chapter seven
Elizabeth followed Rowan to her room after a healthy breakfast, featuring muesli, Ryvita crispbreads with lemon curd, endless bowls of blueberries, and many cups of tea. To her surprise she enjoyed it immensely, but she silently lamented the lack of coffee. She was in full-on withdrawal mode.
Rowan was right, the room was beautiful and probably much more luxurious than what she would have had at the ancient inn. Though the décor was too fussy for her taste, she could appreciate how the blue stripes, florals, and chevrons came together. One of Rowan’s smaller landscapes hung unceremoniously in a space that was nearly obscured by a lampshade.
After a hot shower, a pathetic attempt at straightening her own hair, and a long-overdue change of clothing, it was time to see the property. Her property. They planned to disperse her father’s ashes in the river at the same time, so she dressed appropriately for the occasion in what resembled mourning attire even though she wore shades of black and gray nearly every day. She thought she should at least look the part even though she had no tears left to cry for him. Elizabeth buried the box in the bottom of her bag so that it wouldn’t feel like they were at a second funeral until the very last moment.
Trudy and Rowan had also dressed the part in sedate, dark clothing. “Well, Bess,” Rowan said, clapping his hands together when she came downstairs, defiantly sticking with the nickname. “Off we go, shall we?”
Major began twirling around in anticipation of a walk, but Trudy shook her head at him, which was enough to make him understand that it was a humans-only event. He shot an accusatory look at Elizabeth as he slunk past her, his ears plastered against his head. Major hated her, there was no denying it.
“Oh, dear,” Trudy said, looking at Elizabeth’s feet. “Are those high boots comfortable enough? We’ll be doing some walking. Would you like the wellies instead?”
The thought of dispersing her father’s ashes while wearing rubber clown boots almost made Elizabeth laugh. “No, I’ll be fine. Promise.”
Trudy once again kept up a steady stream of one-sided conversation as they made their way past Rowan’s studio and farther down the lane to where the gravel driveway disappeared into the tall, wild grass. Rowan seemed well versed in nodding along as Trudy talked, half tuned in to her and half tuned inward. Trudy and Rowan both managed to ignore the small black flies dive-bombing them, while Elizabeth furiously swatted and ducked from the assault.
They walked farther than she thought they would, until the open pastures began to merge with long rows of trees planted like soldiers in formation. The only sound other than Trudy’s running commentary came from occasional birdsong and the babbling river that roped along beside them.
“Aren’t these poplars majestic?” Trudy asked. “Your father’s parcel is just beyond this section, where the land turns primitive. It’s a magical spot.” She talked about the land like a museum docent.
Trudy’s love for the property made Elizabeth feel like an interloper, imposing on the two strangers. How could she claim the property in good conscience, even if it had been earmarked for her father a million years ago? He’d chosen to remove himself from these people and this life, and whatever the reason was, it was enough to keep them apart until death. Why would they welcome her and hand over what was obviously an expensive piece of real estate when they could’ve kept it without anyone the wiser? Elizabeth argued both sides in her mind and tried not to focus on the blisters that were forming on the backs of her heels, or the fact that the six-pound box in her bag was getting heavier with each step.
Rowan helped Trudy over a fallen moss-coated tree and then offered his hand to Elizabeth as she attempted to scale it. She grasped it and was surprised that his hand nearly enveloped hers completely.
“Just down there,” he said quietly, still holding on to her hand as he looked off into the distance. She untangled herself from his hand gently, hoping that he wouldn’t notice. Rowan turned to Elizabeth. “I don’t want to ruin this important moment with talk of business, but I fear that’s why you’re here, after all,” Rowan said. “We would love for you to keep this land, but if you ever decide to sell it, Trudy and I would like you to sell it to us. We feel very strongly that it should stay in the family. Well, what remains of our family.”
She started talking before she even knew what was coming out of her mouth. “I think it makes the most sense for you to just have it. I’m not even sure if I have an actual claim to it. Let’s just keep everything how it is, no handover, no paperwork. This land isn’t mine, it’s yours.”
