Honeysuckle Season

by Mary Ellen Taylor

Dust kicked up around her tires as the road hooked to the left and then to the right. A small sign read MAIN HOUSE and pointed left. She went left.

  She had been here enough times to know the road fed into a circular driveway that wound around a tall white colonial house.

  To the left and right were two large gardens. The one on her left was a floral garden bordered by neatly trimmed boxwoods. Access was made through an archway wrapped in thick strands of honeysuckle. In the center of the floral garden was a copper sundial atop a weathered stone pillar. Etched into the metal were the words from an English poet: “A garden is always a series of losses set against a few triumphs.” The floral garden emanated from this center spot, spiraling outward in a circular arrangement of poppies, daylilies, and blue cornflowers.

  The garden on the other side of the road was the more practical of the two, though it was no less beautiful. It sported gravel pathways defining square beds bursting with lush fresh herbs, and a trellis displayed vines supporting ripening tomatoes, clusters of cucumbers, and purple and green string beans. Scattered among the vegetables were flowering bushes that added a controlled wildness that kept it from looking too staid.

  All traces of Saturday’s wedding had been cleaned up, and the place looked as pristine as it had when she had done the walk-through with the bride.

  Out of her car, she hefted her backpack on her shoulder. A dog’s deep woof followed by the yap of another dog sounded close. Both were moving toward her at top speed. And this is when the lonely photographer is mauled by the wild animals.

  The deep bark turned out to belong to a black Lab mix who was not more than a year old. The second woof was attached to an old dachshund with short hair, bowed legs, and a big-dog attitude. The Lab scooped up a stick in her mouth, wagging her tail so quickly it was a miracle she made any forward progress. The dachshund remained aloof, though his hackles were not up. The Lab promptly dropped the stick at Libby’s feet while the dachshund sniffed the air around her.

  “Hey there, guys.” She ran her hand over the Lab’s collar until she touched the name tag. “Kelce. That’s a different name.”

  The dog barked at the sound of her name.

  Libby picked up the stick, tossed it, and watched Kelce bound after it. The dog retrieved the stick and quickly returned. Libby tossed the stick again. Kelce took off running.

  The dachshund made no attempt to get in on the game.

  “What’s your name?” His tag read SARGE. She rubbed him between the ears. “Good to meet you, Sarge.”

  After walking around the house with her newfound friends, she climbed the hand-hewed stone steps to the porch. At the wedding, the house had been open and welcoming and full of laughter and music. Now, closed up and quiet, it had a standoffish air.

  She knocked on the front door as Kelce dropped the stick at her feet. “You can do this all day, can’t you?”

  Kelce nosed the stick toward her.

  “Libby?”

  Kelce, Sarge, and Libby turned at the sound of Elaine’s familiar voice. “Elaine.”

  Elaine stood in the circular driveway as the dogs rushed toward her. She wore faded jeans, a T-shirt that read WOODMONT, and boots all covered in dirt. Her hair was pulled into a ponytail on the verge of escaping the rubber band, and she wore no makeup. Her skin was paler than Libby remembered, and there were slight shadows under her eyes.

  An odd sense of nervousness slithered up her back. It made no sense that Libby should be so nervous. This was about a job of sorts. She had done hundreds like it.

  Elaine walked up to her. “Right on time.”

  “It’s an obsession with me.”

  “A woman after my own heart,” Elaine replied. “I’d shake your hand, but I’m covered in dirt. I’ve been pulling vines off the old greenhouse, and the job turned messier than I imagined.”

  “I didn’t realize there was a greenhouse on the property.”

  “Only a few of the old-timers remember it. It was closed down in the mideighties. My grandfather had built it for my grandmother as a wedding gift. After they died, I had it closed up because it wasn’t the kind of project my twentysomething self wanted to maintain. Over three decades later, I see its beauty and regret my decision to neglect it for so long.”

  “You took over this property that long ago?”

