in and out of awareness, revisiting times with her mother, both good and bad, the precious moments she’d recently spent with Leland, being read to while she rested in Ellie’s arms and a raft of other memories and images. The slow motion chronicle floated through her awareness like a discombobulated version of the old television show This is Your Life, and she fell into it, reliving the ups and downs without judgment or remorse.
She may have slept, she couldn’t be sure, but she came back to alertness when a ray of sunshine picked its way through the nearly bare branches of a huge maple tree and played along the surface of her face. She shivered in the chill, stretched out to her full length, sat up and leaned against the wall. She felt something poking into her back, and as she turned to see what it was, she spied the expansive kitchen. She caught her breath at the sight of it.
Cally’s long-held-but-never-realized dream of becoming a gourmet cook sprang to the surface. She envisioned an array of colorful, fresh ingredients laid out on the white-tiled counter tops, pots bubbling on the vintage stove, the aroma of hand-crafted bread emanating from the oven, all of it crystal clear. And it surprised her to find Dawn standing beside her in the imagined domestic mecca rather than Tate.
Cally realized her earlier feeling of foreboding had vanished and been replaced by a sense of anticipation, perhaps even excitement. Maybe the place could be saved, should be saved, after all, as Tate believed. And just maybe she was the person to do it.
With renewed energy, Cally surveyed the house and grounds with an eye to how it could be restored to its optimal condition. She knew little about owning property or the various aspects of construction and rehabilitation. She would need experts, a trusted team to guide her and carry out the work. Tate would help with that. And she would need money. She had her savings and investments, a substantial retirement fund. She could sell the condominium in Los Angeles . . . but she had no idea if what she had would be sufficient for the monumental task of rescuing the house. It will be my house, mine! I need to own it in my heart before I can even think about owning it on paper.
Cally took her time walking the property, poking into corners and peeking into windows. She found a rusted glider languishing in the brush under the maple tree, a broken birdbath of blue glazed tiles buried under layers of moldering leaves, a wasp’s nest cemented under the gutters of a second floor balcony. She sat for a bit on the edge of the old fish pond and absentmindedly pulled up some of the weeds growing there. With every new discovery and each small gesture, she took another step toward possession of the house. By the time she headed back to her car, the place belonged to her and she had fallen in love with it, even in its decrepitude. Now she would have to find a way to make her ownership legal.
Cally had lost all sense of time since she’d parked and climbed the steps to the house. When she reached the car, she realized with a jolt she had not called Tate as promised. She reached for her phone and remembered suddenly that she had left it on the nightstand. She returned to the hotel as quickly as possible and dialed Tate’s number, eager to make plans to meet for dinner and share the day’s discoveries and decisions. She just needed a few hours to herself to reconcile all the new plans forming in her mind.
FORTY-NINE
2004
Tate headed back to Asheville after making arrangements with John Hathburn to get the mantel ready for pickup. If Cally didn’t want it, she would keep it.
Where is Cally, anyway? Why won’t she answer my calls? Tate had tried to reach her three times since waking and Cally’s lack of response worried her. But Tate also recognized another feeling hovering under the surface, one uncommon for her. She felt disappointed about not having someone to share this adventure with. That, piled on top of the swamp of emotions she’d just survived, added up to the beginning of a really foul mood.
A niggling resentment crept into Tate’s awareness, and she tried to swallow it away. The letdown she experienced had grown out of her assumption that she and Cally would spend the day together even though Cally had made no such promise. That’s on me, not her.
Accepting responsibility for her feelings did little to assuage them, so Tate turned her attention to her to-do list. Check in with Dave and then . . . what? Plenty of things awaited her attention, but none captivated her like finding the mantel. Need to shake this off, get out of my head . . .
The phone rang and Tate picked up immediately.
“Hey, Tate. It’s me. How are you doing?” Cally sounded perky and that poked at Tate’s already grumpy mood.
“Driving down the road. Shouldn’t be on the cell phone, but I hoped it was you. Been trying to reach you all day.”
“I know. I’m really sorry about that. I left the hotel without my phone and didn’t realize it until half an hour ago. I meant to call much earlier.” Cally sounded truly apologetic, and Tate felt her annoyance beginning to slip away.
“Oh. That makes sense. Where are you now?”
“Back at the hotel, just now. It’s been an eventful day. Can we meet later, maybe for dinner, and I’ll tell you all about it?”
T
ate checked the time—3:45. “I’ve got a better idea, Cally. There’s something I’d like to show you, and we can do it today if we leave soon. I could pick you up.”
“That sounds mysterious, Tate, but I’m really exhausted. Can it wait?”
“Of course it could, but . . .” Tate’s eagerness to show Cally the mantel overrode her ability to tune into her friend’s reluctance. “. . . well, if you really don’t want to go, then it’ll have to wait.” Snappish. Impatient. Not what she intended, but her comment had come out that way nonetheless.
“Sounds like it’s important to you, Tate. Want to tell me where we’d be going?”
“Not unless you insist. I promise it will be a nice surprise.” She tried to tone down her attitude.
“Another surprise? I’m too tired to cry like a baby again, and it seems that’s all I’ve been doing lately when faced with surprises.”
“I can’t guarantee you won’t cry, Cally, but I’m ninety-nine percent sure you’re gonna love it.”
“Then I guess I can’t refuse. I’ll wait for you downstairs.” Cally did not sound enthusiastic.
“I’ll be there in ten minutes, fifteen tops. See you shortly.”
Tate should have known better. Her nerves were raw and her mood irritable. Together they created a volatile cocktail that usually triggered the anger she so arduously tried to avoid. She should have headed directly home and isolated herself until she felt more in control. She should not have pushed Cally or herself into another emotionally charged situation. But once she set her mind on something, even common sense could not divert her.
Cally seemed quiet as Tate drove back to Weaverville. Although she chatted about the weather and delicious breakfast with Dawn, she sidestepped revealing what had kept her so busy all day, even after Tate made a couple of attempts to open that conversation. Cally made her own effort to discover the nature of the impending surprise, but Tate remained tight-lipped.