“Nonsense,” Rowan replied. “I was never the rightful owner of this piece, and it’s been a weight on me for all these years. You are the rightful heir, no arguments. The papers are already being drawn up.”
It still didn’t feel right.
They walked on, wading through knee-high ferns, dodging dead limbs hanging from trees, and avoiding camouflaged slippery rocks. Elizabeth considered how best to frame and filter a photo of the woods. Nature wasn’t part of her brand, and she debated if she should even bother to try to capture it. Would posting a close-up of a moss-covered rock make her lose followers? Or what about a timer photo shot from a distance, to show off how tiny she was compared to the giant trees? Maybe, if she could get just the right angle, she could post a filtered profile selfie looking off into the distance, and overlay an inspirational quote in a pretty script just below her chin?
“Bess?” Trudy called. “Did you hear me?”
“Sorry,” Elizabeth said. “What did you say?”
“I asked if you liked the ruins.” She pointed down the hill to a stone structure nearly hidden in the overgrowth. The vines had grown across the open roof so perfectly that it could’ve been a part of an Anthropologie window display.
“Was that a house?” Elizabeth asked.
“A mill. It started off as a grist mill—you can see the millstones half buried near the edge of it—and then they wisely converted it to a textile mill given the woolly neighbors. Hydro-powered, quite a marvel of technology for the times, really,” Rowan answered.
“How old is it?”
“We’re not exactly sure, but we think it dates back to the 1700s. Your father loved the antiquity of it. He used to come here and work on his poems.”
“You mean he wrote his own poems?”
Rowan said it casually, but Elizabeth processed the news like it was part of her DNA report. She wondered if that was what her poetry professor father had been doing every time he closed his office door on her. Imagining him obeying his muse made his choice to lock her out hurt a little less.
“Did he ever let you read them?” she asked.
“Maybe. I can’t recall. It was such a long time ago,” Rowan answered as he walked away from her, down toward the ruins before she could ask him more questions.
Elizabeth wanted to learn more about the poet her father used to be when he lived in Fargrove, but it was clear Rowan wasn’t ready to talk about it. And given they were about to leave him in his final resting place, she didn’t think it was appropriate to bring up a time in their lives that had resulted in estrangement. But she wanted to hear everything about him, to find out if he’d ever been happy.
“Come down to the river,” Trudy called to Elizabeth, already at the water’s edge just beyond the mill. Elizabeth gingerly made her way down the hill, her inappropriate footwear making her far less agile than her septuagenarian relatives. Trudy and Rowan were talking quietly as Elizabeth approached them.
“What were your father’s specific instructions?” Trudy asked.
“The will only said dispersement on the River Dorcalon. I guess that means in the river?”
“Indeed,” Trudy said.
“‘What was he doing, the great god Pan, down in the reeds by the river?’” Rowan said, staring at the water.
Elizabeth recognized the quote immediately. It was
from the poem “A Musical Instrument” by Elizabeth Barrett Browning, the poet she was named for. It was her father’s favorite.
She leaned against a tree clutching the box in front of her. She was about to say a final good-bye to her father in a place that would swallow him up forever. Did she want to keep a bit of him, a final act of parental defiance, before he was released into the wild? Something to go back with her to San Francisco, poured into a small decorative vial and stuffed in the back of a drawer? Elizabeth looked around and realized that even if she wanted to keep a spoonful, she didn’t have anything to put him in. She felt a wadded-up tissue in her pocket. Could she siphon out a bit of Clive Barnes and tie him in a Kleenex until she could find a more suitable vessel? She shook her head. He wanted to be here, in Fargrove, in the river, for reasons she didn’t understand yet. It didn’t seem right to deny him that, though she didn’t feel that she owed him any favors.
“Are you ready, dear?” Trudy asked.
Elizabeth nodded, and they walked to the edge of the river, where the current ran strong.
