Sometimes in my dreams, they call me Eleanor.
Mom and Dad, that is. They call me Eleanor, and they remind of the little room—the one hidden behind the fireplace. Dad shows me where to step behind the pile of logs and find the handle. And Mom’s hushed words repeat the instructions I’ve heard before.
“Eleanor, if ever anything bad should happen, climb into the secret room and wait for us. Don’t come out until one of us comes for you.”
In one particular dream, I obey. It’s a dark, snowy night and one of our guests has twin sons. I don’t see their faces nor know their names or ages, but I know they aren’t nice.
So I find a flashlight in a drawer in the kitchen, wait until the den is empty, and I face the open mouth of the cold fireplace. I ruin my frock in the ash and soot until I find the metal handle. I tumble into the room and click on the flashlight.
That’s when I see the painting leaned up against a corner. I wander to it, shining the flashlight over the bright colors of the scenic landscape—a tree with deep pink blossoms that remind me of one of Mom’s dresses. I wonder how it got here and why I didn’t notice it missing from the den wall before.
But it’s not enough to hold my interest, not when I’m bravely hiding in a secret room and the flashlight isn’t the only thing I found in the kitchen. I reach into my pocket for a cookie and nestle against one wall.
Hours later, Dad finds me in the secret room. I’ve had my nap in here, it seems, and he finds it hilarious. Though he scolds me soundly for giving him and Mom a scare. He whisks me from my hiding place, and I forget to ever ask about the painting.
He calls me Eleanor.
“Is there such a thing as a tree doctor?”
It was the first day of December and I’d grown wonderfully accustomed to Mara’s voice echoing about the house. She came loping into the den where I sat staring at the fireplace, remembering only in blurry scraps. As if my memory were a photo album of pictures so faded and yellowed I couldn’t quite make out the images.
Just before she entered the room, I’d had the thought that maybe it was time to give up my quest. After all, I still didn’t know what I was searching for. The room behind the fireplace was as void of answers as the attic. And I needed to focus on the present. The kitchen renovation had ended up far more expensive than I’d planned, and I was beginning to worry about paying January’s mortgage installment.
Mara dropped onto the window seat. She was barefoot, of course, and wearing an overly large sweatshirt. I could tell by the brown smudges on her hands she’d been polishing woodwork again.
“A tree doctor?”
“The way that old elm tree out front leans and groans worries me. Plus, have you noticed the faint reddish tinge to the bark of that tree in back by the garden shed? I think it may be a magnolia tree. We should ensure it’s healthy because those things can be beautiful. Who do you think we should call?”
I looked away. “I don’t know.”
“I’ll Google it. And maybe whoever we get out here can give us some ideas for planting some bushes and maybe a few more trees. Just two or three. Don’t you think it’d be pretty in the spring to have some flowering trees up front? I’m thinking of pink and purple blossoms.”
I dragged my gaze from a blank space on the wall—unsure why I was staring at it in the first place—and noticed the way she was leaning forward, legs crossed and hands on her knees. Mara Bristol had come alive. It didn’t matter if she was sweeping snarled leaves from the porch or clipping stray threads from a rug or dusting furniture in too many unused rooms—she’d found such joy in taking care of this old house.
And I didn’t know how to tell her there wasn’t money for a botanist or horticulturist or whoever it was that doctored trees.
“I’m so happy you’re happy here,” I began, thinking to broach the topic. But something else came out instead. “If you hadn’t come to the Everwood, Mara, where do you think you might be now?”
She looked puzzled at the question. “I don’t know, really. I think even if Garrett hadn’t happened, I was ready to be done nannying, but I didn’t know what would come next. A lot of my life’s been that way.”
We sat quietly for a moment, like we did often. When we could feel the atmosphere changing. When there was a heart conversation to be had.
Finally, she spoke up again. “If I’m really honest with myself, I think when I was running from Garrett, I may have been running from myself, too—from disappointment at nothing in my life turning out the way I’d ever envisioned. I never really had this big career ambition or anything, but I thought eventually I’d develop one. Or at least . . . I’d have a family. Marriage, kids, a house. I thought I’d get to a point where I felt settled. Instead, it’s like I’ve been out in the hallway all this time, waiting for . . . for some feeling of this is it.”
“Life’s hallways can be good, Mara. That’s where we’re prepped and stretched and matured into the people we need to be for whatever comes next.” I leaned forward in the loveseat. “There are good things in the hallway.”
“But what if it feels like the hallway is just stretching on and on forever. And none of the doors you expected to open actually do?”
I couldn’t help but smile. I loved it when she asked me these questions. “Then maybe you start looking for another door. And if it’s not open yet, maybe you push it open. There comes a point, my girl, when you have to just stand up and move and take the next step even if it’s the only step you see.”
“What if you take a wrong step?”
“That’s where faith and trust in God comes in. If you’re walking with Him, He’s not going to let you wander through a trapdoor.”
She gave me a sidelong glance. “Except I don’t know that I have as deep of a faith as you.”
I lifted my eyebrows. “So, maybe that’s the first door you choose. Choose to look for Him, Mara. When you do, I think you’ll see He’s been with you all along . . . even in the hallway. His love is an always and everywhere kind of love.”
Mara’s pensive expression reminded me of George’s in that moment. Thoughtful, reflective George. Sometimes I think if not for me, he would’ve chosen to settle down and raise a passel of kids. I was the impulsive one but he loved me enough to come along for the ride.
He would’ve come with me to the Everwood, I’m sure of it. He would’ve loved the den. He would’ve been just as concerned as Mara was about the trees. He would’ve—
Trees.
Mara had said something about trees with vibrant blossoms and . . .
Pillows tumbled to the floor as I bounded to my feet.
“What is it, Lenora?”
The lines of a fuzzy image in my mind had begun to sharpen. A flowering tree on a scenic landscape. The painting in the fireplace room. The one that used to hang on the wall. And my parents’ hurled arguments over something left behind on the day we fled the Everwood . . .
I had a lead.