She was both a throwback and a progressive when it came to her business model. And she lived in a house made of stone. Stone older than Xander had seen in a long time.
He ran his hands across the grey river stones that made up her house as he wiped his feet on the mat. The weathered red door reminded him of a cottage he’d rented in Ireland one summer during a college break when he’d consulted on some historic restorations. Homes like that, and like Calliope’s, were built to stand the test of time.
A wreath that matched the one on his own home away from home was topped with a crooked, shiny gold bow. The window boxes positively exploded with holiday color—red, white and pink poinsettias intermingling as nature intended.
“Are you going to gawk at my home all day or come in?” Calliope lifted a crookedly made coffee mug into the stream of sunlight arching through her kitchen window. He could see—and smell—the steam rising into the air. His stomach growled.
“Can’t I do both?”
“I don’t know how you can do anything when you’re buttoned up as tightly as you are.” She motioned him to the table, where she set down his coffee. “Loosening one or two might make you breathe a bit easier.”
“Now you’re criticizing my clothes?”
“Merely making an observation. No offense meant.”
“None taken, then.” He touched his fingers to his throat and...opened the top two buttons of his shirt. “The scones smell amazing.”
“Thank you. They’re lemon thyme. My grandmother’s recipe. She taught me to bake them when I was a little younger than Stella.”
“Was this your grandmother’s house?” He sipped at his coffee and accepted the morning jolt happily. The tree in the corner of the sitting room displayed flickering lights and antique ornaments, most of them handmade. Sprigs of mistletoe dotted the branches and cascaded down from the window ledges on the inside of the house.
“And her mother’s, yes. Gran built on, of course.” She turned on the gas stove beneath a well-seasoned cast-iron skillet and set to cracking eggs in sizzling butter. “Originally it was just this room here. Then as the family grew, and technology improved, so did the house.”
“You’ve lived here all your life.” He reached out and plucked a persimmon from the bowl on the table. “Do you mind?”
“Help yourself.” She glanced over her shoulder. “Just save enough for Stella. She plans to make cookies for the Christmas fair.”
He nodded, retrieved a knife to cut off the top, then bit into the orange flesh. That crispy snap reminded him of Saturdays in the apple orchard with his grandfather. “My mother used to make persimmon jam. I remember coming down on a Saturday and slathering her homemade bread with it.”
“Your mother’s a baker then?”
“My mother’s a bit of everything. Dad was focused on the family business, Mom minded the family.” If only his father had paid a little more attention to the firm in the last couple of years, maybe they wouldn’t be in the situation they were in today.
“You mentioned your sister, Ophelia. Older or younger?”
“Younger. I’m the second oldest. Antony, then me, Ophelia, Dyna and Alethea, the baby.”
“Five.” Calliope breathed the word as she shook her head. “Yes, your mother would be a bit of everything. Good morning, poppet.”
“Morning.”
Xander looked over his shoulder as Stella shuffled into the kitchen. She wore knitted cat slippers on her feet and a yellow nightgown dotted with tiny pink flowers. Her long red hair tumbled around her shoulders, as if to keep her warm against the morning chill coming through the open front door.
“Hello, again.” Xander retrieved the mug Calliope held out and set it on the table for the little girl. “Did we wake you up?”
“No.” She sank onto the bench across from him and rubbed her eyes. “I had that dream again.”
“About the owls?” Calliope went about her breakfast, flipping and seasoning the eggs before stooping over to retrieve the sheet of scones from the oven. “Was it the white or brown one this time?”
“Both. They were trying to tell me something.”
Xander watched Stella’s brow furrow as she gnawed on her lower lip. “I used to dream about a talking frog named Sherman,” he offered.
The sisters looked at him, something akin to confusion on their faces.
“Frogs can be powerful omens and spirit animals,” Calliope said after she blinked a few times. “Do you mind me asking what Sherman said?”
“No, I don’t mind. But I don’t remember. I was about Stella’s age when it stopped.” Or at least when he stopped talking about the dreams. Antony had taken inordinate pleasure teasing him about dreaming about amphibians rather than baseball or soccer.
“Did the dreams scare you? Did...Sherman scare you?” Stella cupped her mug between her hands and leaned her arms on the table. The way her wide amethyst eyes peered into his had Xander shifting in his seat.
“Ah, not that I recall. I’ve always seemed to attract frogs, though.” He drank some of his coffee. “I remember working on a construction project in Louisiana. Place was teeming with them. They didn’t stay long. A few days later they were gone.”
“Frogs are considered good luck in many cultures.” Calliope slid the nicely toasted scones onto a plate and set it on the table. “They symbolize life and abundance. They’re also helpful in cleaning one’s soul and eradicating negativity. I would think that was their way of bestowing their approval on the project.”
“Not sure if my soul needs cleaning,” Xander said as he and Stella both reached for the biggest scone. He grinned and let her win and considered her wide smile his reward. “All I know is Antony still calls me Frog Boy when he wants to annoy me.”
“I’ll keep that in mind. Stella, did you talk to the owls this time or did you run away again?”