“I don’t know what to do . . .” Elizabeth said, trailing off.
“Say your good-bye, then bend low and pour slowly,” Trudy replied softly.
Elizabeth did as she was told but avoided looking at the contents of the box, choosing to focus on Rowan and Trudy instead. Rowan blinked back tears, and Trudy leaned into him and sniffled quietly against his chest. Watching them mourn her father shifted something inside her. She tried to imagine the man they had known and that they still loved, despite the years apart. For an instant she saw him, a ghost standing in the river laughing with Rowan, filled with joy, hope, and poetry.
The wave of grief caught her off guard, making her knees buckle.
“Bess, dear, are you okay?” Trudy asked.
Elizabeth rearranged her face so that she wouldn’t have to talk about what she was feeling. “I’m okay.”
Rowan walked over to her and took her hands in his. They were as soft as rising dough, and though his raw emotions made her uncomfortable, she allowed it. He needed it more than she did. “Bess, I know you have questions about . . . what happened. Why he never discussed us. We’ll have a cuppa tonight and tell you everything.”
“I’d appreciate that. I’m sure it won’t be easy, but I want to know,” Elizabeth answered.
chapter eight
She’d said it before she could question herself, during the long walk back to the house. Elizabeth refused to be moved by what they’d just done in the river, but something rumbling inside her felt sad-adjacent, and she wasn’t ready to leave the only two people in the world who understood what she was going through. If she decided she needed to be comforted, which she definitely didn’t, Rowan and Trudy would be there for her.
“I’ll stay. For the party, I mean. I would love to stay for it.”
“Oh, splendid, splendid,” Trudy trilled, clapping her hands. “How wonderful!”
“Our friend Harriet has a vintage shop in town, and I’m sure she’ll have something clever for you to wear,” Rowan added while he beamed at her.
He offered to drive her into Fargrove so she could stop by their friend’s vintage shop, but when she discovered it was just a ten-minute walk she opted to make the trip on her own. Her true destination wasn’t the vintage shop at all, but a place where she could sit quietly and reconnect to the real world on her phone, even if it meant walking on a poorly paved street and following directions that used crooked trees, stone walls, and herds of cows as landmarks.
Elizabeth repeatedly touched her back pocket as she walked to make sure her phone was still there. The lack of connectivity was painful, like a toothache that she kept worrying with her tongue. If she made a wrong turn at the second cow on the left there was no Google Maps to save her.
The sun was warmer than she’d anticipated, and she soon had to roll her sleeves up over her elbows and unbutton her blouse to just above her bra. Even though the blisters on the backs of her heels were now open wounds, she’d kept the boots on for the walk because they completed the outfit. She had a pair of workout-only sneakers that made her feet look huge buried in the bottom of her suitcase, but there was zero chance they’d see the light of day for anything other than burning calories.
Just as she was starting to get worried that she’d made a wrong turn, she spotted the low bridge Trudy had mentioned as the final landmark before town. The road evened out, and the quaint stone houses merged toward each other until they touched shoulders, and it became obvious that she was on the edge of the bustling metropolis known as Fargrove. She snapped a photo, convinced that she’d have an opportunity to post it at some point.
Elizabeth walked as if she knew where she was going, passing a butcher, chemist, hardware store, greengrocer, and church without any sign of a place where she could sit down and connect to Wi-Fi. The narrow lane opened up to a tidy town center surrounded by businesses under colorful awnings, where people bustled through their daily lives as if walking on cobblestone streets while surrounded by twee stone buildings were the most natural thing in the world. The Disney preciousness of it all made her long for the shiny new buildings that kept popping up in her neighborhood.
Elizabeth narrowed her eyes to try to read the store names from a distance. A pub called the Three Tups with a fat black dog sleeping in front of the open door, a bookstore called only Book Shop on the navy awning, a children’s shop called Frog Hollow. She walked toward an alcove, where the shop’s sign was obscured by a large tree. There were yellow tables and café chairs out front, where people sat working on laptops, chatting with friends, and reading. They all had mugs in front of them. Her heart quickened—it had to be. As she got closer she could make out the first word on the sign—HiveMind—and then as she passed the tree she saw the words she’d been hoping for.
