Hearing that Elaine would soon be gone released enough tension. Distance gave her the chance to process and breathe. “Okay.”
“Stop by anytime to take more pictures,” he said.
“I will.”
He got back in his truck, where Kelce and Sarge were now asleep in the front seat. The three drove off.
Libby stared after them. “I hear his wife died. What happened?”
Sierra grinned. “Ah, curious?”
“Maybe.”
“She died two years ago. In fact, he and I ran into each other a couple of times at the grief group.”
“Wow.”
“Yeah.” She was silent for a moment, as if reliving a piece of the past. And then finally snapping back to the present, she said, “He knew staying in the navy and raising the boys wasn’t going to work. He left the military and moved home to take a job at Woodmont.”
“I met the boys. Nice kids.”
“They’re fun.”
“So was his late wife the love of his life?”
“Pretty much,” she said.
“How did she die?”
Sierra was briefly silent again. “Brain aneurysm. It was sudden. No one saw it coming. She never regained consciousness.”
“It’s the shit you don’t see coming that gets you.”
“Now you’re quoting me?” Sierra asked.
“You’re a wise woman.”
“Colton has kept to himself since he got back. It’s either the boys or work. This is the first time I’ve seen him look at a woman the way he just looked at you.”
“What?”
Sierra rolled her eyes. “Oh, please, you. ‘We’re sealing the windows,’” she said in a throaty voice. “Might as well get invited to his room to see his etchings.”
Libby wondered if the universe could have had any worse timing. “He was just being nice.”
“Yeah, to me. He was flirting with you!”
“He asked me to photograph the greenhouse project.”
Sierra’s wink was exaggerated and almost comical. “You keep telling yourself that.”
Libby’s hormones did act up when he was around, and honestly the idea that Colton had suffered a loss was oddly appealing to her. She had no use for a man who did not have a few of life’s battle scars.
Sierra laughed. “What’s the line from the movie? ‘Chicks dig scars’?”
“Pain heals.”
“And glory lasts forever.”
Libby laughed. And for just a moment, she allowed herself to savor the feelings of joy and optimism.
Sierra stepped inside the building and flipped on the light. “This was the last place on the planet I thought I’d end up.”
It was not where either of them had intended to be. In fact, given a choice five years ago, they would have both passed on this version of life. But here they were.
“I’m having a party late Sunday,” Sierra said. “Nothing fancy. Barbecue and beer. You’ll be back from the wedding then?”
“Yes. I should be back by early afternoon.”
“Good, you can come.”
“What’s the occasion?” Libby asked.
“New business venture. Blue skies. Friend of a friend is having a birthday. I don’t need much of an excuse for a party.”
Her first reaction was to retreat on the excuse of work. Instead, she said, “Okay. I’ll come.”
“Good.” She smiled. “And this thing with Elaine can be a good thing in the long run.”
“It hurts like hell now.”
“We both have a high tolerance for pain.”
“Lucky us.”
Sierra hugged Libby tightly. She did not believe in quick hugs or “drive-bys,” as she called them. When she gave a hug, she held the person close, as if she were infusing all her goodwill and well-wishes into the recipient. “I’m glad you’re back in Bluestone.”
“Technically, I’m still sleeping on the couch, so I’m not really back.”
“You’re back. You just don’t know it yet.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
COLTON
Wednesday, June 17, 2020
The Woodmont Estate
Colton had seen Libby on the property on Monday and had noticed the intensity in her expression as she had left the house. He had almost called out to her, but she had been moving fast and had looked like she wanted to get the hell out of there. Next, Lofton had left, and she had not looked any happier.
Lofton was smart as a whip, but she was spoiled, and Elaine indulged her daughter too much, which had always seemed out of character for her. He knew something had gone down between Lofton and Libby, and he would bet Lofton was the spark that started the fire. There were a lot of undercurrents, but his main priority was to steer clear and focus on work and especially the boys.
And still his thoughts kept returning to Libby and the morning she had been walking toward his cabin. The morning light had shone behind her, illuminating her in a way that had taken his breath away. Over coffee, he had seen the desire in her eyes and had known she wanted him. Given a little more privacy, they could have shared more than a cup of brew.
“Damn,” he muttered.
He reached for a thick stalk of vines and tugged them away from the brush circling the greenhouse. Untangling the honeysuckle vines had been slow going. Not only were the vines intrusive, but also snakes and mice had set up shop in the lush foliage and were not excited about his destruction of their homes. There was also poison ivy and the inevitable itchiness. Nature was doing its damnedest to wrestle the greenhouse from him.
“You’re making progress,” Elaine said.
He turned. She looked thinner, tired. Whatever had happened with Libby was taking its toll on her as well. “Slow and steady.”
“This has been one tough project,” Elaine said. “Was I foolish? Should I have just torn the place down?”
It was a little late to be asking a question like that. “Why do you say that?” Colton thought about the construction dumpster he had filled with vines and rotted plants.
“If we ever do rent this property for events, a greenhouse won’t make us much money. And there are other projects on the property that need your attention.”
“That’s always the case with old properties like this, Elaine. It’s always going to want more.”