Stella ducked her head and looked far too interested in her breakfast. “I don’t remember.”
Xander glanced up at Calliope.
“Until you listen to what they have to say, the dreams won’t stop. We talked about this before, remember?”
“I know.” Stella sighed. “Sometimes I just wish they’d leave me alone.”
“They will.” Calliope reached over and caught Stella’s chin in her hand to tilt up her sister’s face. “When you’ve heard them out.”
Xander frowned as he ate, caught between the buttery goodness in his mouth and the oddity of the conversation. Talking to animals in your dreams? Listening to them? He’d already decided Calliope was eccentric, but this was taking things a bit far...wasn’t it?
“Finish up your breakfast and go get dressed,” Calliope said. “Our guests will start arriving soon and I’d like you to help fill people’s orders.”
“Really?” The heaviness in Stella’s eyes eased as her face lit up. “You mean like without supervision?”
“I think you’re ready. Just remember to—”
“Be kind and gentle and thank the earth for its gift. Yeah, yeah, I know.” Stella rolled her eyes and grabbed a napkin for her scone, then darted back to her room.
“You’re just humoring her with all this omen stuff, right?” Xander asked Calliope as she set a plate of eggs in front of him. The yolks stared back at him like glistening orange balls of sunshine. “You don’t really believe—”
“I believe every creature in this world has a story to tell. A message to convey. In whatever world they inhabit.”
There was resignation in her tone, as if his comment had confirmed her worst suspicions of him. Not that it wasn’t a unique way to help Stella deal with her nightmares, making whatever was scaring her seem less intimidating than it was. That said he’d have gladly traded his frog dreams for one of majestic, wise owls.
“Is the butterfly your spirit animal?” He watched as she joined him, sitting in St
ella’s vacated seat.
“In a manner of speaking.” Even when cutting her eggs and breaking apart a scone she had a gentle touch. “I’ve always felt a connection to them, for as long as I can remember. Have you ever heard a butterfly’s whisper?”
“I can’t say I have.” As far as he knew butterflies didn’t have vocal chords.
She reached for a napkin and wiped her mouth. “It’s not something I can describe. It’s something one has to hear for themselves, but it only happens if you’re open to it.”
“And you don’t think I am?” Why on earth should he feel so offended?
“I think there’s a lot of noise in your world. In your life. In your mind. Not just you,” she added when he opened his mouth to argue. “All that white noise in our lives, from the traffic outside to the buzzing of a television, to the constant hum of appliances and electronics. It all deafens us to what’s really going on around us. Like now.” She leaned forward and peered into his eyes in that way she had earlier, only now instead of restrained irritation he found challenge in their purple depths. “Tell me what you hear.”
“Nothing.”
Calliope sighed. “You didn’t even stop to think before you answered. Come with me.” She slipped her hand around his and pulled him away from the table, back outside to her front porch. She dropped down on the plank floor, tugging him beside her as she curled her legs under her. “Look out there. What do you see?”
He stretched out his legs and tried to get comfortable. “Green. Lots and lots of green.”
“You might know that even if you were color-blind.”
“How do you know I’m not?” he teased. She gave him a side-eyed glance that felt far more intimate than he would have expected. “Okay, sorry. You’re right, I’m not.”
She released his hand and brushed her fingers up his arm. He shivered and credited the cool morning air as the cause of the sensation. “There’s more to see in the world than color. In everything that surrounds us. Not just plants and flowers and trees, but for now, let’s focus on those. Look, really look at what’s just beyond here.” She lifted her hand and traced the outline of one of the crops along a board with her finger. “There’s contour, placement, how each leaf of those plants nestles against one another, supporting one another as they grow to fruition. And there’s what’s under the soil, the roots, the foundation of all that rises above it.”
“I can’t see any of that.” How did she?
“Just because you can’t now doesn’t mean you won’t ever. Look closer. See the way the vegetation interacts with the soil, how it draws its strength from all that surrounds it. One plant can exist on its own if its will is strong enough. It will provide what it’s meant to, if only for a short time. But place that same plant in a community, surround it with nourishment and care and love, and it will thrive and continue to do so until that security is removed.”
Something told him they weren’t talking about broccoli and rutabagas anymore.
“Everything is connected.” Her voice softened. “Here in Butterfly Harbor, out there, in every other city, town, home. You live in a noisy world, Xander Costas. You’re inundated with sounds and thoughts and intentions that come flying at you twenty-four hours a day. Now close your eyes.” She leaned toward him and lowered her voice. “Close your eyes and tell me what you hear.”
Tingles raced up his arm where she continued to touch him. The practical side of him was laughing, but the hopeful, romantic side surrendered to her urging. He’d humor her. For now. If only because he found conversing with Calliope Jones almost as exhilarating as arguing with her.
With a sigh of surrender, he closed his eyes.
The silence pushed in on him, suffocating, and he knew if he yelled, no one would hear him. This was ridiculous. He had a job to complete so he could get home, and, hopefully, by next year, get his family and the family business restored to what they had once been. Sitting around listening for...what? Exactly what was he listening for, anyway? As if he’d know what nature...