  Elaine motioned to two white rockers, and they both sat. “My grandparents left the property to me when I was about your age, maybe a little younger. It always goes to the oldest in the next generation, though I was the only Carter left at the time. Ginger’s late father, Jeb, managed the place, but as he got sicker, I didn’t have the heart to place too many demands on him. He did less and less, and when he passed, I didn’t replace him. We stepped back, and nature took over, as it always does.”

  “The gardens look amazing now.”

  “I can thank Colton for that. When he called two years ago and asked about the job, it seemed like perfect timing. There was so much work to be done in the main gardens, and Margaret wanted her grandchildren close. I asked Colton to concentrate his efforts on the main gardens and also a major kitchen renovation.”

  “Colton helped me out at the ceremony. He swooped in and gave me a lift in the rain. But he was scarce for most of the family photos.”

  “That’s Colton.”

  “So you’re gearing up to be an event space? What I saw on Saturday was nicely done.”

  “That was a favor to Ginger. I’ve not committed to opening the place up yet. But I want Woodmont photographed and cataloged so that if I do decide to open up, I’ll be ready.”

  “I have pictures to show you from the wedding and some from the walk-through a couple of weeks ago. Neither day was ideal, but if you get a few more days like today, there’s no doubt anyone could take a good picture.”

  “Days like today remind me of why I come back to Woodmont as often as I can.”

  “You don’t live here full-time?”

  “I split my time between here and Washington, DC. I’ve cut back on my law practice schedule so I can spend more time here.”

  “I don’t blame you. I love the early summer here. My mother and I came here for Historic Garden Week when I was a kid. We always had a wonderful time.”

  Elaine’s smile creased lines at the corners of her eyes and around her mouth. “We’re thinking about opening up the gardens next year. That’s the week when we get to show off all the work done over the winter.”

  “You have about two hundred acres, right?”

  “We’re down to one hundred and fifty. Sold off fifty acres a couple of years back to cover the renovations. The new owner has started clearing the land now for his vineyard.” She grinned. “Everyone fancies themselves a wine maker.”

  “Woodmont’s been in your family this whole time?”

  “Basically. It’s passed between various branches of the family until my grandfather inherited the place.”

  “Would you like to see some of the pictures from Ginger’s wedding?”

  “I saw some this morning, as a matter of fact. You sent a link to Ginger last night, and she forwarded it to me so I could show Margaret. You made a very rainy day look remarkably cheery. My favorite shot was of Ginger and Cameron running in the rain. Drenched, hands clasped, mud splashing, and both laughing.”

  Libby had had the same reaction when she had first studied the picture. “Thanks.”

  “I’d like you to photograph the property as well as the renovation of the greenhouse. My daughter, Lofton, also tells me Woodmont is ripe for social media.”

  “The gardens and greenhouse renovations will be a sure hit. If you decide to open up the space, it’ll get booked quickly. But are you sure you want me to take the pictures? I’m a wedding photographer, and you might want someone with still-life experience.”

  “I suspect you’re up to the task.” She brushed away a strand of hair, smiling. “You’ve been to lots of places like this?”

  “Yes. And I’m sincere when I say you h
ave something special here.”

  Libby reached in her bag for a gray slick folder she used as a presentation package. Affixed on the outside was a round sticker with the LM Photography logo. “I do have a price list if you want to review it first.”

  Elaine accepted the folder but did not bother to open it. “I was on your website. Your prices fit with our budget.”

  “I have several packages. Maybe if you show me the greenhouse, I can make a suggestion.”

  “Sounds lovely.” Her gaze dropped to Libby’s high heels. “Can you walk in those?”

  “Sure.”

  They both rose and walked down the porch steps. “Then follow me, and I’ll give you the ten-cent tour. We’ll walk the upper grounds, and then I’ll drive us to the greenhouse on the lower property.”

  Kelce picked up a stick and brought it to Libby, nudging it at her hand. She accepted it and tossed it ahead. The dog took off after it and returned, ready to go again. Sarge trotted behind, woofing every so often.

  Behind the main house was a row of white cottages that looked as old as the main house. “In its original form, Woodmont was a working farm,” Elaine said. “These structures housed the overseer and laborers who tended the wheat in the fields.”

