WITH A FINAL sip of coffee and silent thanks for a rare weekend off, Lori ended her mile-long trek to Duskywing Farm Saturday morning on a sigh of relief. After a sleepless night, the fresh air and quiet of a Butterfly Harbor morning arrived with squawking seagulls and playful stereophonic ocean waves. It was the reset she needed, a reminder that wallowing wouldn’t do anyone—herself especially—any good.
Besides, nothing worked off a good mad better than a long walk.
She’d staged her own rebellion last night after getting home and hadn’t touched the boxes of invitations—something she’d probably regret at some point. She was used to manipulative people, used to the snark and passive-aggressive machinations, but this time had been one time too many. One BethAnn smirk too many. Lori had taken a stand and, for once, done something unexpected.
And it felt great.
Her time, her abilities weren’t any less valuable than anyone else’s. Why did she continue to spend her life worrying about what other people thought about her? Abby was right. There was more to her than numbers on a scale. There always had been. Time to start acting like it.
That she’d started by ending any potential romantic involvement with Matt Knight before it had ever really gotten started seemed a tad overkill.
She should have known allowing herself to dwell on all those romantic ideas she’d never let herself entertain would come back and bite her. Besides, if things had gotten serious with Matt, she had her own confessions she’d have had to make about what the future did—or in her case didn’t—hold in store. So maybe this entire situation was a blessing in disguise.
Maybe she just needed the reminder that she would be okay on her own.
She had her friends, her family, a new niece and, knowing Fletcher’s desire for a big family, there would be more kids for him and Paige in the future.
She should feel relieved that Matt was officially out of her life—and she would be if she didn’t have to deal with the whole beautification project. Story of her life. She’d finally taken a chance on something, grabbed hold of what she really wanted and in so doing exploded another part of her life.
She’d needed a reality check. She’d needed to get her head out of the clouds. She needed to remember that reality had crashed over her the summer she’d turned ten. Had continued to crash for years after.
With parents who had blamed rather than comforted, criticized instead of encouraged, the child Lori had been disappeared the day her little brother had died; whoever she’d been meant to be had been washed out to sea along with Colin, leaving a shell of a little girl desperate for someone to cling to; to grieve with. And when Fletcher and her grandfather hadn’t been enough, or when she couldn’t bear to cry one more tear, she’d turned to the one comfort that would never let her down.
Which was why, at two this morning, she’d found herself heading out to the greenhouse in her backyard rather than falling back on old habits to rummage through the refrigerator and cabinets for something to eat. Dim lamps and welcoming buds were more productive, more welcoming, than a bowl of cereal or a pint of ice cream.
As if she’d been able to leave her disappointment—and disillusionment—about Matt outside.
“How could he not have told me?” Lori asked the question for what may as well have been the millionth time and received the same answer: silence. Funny how it wasn’t the being married that bothered her so much as the omission. He could have told her. She probably would have understood, but then again, maybe not. If he’d lied to her about this, what else would he lie to her about? There weren’t a lot of things that were important to her, but honesty? That was a deal breaker.
“Meow.”
A sleek gray cat leaped effortlessly onto the top of the fence and walked toward Lori, its purr as loud as an engine as it greeted her at the farm gate.
“Good morning, Ophelia.” Lori reached out and scratched the cat on the top of her head. Ophelia sat and pushed her head into Lori’s palm as if to thank her. “Out and about early, too, I see.”
“Meeeeeow!”
The handle of her gardening wagon clutched in her hand, the light fabric of her sunshine-yellow maxi dress caught around her legs in the morning breeze. She pushed through the gate of Duskywing Farm and set the sad thoughts of what might have been aside.
Ahhhhh. She took a slow, deep breath and as she released it, a smile spread across her lips. Walking on this property was like entering another world. A quiet world. A healing world.
A stone cottage reminiscent of Irish perfection sat nestled amidst thriving, expansive and lush acreage. The vegetable patch—an understatement given its size—glistened after an early morning dew dousing and stretched almost farther than she could see. Tiny splotches of color shifted against the restless leaves—butterflies slowly awakening under the growing warmth of the sun. Soon they’d be flitting about as eager and curious as those in the eucalyptus trees growing throughout Butterfly Harbor.