Coffee Co.
Finally, finally, caffeine and a connection to her life, as it was a part of the universal coffee shop code of ethics to provide customers and loiterers alike with free Wi-Fi. Even quaint Fargrove had to understand that the real world was connected and earning and innovating beyond the ancient village limits.
Elizabeth strode between the tables like a junkie on her way to a fix, not noticing a man gathering his things. He stood up abruptly and they collided, which made the table in front of him wobble from side to side. The clumsy redheaded man tried to grab both his coffee mug and phone as they pinballed across the top of the table, and his awkward lurch pushed Elizabeth off balance. He slapped his hand on top of his phone, which caused the table to tip even more, sending his mug crashing to the ground. Coffee and mug shards splattered on Elizabeth’s boots as she struggled to stay upright, and everyone turned to see what was happening.
“Fantastic,” she muttered as she surveyed the damage to her expensive boots.
“My apologies, the table must have jumped out and tripped you. Are your boots okay, madame?” the man asked as he knelt to pick up the mug remnants. He was the reddest redhead Elizabeth had ever seen. His hair, the eyebrow slashes above his bright blue eyes, and his coppery stubble made him a giant, unmissable ginger beacon. Even the bit of chest hair that peeked out from his V-neck screamed for attention.
“Doubtful, given you basically spilled an entire cup on them,” she replied. She walked past him with her eyes on her boots, eager to get away from him, and wrenched open the coffee shop’s door. She found a stack of napkins and tried to salvage the leather.
The familiar toasted-nut smell immediately made her mouth water. Rowan and Trudy were generous hosts, but they’d forgotten that not everyone appreciates tea. She didn’t dare ask for coffee because she didn’t want to come across as demanding.
The inside of the shop was surprisingly modern given their quaint surroundings, with matte-black walls, a floor made of wide scuffed planks, and a dozen Edison bulbs hanging from black cords at various lengths behind the bar. It wou
ldn’t look out of place back home in San Fran. The chalkboard menu behind the bar listed the Wi-Fi password, BeeGood, and dozens of options. Elizabeth had finally found a home in Fargrove.
There wasn’t a soul inside the shop. The beautiful day had everyone basking in the spring sunshine, and while Elizabeth knew where the patrons were, she couldn’t figure out where the proprietors were hiding. She cleared her throat a few times as she scanned the menu, and set her bag on the counter with an intentional thud. Still no one.
Elizabeth settled on an espresso blend called the Swarm and finally called out, “Excuse me? Can someone take my order?” She pulled out her phone and worked on logging in as she waited.
The door opened and the angry ginger man stormed in with the shards from his mug in one hand and his phone in the other. He walked behind the counter. “Ready?” he asked gruffly. His temperament seemed true to his red hair. He was tall with a blue-collar thickness to his build that looked like the result of farmwork rather than CrossFit.
“I am. I’ve been waiting.” She didn’t look up from her phone. She was just seconds away from connectivity and there was no time to bicker with a grumpy coffee jockey.
“Another patient American.” He nodded to himself and threw the pieces of the mug in the trash behind the counter with an exaggerated slam. “I was cleaning up from a spill, you might recall it? Now, how may I serve you, madame?”
“The Swarm, please. To go.” In an instant the coffee shop had flipped from a taste of home to a battleground.
She paid and he turned away to begin making her drink, so she stepped outside to check her phone. Finally, a link to the real world. Her phone chirped as a text message downloaded from her Airbnb guests looking for various household items. She checked her social media analytics and was dismayed to discover that her feeds were holding strong but still not growing. Was life moving on without her already? She quickly uploaded the luggage photo, hoping that no one would call her on the lag time since her flight the day before, and plotted how and where to post the other pictures she’d taken without looking desperate.
Who Rescued Who Page 5