Rain sets in during the night on Friday. The dim glow of headlights from the police cruiser patrolling the grounds offers some comfort, but I feel unsettled, not only by my run-in with Bernard but by what I learned about the Jamesons and their family’s tragedy. Even though I stay up late, creating Pinterest boards and researching interior decorators on my new computer, I get up early on Saturday morning.
I find an old quilt in the linen closet, and wrapped up against the damp air, I rock for hours on the porch with the rain pounding the tin roof. I can’t stop thinking about my father and how difficult it must have been for him to lose his brother and parents in a matter of years. I yearn to know more about the Jamesons. My family. I don’t feel comfortable asking Brian. Opal might tell me, but she won’t be painting in the rain.
Around ten o’clock, I dress in jeans and a hoodie. My raincoat will arrive with the rest of my wardrobe in the shipment of boxes on Monday. I make a dash across the lawn and up the stone steps to the main building where I discover an umbrella and a mildewy yellow slicker in a closet in the manager’s office. My office now. Seated at the mammoth wooden desk, I run my hand across the smooth leather top. Billy once worked here and his father before him. I know from the glossy books that my grandmother’s name was Janis and my grandfather was Ethan, like his eldest son. Ethan Senior was the last successful manager of Hope Springs Farm. Before the plane crash, Ethan Junior’s career path had taken him into law with the possibility of a future in politics. Where did that leave Billy? Was he teed up to become his father’s successor? And what about his music? Would he have gone on to become a rock and roll star if his music career hadn’t been cut short by the untimely death of his father?
Coming from behind the desk, I study the framed black-and-white photographs lining the walls of the Jameson family posing with famous people who have visited the inn over the decades. Maybe it’s wishful thinking, but I see something of myself in my grandmother. Janis was an elegant woman, poised and immaculately dressed.
More eager than ever for information about my long-lost family, I set off on foot to the public library. I stop in at Caffeine on the Corner for a hot beverage to take with me. The interior of the coffee shop is cheerful with ochre-colored walls and gas logs burning in the fireplace. Customers of every age occupy the booths and free-standing tables as well as stools at the counter that stretches across the front window. As I stand in line to place my order, I eavesdrop on a group of Jefferson College students rehashing last night’s big party.
When my turn comes, I ask the attractive barista for her opinion of the caffe mocha.
“It’s my personal favorite.” She raises her right hand. “And I promise I’m not just saying that.”
She’s about my age with thick honey-colored hair and flawless skin. Her blue eyes twinkle, and even though I don’t know her, I’m drawn to her easygoing manner and smile that hints at mischief. Is it possible I’m about to make my first friend in Hope Springs?
I smile at her. “I trust you. One caffe mocha, please.”
As she rings up my order, she says, “You’re new in town.” It’s not a question but a statement.
“Do I wear the dazed expression of a city girl in a small-town world?”
She laughs. “Yes! I recognize the expression from my own reflection in the mirror when I first moved to Hope Springs eighteen months ago.”
I stick my credit card in the reader, and while it’s processing, I say, “I’m Stella Boor, native New Yorker.”
“And I’m Cecily Weber, native everywhere else but here.” When I squint my eyes at her, she adds, “It’s a long story.”
The person behind me in line clears his throat, signaling for me to move on. Leaning across the counter toward Cecily, I say in a lowered voice, “What’s the public library like here? I imagine gloomy catacombs of dusty classics and World Book encyclopedias. Will I escape alive?”
She whispers back, “You’ll survive. I visit the library all the time. I’m an avid reader, but I’ve never warmed up to e-books. I like the feel of the book in my hands.”
“I know what you mean,” I say, even though I can’t remember the last book I read for entertainment.
The guy behind me clears his throat again, louder this time, and I move to the end of the counter to await my order. Drink in hand, I make the short walk, down a block and over another, to the Hope Springs public library. The two-story stone building nestles between City Hall on the right and the local branch of the Blue Ridge Bank on the left. An older woman at the front desk welcomes me with a warm smile, and when I tell her what I’m looking for, she escorts me to the microfiche room on the second floor.