“Stop thinking so much.” Her voice drifted through his mind as gently as the morning breeze grazed his skin. “Stop thinking at all and just...listen.”
Xander bit the inside of his cheek. If his brother and sisters could see him now, he’d never live this down. Except Alethea might be open to it. His youngest sibling really went all in for this connecting-with-nature stuff. It wasn’t that he didn’t appreciate what the natural world offered, but in his experience, in his work, it provided more barriers than offerings. Land could be temperamental, even more so than people, and it rarely, if ever, bent to the will of human beings. Sometimes he felt as if he’d been battling it his entire life, which was why, no doubt, other than the muted roar of the ocean in the far-off distance, the only sound to reach his skeptical, reserved ears was silence.
And then he heard Calliope sigh—it was a resigned, disappointed sound that had him abandoning his efforts and opening his eyes. He turned his head and found her sitting against the porch railing, knees drawn up to her chest, the hem of her green dress brushing lightly over her painted pink toes. As he drew his gaze back to her face, he felt his own pang of disappointment when she dropped her chin, her brow furrowing and a frown tugging at her lips.
“Why are you here?” she asked.
“Is this the existential portion of the conversation?”
“Answering a question with another question is a sign of avoidance.” She wrapped her arms around her knees and pulled herself in tighter. “It also reveals an intent to conceal. Are you hiding something from us, Xander?”
That she’d dropped the formality with his name felt like progress, but the way she continued to watch him made him feel like prey beneath the talons of a persistent hawk.
“No one’s life is an open book. No matter how fast you might try to turn the pages.”
Her lips quirked and her eyes glimmered with appreciation. “A wordsmith after my own heart. Why did you take this job?”
“Because I needed to.” It didn’t occur to him to lie. Not to her.
“But not because you felt a connection to the work.” She leaned forward and those amethyst eyes of hers peered deeply into his. “Intent matters, Xander. The energy you put into something matters. This sanctuary might be some throwaway project to you, something to make your résumé sparkle and shine, but this place matters to us. It matters to me. I suppose it might come off as eccentric or silly to someone like you, protecting creatures as innocuous as butterflies. Just as I—” she touched her fingers to her heart “—might think that the stone monstrosities humans create in reverence to themselves come off as harmful and egocentric. But it’s respect that keeps us from voicing our misconceptions, isn’t it?”
“You don’t think I respect you?”
“I’m not talking about me,” Calliope admonished with the expertise of a teacher chiding a naughty student. “I’m talking about the work. I’m asking you to consider that building something as innocuous and simplistic as a butterfly sanctuary might have a longer lasting impact than a shopping mall in Greece. Or a high-rise in Chicago.” She pushed to her feet and brushed her hands down the back of her dress as footsteps pounded inside the house.
“I’ll go open the gates for our guests and get the baskets ready!” Stella bounded out of the house, feet bare, flowered dress ruffling around her ankles as she darted down the stairs.
“What is it you want from me?” Xander asked Calliope as she stepped off the porch. He didn’t like the idea he’d disappointed her in some way. In any way. And yet...he had.
“An open mind. Listen, Xander. Not to me. Not to Gil or anyone else who might have an opinion of what should be done. Listen to all that surrounds you. Listen to your heart.” She tapped her ear and smiled as the heaviness in her eyes faded under the morning sun. “That’s where all answers can be found.”
CHAPTER SIX
“TRY IT AGAIN!” Socket wrench in hand, Calliope stepped back from the hood of her normally trustworthy car and crossed her fingers. Click. Click, click, click.
Stella sagged in the driver’s seat. “It’s dead. Now what do we do?”
Calliope swallowed hard, frustration knotting so hard in her stomach it almost hurt. They were already an hour later than she wanted to be for the drive to their mother’s care facility. If only she hadn’t promised Emmaline she’d be there today. If there was one thing Calliope never did, it was break a promise.
Even if the person she’d made the promise to wouldn’t remember.
Her heart stumbled as tears burned the back of her throat. Trips to visit their mother were the only reason she kept the car in the first place. Without it...
“Sounds like your starter.”
Calliope spun at the voice, shocked and a little unnerved at the way Xander casually stepped out from around the house. He’d bought one of Stella’s baskets, a sturdy one with a vine-wrapped handle, and filled it with a healthy selection of produce along with a cellophane bag of scones.
The snarky retort poised on her lips unsettled her. Why was his mere appearance enough to set her on edge? Because no man had any right to look as beautiful as he did walking through her gardens, black hair blowing in the breeze like some Renaissance painter on his way to his studio. He’d rolled up his shirtsleeves and left the buttons at his collar undone. And his shoes—those gorgeous impractical shoes—were caked in mud and dirt.
It was images like this that inspired the creation of man in the first place. She let out a long breath and pushed her nerves into the air. “The starter, huh? Okay. If you say so.” It had been over an hour since she’d closed the market. Over an hour since she’d sent the last of the Saturday morning customers off with their goodies. “What are you still doing here?”
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