  Elaine stopped at the first small white house, which was marked PRIVATE. “This is our newly renovated cottage. I’m planning on spending more time here when I have guests. I want them to have their own space.”

  Elaine pushed open the door and clicked on the light. The large room was furnished with a four-poster bed made up with a white coverlet. On the opposite side was a kitchenette. While the furniture all looked antique, the kitchenette appeared freshly renovated.

  “This is like a B and B.”

  “If we do become an event space, my daughter tells me we’ll need every available corner of the property to maximize income.”

  “She’s been involved in the property?”

  “She’s a lawyer and very numbers oriented. Every time I have an idea, she crunches the numbers, tells me I can’t possibly pay for it, and then finds a way to make it work.”

  The sound of a Weed Eater had Kelce and Sarge bounding out the door. Elaine leaned out the door and waved, and Libby followed.

  Colton’s tall, lean frame had looked really good in a dark suit, but in jeans and a slightly sweat-stained T-shirt, he managed to look even better. Under a threadbare camouflage hat, he wore black sunglasses.

  “Colton, I think you’ve met Libby McKenzie,” Elaine said.

  Libby extended her hand as he tugged off garden gloves and wrapped calloused fingers around hers. Through the dark glasses she felt the intensity of his gaze.

  “The hardest-working photographer in Virginia,” he said. “Not many people hustle like you do.”

  “Thanks again for the lift at the wedding on Saturday. We’d have had some very soaked guests.”

  “Glad I could help.”

  “I asked Libby to photograph the grounds and the greenhouse,” Elaine said.

  “Great,” he said. “Just let me know what I can do to help.” He lowered his voice to a stage whisper. “Elaine’s a tough boss,” Colton said lightly.

  “I’m not the boss,” Elaine said, laughing. “That would be Margaret.”

  “Don’t be put off by my mother,” Colton said. “Mom’s gruff, but she’ll do anything in the world for you.”

  “Nice to know.”

  “Margaret is not fond of the new kitchen,” Elaine said with a smile. “She’s missing the old stove with a nonfunctioning burner and the oven that took too long to heat.”

  “I feel her pain. Change is hard,” Libby said.

  “That sounds like experience talking,” Elaine said.

  “I just moved back to the area. Still adjusting. But don’t get me wrong; change is also good.” She tagged on the last statement for effect. Like Margaret, she was still searching for the payoff for this new life.

  “I remember your dad,” Colton said. “He was my pediatrician.”

  “I think he took care of every child in a twenty-five-mile radius.”

  “When I was six, I went tearing off after Ginger, who had taken my Superman toy. I slipped and fell and split my head wide open. Dad bundled me up, and your dad met us at his office on a Saturday afternoon. Your dad was dressed in golf clothes. Didn’t seem to bother him that my antics had ruined his afternoon.”

  An uninterrupted day off had been a rarity in the McKenzie house. And after Libby’s mother died, her father had worked longer hours. Many times, Libby had resented his patients. “He wasn’t very good at golf, so he saw the call as a rescue.”

  Elaine’s phone buzzed in her pocket, and when she glanced at the display, she said, “Colton, can you drive Libby to the greenhouse? I’ll be right behind you. I’ve got to take this call.”

  “Be glad to.”

  Nodding, Elaine already had her phone pressed to her ear and quickly turned and shifted her focus to the caller.

  “She can change gears on a dime,” Colton said. “One minute she’s here, and the next she’s mentally back at the law office. Grab her while you can. She never sticks around long.”

  CHAPTER FIVE

  SADIE

  Wednesday, December 24, 1941

  Bluestone, Virginia

  As her brother Johnny’s truck rolled into the town of Bluestone, which was not more than a few scattered wood-framed buildings, fifteen-year-old Sadie scooted to the edge of the worn seat. They rumbled toward Sullivan’s mercantile store.