“But I’m asking you what you think.”
“Why do you care so much about the greenhouse?” he asked.
“It’s a legacy.”
“For Lofton?”
“Lofton has no interest in Woodmont. She never has and never will.”
“Then why sink so much energy into the place?” he asked. Colton had never known Elaine to be so indecisive.
“It’s complicated.”
“Only if you want it to be.”
She stared at him, her brow narrowing. “I’m sounding foolish, aren’t I? I should know what I want.”
“I think you do.”
“But wanting and getting are two different things.”
Colton wanted to tug off his gloves, walk up to her, and ask what the hell had gone on in her kitchen on Monday. But that was crossing the line. As much as he respected Elaine, he could not forget that she was his boss. And he needed this job.
“I asked Libby to come back and take more pictures next week as we seal the panes of glass. The place is shaping up.” He cast the statement out like he would a baited hook into a pond rich with trout. If he was patient, the answers would come to him.
“When did you see Libby?” she asked.
“Today in town, looking over the property she and her business partner bought.”
“Normally, I’d say a new restaurant would be a long shot. But in this area, they might do well enough.”
He gripped a thick vine and pulled hard, listening with a bit of satisfaction as the leaves and stems tore.
“I feel like I should apologize for Lofton at Sunday dinner,” Elaine said.
“You don’t owe m
e an apology.” Lofton was great with his boys, and she had a wicked sense of humor. But he also recognized that she was used to getting exactly what she wanted.
“Lofton is going through a few things, and she took it out on Libby,” Elaine offered.
“Libby doesn’t strike me as soft. She’s taken a lot of blows in the last year or two and is still standing. Libby can handle herself.” It wasn’t like him to meddle in Grant family business, but he needed to champion Libby. “In Libby’s world, Lofton’s remarks were child’s play.”
A faint light flickered in her gaze. “I hope you’re right.”
“I’m a good judge of character.”
“Thanks for the advice.”
“Always free and available,” he said with a grin.
LIBBY
“Don’t Stop Believing” blasted in Libby’s earbuds as she uploaded the wedding albums. She was a huge fan of Journey, even though her idol Steve Perry left the band when she was only seven.
As Perry’s final note reverberated, she emailed the link to this bride’s look book and switched off the computer.
The sound of a delivery truck stopping in front of her house coaxed her onto the front porch. Sitting in the afternoon sun was a neatly wrapped box. Picking it up, she tipped her face upward to absorb the sun’s warmth after hours of working on the digital files.
She pulled off her reading glasses and pinched the bridge of her nose. Without the distraction of work, her mind turned to Elaine.
More hard conversations to be had, but until she soldiered through this latest patch of work, she did not need the distraction.
Drawing her shoulders back, Libby straightened her spine, trying to bend it out of the perpetual slump that came with leaning into a shot or toward a computer screen. She sat on the rocker and carefully unwrapped the package. Inside was a neatly written note in handwriting very similar to hers. It was from Elaine.
There’s plenty of family history to share, but I thought you might like to start with Olivia’s first gardening journal. She was just a decade younger than you are now, and it might help you understand her decisions later in life. When we’ve both had time to process our meeting, I would love to talk. Best, Elaine.
Libby ran her hands over smooth leather binding now worn and faded by a half century. Wrapped around it was a faded blue ribbon that held the edges closed. She carefully undid the ribbon. As she opened the notebook, the spine crackled and groaned. On the front page, written in precise handwriting, was Gardening Journal 1942. Olivia Wellington Carter.
Olivia’s handwriting was meticulous and measured. Libby took comfort that both Elaine’s and Olivia’s penmanship were very similar to her own.
When she turned the first page, a few black-and-white pictures stuck out from the crease. The first square image featured two women standing in front of a huge Pontiac parked in front of the mercantile store.
The older of the two appeared to be in her early twenties, and she wore a lovely tailored suit and had painted on bright lipstick that even the black-and-white photography could not dull. The second woman was in her midteens. She wore overalls and was not grinning. In fact, she looked a little impatient as she stared at the lens. The car was parked in front of the very mercantile store Libby had just partnered with Sierra to renovate.
She turned the image over and read, Olivia Carter (with Sadie Thompson).
Sadie. She was the girl who had scratched her name in the greenhouse glass. Libby studied the girl’s face closely, knowing that by now she would be in her nineties if still alive.
The next few pictures featured Olivia standing by her greenhouse, but there were no more images of Sadie.
Olivia was always smartly dressed, her outfits including hats and gloves and stockings that would not have been easy to come by during the war.
The last image in the stack featured Olivia holding an infant. Her smile was slightly stiff and her eyes sad. It struck Libby as odd. A woman who had suffered miscarriages had finally had her baby. But she did not appear happy. She flipped the image over. It was simply dated Spring, 1943.
She carefully tucked the pictures back into the journal’s fold, then turned the page to the first entry. There was a hand-painted bundle of peonies. Their pink, delicate petals were so detailed they looked almost lifelike. Rich thick green stems wound down the side of the page and were bound at their base by a wide strand of blue ribbon tied into a bow. Beside the picture was a quote from Elizabeth Barrett Browning: Beloved, thou hast brought me many flowers.
