First thing on Monday morning, I put in a call to Brian from the manager’s office. Sitting at the massive desk, where so many important decisions have been made in the past, gives me confidence. Even so, I’m still nervous about breaking the news to Brian that I hired a chef.
But he doesn’t skip a beat. “Good for you! Bring him onboard as soon as possible. He can be instrumental in developing menus and designing the space.”
“He is actually a she, Brian. You’ll be meeting her soon, so you might as well know, she’s the same age as me. But she has a master’s degree in culinary arts. I sampled her cuisine last night. It’s among the best I’ve had. And that’s saying a lot, having dined in some of New York’s top restaurants.”
This is not a total lie. While I could never afford fine dining on my paltry salary, I ate in my share of five-star restaurants on birthdays and special occasions when my parents were treating.
When Brian doesn’t respond, I prattle on. “Cecily has brilliant ideas about a lot of things, not just cooking. She will be a definite asset to our team. We share the same vision of enhancing the traditional with a slightly modern, upscale flair.”
“You don’t have to give me the hard sell, Stella. As long as you approve of her.”
Despite his endorsement, I detect a hint of skepticism in his voice, and when I thank him for his vote of confidence, I vow all over again to prove myself to him.
I hear the sound of rattling paper on his end of the line. “Coincidentally,” he says, “I was looking over Jack’s numbers when you called. Everything appears to be in order. I’ll give him the go-ahead, and we’ll get this project underway.”
I feel sick to my stomach, but in a good way. “That’s exciting. Hiring a mover is on the top of my to-do list this morning. Do you by any chance know of a large warehouse where we can store furniture?”
“I know just the place. A friend of mine has a warehouse conditioned for heating and cooling. It’s been empty for some time. I’ll give him a call to see if we can lease it for the summer.”
“That’d be great. Jack thought you might have a solution.”
Brian laughs. “You can count on my support, Stella. If I don’t have a solution off the top of my head, I’ll find one for you.”
We talk a few more minutes before hanging up. No sooner have I set down my phone, when it vibrates with a call from Cecily. When I answer, the noisy sounds of the coffee shop fill the line, but before I can say hello, Cecily blurts, “Before I turn in my notice, I need to make certain you’re serious about the job. We had some wine last night. I totally understand if you were just drunk-talking. I’m offering you an out.”
“Chill, Cecily. The job is yours.”
“Are you sure? You can walk away, no hard feelings. We’ll still be friends.”
“I’m positive. I’m thrilled to have you onboard.”
Cecily exhales loudly. “This is my dream job, Stella. I was afraid . . .”
“Say no more, Cecily. We’re going to make a great team. I understand you have to work your two weeks’ notice, but can you set aside some time soon to brainstorm ideas?”
“I have like a gazillion Pinterest boards. I’ll combine some of my best ideas and share them with you. And I’m off on Friday if you want to have dinner again.”
“Only if you’re cooking.”
“Then it’s a date.”
After ending my call with Cecily, I spend the rest of the morning scheduling Skype interviews with four interior design firms—all of them in Richmond, one of them recommended by Jack’s architect sister—and making calls to eleven landscape maintenance services and three moving companies. The lawn services are too busy with their existing clients to take on such a large account, although several of them sound disappointed at having to turn down the opportunity. Only one of the local movers suits our needs, and I schedule an appointment with him for late this afternoon.
I go to the cottage for a quick bite of lunch—a spoonful of chicken salad and a tomato sliced into wedges. When I finish, I go in search of Opal. I find her sitting on a bench near her tree, eating an apple and staring off into space. Her canvas is set up nearby, but it doesn’t appear she’s painted much on the spring house since the last time I saw it.
I slide onto the bench beside her. “You’re a million miles away. What’s on your mind?”
She looks over at me, and I think she’s happy to see me despite the sadness in her smile. “Oh, you know. Just thinking about years gone by.”
“Have you lived in Hope Springs all your life?”
“Off and on.” She takes the last bite of her apple and tosses the core across the lawn. “We used to rent one of the cottages every summer.”
“By we, do you mean your husband and children?”
She ignores my question. “Life happens fast, Stella.”
“I’d like to hear about your life, if you want to talk about it.”
“No, you don’t.” She waves her hand in front of her face, as though shooing away a fly. “You have better things to do than listen to an old woman ruminate about the past.”
I give up. Opal is either extremely private or she’s hiding something. “Actually, I was going to ask a favor. I was up late last night studying the handbook. I was wondering if you’d drive me to DMV to take the test.”
“Sure!” She jumps to her feet with the energy of a woman half her age.
I laugh. “I didn’t necessarily mean right now. I don’t want to interrupt your painting.”
“I haven’t lifted the brush all morning. I have artist’s block.” She laughs at her own joke.
“In that case,” I say, “can we go before I chicken out?”
“Let me just pack up my things.”
We carry her easel and paints up to her Mini, which she parked beside the barn.
“Is DMV far away?” I ask when we’re headed down the driveway, wind whipping our hair.
“About three miles outside of town,” she says, and turns up the volume on the radio. A song from an early Wild Hollers album is on her playlist, and we sing along with Billy as we drive through town.
My few friends who actually went to the trouble to get driver’s licenses have shared horror stories about their experiences at DMV, but I have no complaints about mine. I don’t have to wait in line long, and the clerk who assists me in taking the test is pleasant. When I emerge from the testing area fifteen minutes later, learner’s permit in hand, Opal is studying a printed copy of the driver’s handbook.