  Going into Sullivan’s General was always a treat. Although she could not afford a thing in the store, she still liked looking at the fabrics, gadgets, and magazines filled with pictures of beautiful people who lived in far-off, exotic places. Some days when Mr. Sullivan was in a good mood, he held back some of the older magazines for her. She was hoping with the holidays he was feeling generous.

  Johnny downshifted into second gear and pulled up alongside the curb by the mercantile store. The town was nowhere as big as Charlottesville. But it had a church, a general store, a feed and seed, Dr. Carter’s office staffed two days a week, a small diner that was the only place within thirty miles that served liquor, and, of course, a jail. Since the soapstone factory had closed nine years ago, none of the businesses except the café and jail got much traffic.

  The front window of the mercantile store was decorated with a big green Christmas wreath decked out with a crisp red bow. Underneath were several wrapped packages. Two weeks ago when she had been in the store, she had picked up the smallest package because she had been drawn to the bright-red paper. When she had shaken it and realized it was light as a feather, she had shouted across the store to Mr. Sullivan and asked what was inside. He had frowned, mumbled something about them being empty and just for show. She had then jostled all the boxes and sadly discovered they all felt empty.

  “Remember, no touching,” Johnny warned. “Mr. Sullivan don’t like you shaking those boxes and announcing to the store that they’re empty.”

  “Seems a real waste to take the time to put fancy red paper on a box just for show.”

  “You take the time, Sadie, if you’re trying to sell the paper or get folks in the buying mood for Christmas.”

  She stared at the wrapped packages, deciding to pretend they were full of pretty clothes. “I can’t hurt nothing by looking.”

  “Look all you want. Don’t cost a thing.” He grinned.

  “I bet Mr. Sullivan lets the new Mrs. Carter look and touch all she wants.” She had seen the woman only once since she had moved to Bluestone. Tiny and quiet, the new bride reminded Sadie of a mouse.

  “You know as well as I do that the folks in Woodmont live by a different set of rules,” he said just above a whisper.

  “It’s not fair.”

  “Fair has nothing to do with it. It is what it is.”

  Johnny was just nineteen but looked a decade older. Since their father had died two years ago and their oldest brother, Danny, had
joined the army, Johnny had taken to working their farm from sunup to well past sundown. And when he was not growing wheat, he was working the odd shift in the furniture factory in Waynesboro. The weeks he was away were the hardest, as the farmwork and moonshine-making fell to Sadie. She had barely been to school this fall and knew she had fallen far behind the other students.

  Prohibition had ended years ago, and the heyday of selling shine had long since passed. But there were folks, including the fancy Carters, who had developed a taste for the Thompson honeysuckle-flavored recipe. And honestly, anything homemade was tastier than store bought.

  This time of year, sales generally rose. But this December had been extra brisk after President Roosevelt had told the world over the radio about the Japanese sneak attack on Pearl Harbor. Everyone in town wanted payback, including Johnny. And their mother, who always fretted about Danny, stopped sleeping so well and began pacing the wood floors. She had seen the Great War and wanted no part of it for her two sons.

  Sadie hopped out of the truck, burrowing her gloved hands into the pocket of Danny’s old gray wool coat. She hurried around to the back, ready to pull out several mason jars filled with moonshine. At Christmas, Mr. Sullivan always accepted three jars and credited their store account.

  Across the street, Sheriff Boyd strolled out the front door of his jail. A dark shirt stretched over his rounded belly and tried to stay tucked inside faded jeans but had slipped loose in a spot or two. Pinned on his chest was a star that never shined up well no matter how much he polished it. Boyd recognized Johnny’s truck. His dark eyes sharpened with interest.

  “Is Sheriff Boyd going to give us trouble?” Sadie asked.

  “He and I struck a deal.” Johnny removed two of the biggest jars from the milk crate.

  “What kind of deal?”

  “I give him two jars of the honeysuckle white lightning, and he looks the other way.”

  Sadie calculated the value. “That’s worth two dollars, Johnny.”

  Johnny tightened his hold on the jars, the frown lines around his mouth deepening. “He threatened to call in the state police and report my illegal still, and I can’t have that.”