“Hey, what’s that?” Sierra climbed the steps to the porch.
“Elaine sent me Olivia’s first gardening journal.”
“Why?”
“Family history. Olivia was Elaine’s grandmother. She suffered several miscarriages and was a key player in my adoption.”
“Oh.”
“I suppose, in a way, we are kindred spirits,” Libby said. “Though if my granddaughter had a baby, I would like to believe I would do anything to help her keep it.”
Sierra leaned over Libby’s shoulder and studied the page. “She was a fantastic artist.”
“She was.” Libby retrieved the black-and-white pictures. “Check out the first one. They’re standing in front of your mercantile store.”
Sierra studied the image closely. “Wow. Time goes so fast.” She flipped the picture over and read the caption. “Wow. Olivia knew Sadie Thompson.”
“Who was Sadie Thompson?”
“Supposedly a real wild child,” Sierra said. “She ran moonshine with her father and brothers and at one point ran a man down right in front of the store with her truck. I think there are folk songs written about her.”
“Who did she hit?”
“That I don’t remember, but I can ask Mom.”
Libby looked at Sadie’s solemn face, drawn to her moody gaze, which felt vaguely familiar. “What happened to her?”
“She vanished,” Sierra said. “Sheriff came to arrest her but couldn’t find her anywhere. There was a big manhunt, but she never was found. Legend has it that her ghost still haunts the woods near Mrs. Carter’s.”
“Her ghost? Seriously? Why didn’t you tell me this before?”
“Because it’s not true. It’s just a story.”
“What’s the story?”
Sierra shrugged. “They say if you drink corn liquor on a moonless night on the Woodmont property, you’ll see her.”
A ghost would have explained the odd sensations she had felt in the greenhouse the other morning. But so would her imagination and nerves. “Oh, I bet your mind can conjure up all kinds of things if you drink corn liquor in the woods. All late at night.”
Sierra laughed. “No comment.”
She studied Sadie’s small bow-shaped face. “I hope your mom can shed more light on this girl.”
“We’ll see. Have you and Elaine spoken since Monday?”
“No. I guess this is her way of keeping in touch without irritating Lofton.”
“The infamous Lofton. Spoiled and drives too fast in town. Let me guess, she’s not happy about having a big sister.”
“No. She looks at me as if she thinks I’m going to take all her mother’s money or love or both.”
“Twit.”
Libby smiled. “I guess I can’t blame her. I came out of nowhere, and it has to be a shock.”
“You didn’t ask for any of this.”
“Agreed. But neither did she.”
“I see the journal as a great sign. Elaine wants to stay connected despite Lofton’s reservations.”
“I suppose,” Libby said.
“Did Elaine answer all your questions? I remember you always had a list of questions for your birth mother.”
“I didn’t get a chance to ask very many. I was just a little overwhelmed.”
Sierra traced the shape of a purple iris drawn on the corner of a page. “She sent you this for a reason, Libby.”
“Why not just tell me what I need to know? Why hide behin
d letters and journals?”
“Are we talking about Elaine or your father now?” Sierra asked softly.
“Right now? My dad tops my shit list. Why couldn’t he just tell me?”
“He was afraid he would lose you. He already lost a wife.”
Libby released an exasperated sigh. “Why would I turn away from him over something like this?”
Sierra knitted her fingers together and then pulled them apart. “Logic and emotion rarely speak the same language.”
“He knew I loved him.”
Sierra tipped her head back against the rocker and stared toward the blue sky. “Once you’ve been hurt badly, it’s hard to open yourself again. Although not well, your mother essentially left him.”
“How did you get so smart?”
Sierra rubbed her finger along the edge of her jaw. “Sadly, the hard way.”
“But you’ve done a good job of moving on.”
“That’s the thing; I’m staying busy, but I haven’t moved on. I’m stuck in this whirlpool of activity, treading water as fast as I can to keep from being pulled under. Your dad might have been that way after your mother’s death.”
“I thought you were thriving.”
“I’m surviving.” Sierra drew in a breath and rolled her shoulders, as if shrugging off a weight she knew would reappear within seconds. “Don’t let grief and anger weigh you down or hold you back. Do a better job than I am.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
LIBBY
Wednesday, June 17, 2020
Bluestone, Virginia
Olivia’s journal sat untouched as Libby responded to several brides-to-be with proposals, tips, and notes for each. Of the three, she guessed she might get a callback on one, and then there was no guarantee it would result in a contract. Making it in this business—at least in this stage of her career—meant being available all the time.
After scanning email and wading through the 50 percent–off summer-sale ads and current events, she glanced back at the journal. The clock chimed five times, and her stomach grumbled on cue. “I don’t want to deal with you, Olivia. Not right now.”
After rising, she walked to the kitchen. The leftovers from Elaine had yet to be opened. Since she was a little kid, she had always been picky about leftovers. Her mother had loved them, swearing the food’s flavors improved overnight. Not Libby. When a meal was done, it was done.
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