She pokes the handbook. “There’s a checklist here that describes specific driving tasks you’ll need to perform when taking the road skills test. I’m officially volunteering for the job as your driving coach.”
“You’re hired. Thanks.”
We exit the building, and as we zoom back toward town, I point to a garden center ahead of us on the other side of the highway. “Can we stop in there? I found a pair of containers in the barn. I’d love to buy some flowers for them.”
“Certainly,” Opal says, and whips the Mini across two lanes of oncoming traffic.
“I should warn you, though, I know absolutely nothing about flowers,” I say as we enter the fenced-in outdoor area of the garden center.
“Then it’s a good thing you brought me a long.”
I follow Opal as she circles the tables and carts exhibiting plastic pots and flats of colorful flowers. The choices are overwhelming. “They’re all so pretty. How does one decide?”
“You start by narrowing your options based on growth habits and sun exposure.” We stand in front of a table of small plants with clusters of flowers in bright summer colors. “Tell me about your containers.”
“Well . . .” I pause as I consider how best to describe them. “They’re narrow at the base and wider at the top. I guess you’d call them urns. They’re about this big.” Hands clasped, I hold my arms out in front of me.
“And where are you planning to put them?”
“In front of the cottage, on the sidewalk at the bottom of the steps.”
“Good! You’ll get plenty of morning sun there.” She removes her John Lennon sunglasses and examines the flowers. “I’ve always had more success with annuals versus perennials in my containers. They’re more bountiful and less expensive. You won’t feel bad throwing them away at the end of the season. These pretty plants are Calibrachoa, also known as million bells. They would be a good choice for a beginner. As you can see, they come in every color imaginable.”
“One of the flower books I found in the inn’s library says I should have thriller, filler, and spiller in my containers.”
She stares at me from under furrowed brows. “And I thought you knew nothing about flowers.”
I laugh. “That’s not experience. Only what I read in a book.”
“You can take that approach. But there are no set rules when it comes to nature. Plant what you like. If you pick a Proven Winners plant, water it daily and fertilize it every other week, it’ll perform well for you all summer long.”
We spend a few minutes discussing the pros and cons of the options available. Overwhelmed and frustrated, I decide to keep it simple and plant hot pink million bells in my containers.
“I approve of your choice,” Opal says. “A happy splash of color to greet your guests.”
We grab a large bag of potting soil and are standing in line to check out, when Opal says, “Perhaps you’ll discover a passion for gardening like your grandmother.”
“Who knows if I even have a green thumb. I might kill these little guys.” I finger a pink flower petal. “I admit, though, after living amongst concrete buildings and sidewalks all my life, I’m enjoying being outdoors.”
“Outdoor living is good for the soul.”
“I’m beginning to realize that.”
When we’re finished checking out, we load the flowers and soil into the back of Opal’s car.
“You clearly know a lot about gardening,” I say on the way home. “Were you and my grandmother friends?”
That same lost-in-the-past expression from earlier returns to Opal’s face. “We didn’t run in the same social circles, but Janis and I were good friends. Because we shared a lot in common, we enjoyed each other’s company.”
“What was she like?”
I’d imagined my grandmother to be a real lady, well-groomed and dignified, and I’m shocked when Opal says, “Cussed like a sailor and drank whiskey like it was water. She never put on airs, and that’s what drew people to her. One always knew where they stood with Janis Jameson.”
“I wish I’d known her,” I say in a soft voice.
“You would’ve liked her. And she would’ve liked you.”
Warmth spreads across my chest. “Thank you for saying that.”
At the farm, Opal parks in front of the cottage and we unload the soil and flowers onto the short sidewalk. She shows me how to fill the bottom of the urns with crushed soft drink cans to allow for better irrigation. Once the containers are planted, I step back and admire my work. “Just as you said, a cheerful welcome to my visitors.”
For the next two hours, Opal guides me on a horticultural tour of the grounds, naming shrubs and trees and the few perennials showing the tips of their heads in neglected flower beds. I snap dozens of photos with Billy’s camera and take detailed notes on my phone. I’m eager to learn. Finally, I’ve discovered a hobby I enjoy.
“Thank you, Opal,” I say, when I walk her to her car. “I really think I’m going to love gardening.”
She pats my arm. “Don’t get ahead of yourself, my dear. The pruning and planting will wait. Your first order of business is to find someone to mow and blow.”
“Trust me, I’m working on it.” I give her a peck on the cheek and close her car door.
I check the time on my phone, and seeing that I’m late for my meeting, I hurry over to the main building. The representative from the moving company is waiting patiently at the front door. David Ryan is professional and accommodating. We agree on pricing, but I can only answer a few of his many questions about timing, and I’m grateful when Jack stops by.
Jack explains to David, “Ideally, I’d like to start demo the first of next week. I realize I’m asking a lot, but can you get everything out of here by then?”
“Shouldn’t be a problem, since it’s a local job. I’ll hire extra movers if necessary. My team will be here first thing on Wednesday morning to start packing.”
Jack and I stand at the front door, watching the mover drive off in his pickup truck. I wrap my arms around my midsection, hugging myself. “Is this really happening, Jack?”
He flashes a pearly white smile that sends a bolt of electricity to parts of my body totally off-limits to married men. “This is really happening, Stella.”