The wooden stall just inside the trellised gate was a recent addition. Along with an old-fashioned metal cash box, the shelves beneath the counter displayed stacks of worn baskets and bundles of reusable totes for customers to fill to their pocketbooks’ content.
One of the hidden treasures of Butterfly Harbor, the organic farm boasted an open policy on Fridays and now Saturdays where customers could literally pluck their food from the ground, with gentle oversight of course. Most preferred to drop their list in the painted box outside the gate throughout the week for Calliope to fill for pickup or delivery. Fortunately for Lori, she had been given free rein in Calliope’s kingdom but she never wanted to exceed her welcome.
In less than an hour, visitors and customers would begin to wander through the peaceful side gardens, enjoying the Jones’s special lemonade or, in the cooler months, piping hot chocolate. Paige and Charlie would be by to pick up their morning deliveries before Paige was off for her shift at the diner.
Which didn’t give Lori much time to mark this first item off her To Do list. She’d had enough of crowds last night, and besides, there was something to be said about enjoying the farm in the empty prepublic hours.
The gurgle of water tumbling over stones welcomed Lori and told her the rock garden Calliope and her young sister, Stella, had been working on for the past few weeks had been completed.
Located at the top of Angel Trumpet Way, this stretch of land really did feel as if it had disconnected from the rest of the world and even Butterfly Harbor itself. The distant noise of traffic and the town at the bottom of the hill never reached this far, or, maybe it was just that Lori never wanted it to.
Paradise, Lori mused. There were those with green thumbs, people who possessed a natural affinity for encouraging nature’s growth and explosions of color and bounty. Lori happily counted herself among them as she could lose herself for hours in the garden and greenhouse she and her grandfather had meticulously tended from the day she and Fletcher had come to live with him. But as good as Lori could claim to be, there was something, well, magical, about Calliope’s way.
Lori stopped on the edge of the herb garden that had been inspired by the manicured English tea gardens thousands of miles away. She closed her eyes, lifted her face to the still-warming sun as it rose to its morning crest and inhaled the scent of lavender, of mint, and the faintest hint of woodsy rosemary.
Late September, while certainly not the heart of growing or blooming season, had Calliope’s gardens caught somewhere between the fading affection of summer and the early breezes of fall. Not that the Monterey area saw severe temperature fluctuations. Consistent, enjoyable weather was something to boast about, but it wasn’t always the most hospitable for plants, unless of course those plants got their start at Duskywing Farm. It was like a boost of immunity that ensured thriving, healthy results.
The gentle tinkle of bells made Lori’s smile widen. Scrunching her toes in her walking sandals, she opened her eyes as Calliope emerged from the front door of her cottage, arms loaded with glass jars filled with rich, amber honey from her recently acquired hives.
Lori’s stomach rumbled at the thought of the glistening sugary liquid dripping lazily over a piece of Calliope’s homemade, crusty bread or a blueberry scone. She could feel an extra pound grab hold of her midsection just thinking about it. All the more reason for the walk here and back.
“Good morning, Lori.” Calliope arranged the Mason jars at the booth where the lemonade would soon be set up. “Here for the poinsettia cuttings already?”
“Need to get them going sooner than later if they’re going to be ready by Christmas Eve.”
“I have no doubt they’ll be brimming with holiday spirit.” Calliope’s long curls all but disappeared against the deep turquoise of the dress she wore. Ever the epitome of a free spirit, the farmer/businesswoman strode barefoot across her land, motioning for Lori to follow her around back of the cottage.
The wagon wheels squeaked as Lori pulled it over packed dirt and sporadic grass, rumbled as she dragged it over paving stones. The paned windows to Calliope’s cottage were filled with various hanging accents, prisms to catch the light, wind chimes that clinked in the breeze. Thick vines of purple and pink wisteria wound their way around the wood-trellised porch that protected a workspace for the pottery wheel Stella, Calliope’s eleven-year-old sister, had recently taken over. The small pots and planters that displayed various flowers and plants around the property were the young girl’s doing.