I spend the afternoon researching old newspaper articles from the town’s Daily Post for information about the Jameson family as well as the inn. Ethan was killed on Friday, October 5, 1990. He was to have wed Meredith Brown the following day. One newspaper account pictures Meredith, wearing a veil over her face, with Billy and his parents at Ethan’s funeral. My grandparents both received quarter-page features at the time of their deaths, Ethan Senior in 1992 and Janis in 1994. Loved by the entire community, Ethan Senior served on boards of many civic organizations and was known for his generosity in supporting nonprofit organizations. A dedicated gardener, Janis served terms as both the president of the Hope Springs Garden Club and the Garden Club of Virginia. I print a copy of The Virginia Gardener magazine article that features photographs of a young Janis in her perennial and herb gardens. I’ve seen no evidence of those gardens during my walks around the farm. My grandmother would roll over in her grave if she knew her hard work had gone to waste.
I pore over every article I can find about the inn, but I don’t discover anything I haven’t already learned from the glossy books. Nor do I find any mention whatsoever of my mother. Of all the dozens of photographs I’ve seen in the books and on the walls at the inn, Hannah is not pictured in a single one of them. So, how did I end up in my mother’s womb? Was she involved in a relationship with Billy? If so, how does Marnie fit in?
The library is preparing to close when I emerge from the microfiche room around five. On my way through the lobby, I ask the same pleasant librarian for a recommendation on a current best seller. From behind the desk, she presents me a copy of Where the Crawdads Sing.
“Been on the bestseller list for months. Certain aspects remind me of To Kill a Mockingbird.”
Harper Lee’s classic was one of my favorites in high school. “I’ll take it. Thank you.”
When I reach for the novel, she jerks it away from me. “You must fill this out first.” She slides an application for a library card across the desk. “I’ll need to see a valid Virginia driver’s license.”
“I don’t have a Virginia driver’s license. I don’t have any kind of driver’s license, actually. I just moved here from New York.” I remove my wallet from my bag. “I have a valid ID card issued by the state of New York.”
“I’m sorry, but I need verification of your local address.” She hugs the book to her chest possessively. “We must protect our property from theft.”
“But I plan to get a license soon. I’ve only been in town for . . .” When I pause to count the number of days since my arrival, I’m surprised the number is only three, including today. So much has happened during that time. “Three days. Can’t you give me a break?” Propping my elbows on the counter, I say, “Would it help if Brian Powers vouches for me? I am Billy Jameson’s daughter, the new manager of the Inn at Hope Springs.”
“Billy Jameson,” she says, her pale eyes glassing over with unshed tears. “Well, I’ll be darn. I knew his family well.”
She taps the library card application. “Fill it out, using the inn as your local address. I’ll issue you a card as long as you promise to bring me your driver’s license as soon as you get one.”
Once I’ve completed my end of the process, she scans my card and the book. “The book is due in two weeks. Don’t make me come looking for you.”
I finger an x across my heart. “I promise. I won’t.”
She walks me to the door. “I’m Rose Mitchell, by the way. Welcome to town, Billy Jameson’s daughter.”
“Thank you,” I say with a smile.
Tucking the hardback book under my arm beneath my raincoat to prevent it from getting wet, I leave the library and dash across the street to the Local Market. I purchase a loaf of seedy bread, several thick slices of cheddar cheese from the deli, and a container of homemade tomato bisque.
Back at the cottage, I heat up the soup and make a grilled cheese sandwich. While I eat my dinner, with the gas logs keeping me company, I listen to my father’s music. His stereo system is antiquated, and even though his vinyl collection is extensive, most of his own music is recorded on cassette tapes. I pay close attention to the lyrics. His music prior to 1990 is upbeat with songs about love and hope and good times had with friends. There’s a twelve-month gap in his recordings following the plane crash. From 1991 onward, his songs are dark.
After putting my dishes away, I rummage through the contents of Billy’s bookshelves. When I find a relatively new model DSLR Canon camera, I spend two hours watching YouTube videos to learn how to use it.
I download the handbook from the Virginia Department of Motor Vehicles with every intention of studying, but my eyes are too computer weary. A few minutes after nine, I change into my pajamas and crawl into bed with the novel I checked out at the library. I’m hooked on page one, and four hours later, I’m still reading.