“How are your feet not blocks of ice?” Lori asked Calliope as she parked her wagon by the door of Calliope’s growing house.
“After all these years I’m used to it,” Calliope said with her usual understanding smile as she pulled open the door. “I love the feel of being so close to the earth, to the soil. Makes me feel connected. Speaking of connected, I’m very pleased you decided to work with Matt on this project.”
“Mmmm.” Pleased wasn’t the word Lori would use. Not now at least. Thankfully, thoughts of Matt evaporated as she stepped inside what she considered Calliope’s treasure house. Flowers and plants in every stage, in every color, sat in their biodegradable pots or more sturdy planters. Window boxes lined the walls along the sills and were filled with herbs from fennel and dill to perennials like bergamot and hyssop. Wild strawberry plants mingled with mint, the bubbles of red settling happily between thick leaves and winding stems. Pansies, yarrow and calendula burst from the soil like fireworks caught exploding in midair.
This place never ceased to amaze her. She’d spent most of her life around plants, around flowers of all kind and she didn’t think even she could name all of what she saw.
It was as if she’d walked into a grove kissed by the fairies.
“The PVC pipe is new.” Lori motioned to the wide pipe anchored into one of the pieces of wood frame. Calliope had carved out holes large enough for small plants that thrived on air rather than water to thrive and larger ones for the cacti.
“Space is becoming an issue,” Calliope said. “And since I’m not in a position to build another shed, Stella’s had some creative ideas.”
Lori trailed her fingers over the edge of the metal-encased worktable beneath a collection of seedlings, barely there sprouts just emerging from their bed of dirt. “I never know where to start.”
“I did some rearranging last night after the meeting.” Calliope leaned against the door frame and watched Lori wander between the narrow rows. “And, as always, each plant has been labeled. I’m assuming you have some plans already coming together for the homes and yards Matt plans to beautify?”
Lori nodded. “With the new sanctuary focusing primarily on the monarchs, I want to see what we can do to attract other species of butterflies. Although I’m not sure that’s entirely possible given the time of year.” Whatever worries she might have had where the mayor, BethAnn or even Matt were concerned paled when she considered the time of year and weather.
“Anything is possible with the right touch,” Calliope assured her. “True, most of the flowers you’ll be needing should have gone in this spring, but they’re sturdy. And with some care and faith, they might be blooming enough to put on a show for our festivalgoers.”
“You really think so?” Lori wasn’t convinced.
“I know so. There’s wild milkweed behind the toolshed. I’ve been harvesting it for a while and they’re hearty enough to survive. They’d make lovely additions closer to the homes.”
“Milkweed is the universal butterfly dining experience which makes it the perfect backdrop,” Lori agreed. “Do you mind if I just take my time, look at how the colors work with one another, make some notes?”
“Stay as long as you like. You’ll find the poinsettias toward the back. Just remember not to dismiss anything because you’re afraid it won’t survive the transplant. We can work around that.”
“Thanks, Calliope. I don’t plan to take anything other than the cuttings today.” She didn’t know many details about the project yet—not the homes they’d be focusing on, not the watering system, or even the condition of the soil. Their budget could very well be eaten up by dirt and drip systems. “I don’t want to get ahead of myself. Except…” She did know of one house for certain. “Willa and her mother are on the list. I wanted to do some research on plants and flowers known for aiding in healing and to ease pain and sickness. I thought perhaps you’d have some suggestions?”
“I can put together a selection for you, certainly. Lovely idea. You see? I told you you were the right person for this job.” She inclined her head. “I’m afraid I have some early arrivals this morning, so if you’ll excuse me. I’ll leave you to this.”
Lori only nodded, happy to lose herself once again in the flora around her. Plants, flowers, soil, water—they didn’t judge. They didn’t lie. They didn’t do anything but give beauty to the world, even when they needed a little coaxing and care.
Regret bloomed inside of her. Regret that today, had a face; the rugged, handsome face of a man with a slight limp, weary deep brown eyes and a smile that, for a few weeks, made her forget just how lonely she’d been.