Hannah and Marnie stopped going to church years ago, but I consider myself a regular attendee. By regular, I mean once or twice a month and all the major holidays. But I didn’t think to pack a dress, and I don’t have anything appropriate to wear to the pretty little Episcopal church with the stone facade and tall steeple I spotted in town yesterday. I dress in gray slacks and a white silk blouse and head over to Jefferson College for the eleven o’clock service in their chapel. As I stroll through town, I think about the six-year-old protagonist in Where the Crawdads Sing. One by one, her mother and siblings abandoned her, leaving her alone at their shack in the swamp with only her angry alcoholic father to take care of her. How sad her little life must have been. My anger toward my mother softens. While she and Marnie lied to me about my father, they were always loving parents and good providers.
I’m surprised to find the pews in the chapel filled with students—some who look as though they just rolled out of bed. But I understand the attraction when the young female minister delivers her sermon. All eyes focus on Reverend Malone as she counsels her young congregation about making the most of our God-given talents. I feel like she’s talking solely to me when she says, “At some point in your future, opportunity will come knocking on your door. Don’t be afraid when it does. Have confidence in your abilities, commit to doing your best, and put your faith in the Lord.”
I leave the service believing in my heart that I’ve done the right thing in coming to Virginia.
Yesterday’s rain is gone, the sky is clear, and the air warm. I stop in at Caffeine on the Corner on my way home. The coffee shop is empty except for a middle-aged man wearing a gray suit, sipping a warm beverage from a fat white mug while reading the Sunday edition of the Richmond Times Dispatch.
“Welcome back!” Cecily says cheerfully from behind the counter. “How was the library?”
“Productive. I checked out Where the Crawdads Sing. I started it last night. Couldn’t put it down. Have you read it?”
Cecily nods her head, her copper ponytail dancing around her shoulders. “Twice, actually. Finish the book, then we’ll talk.”
“Deal.”
“What’s it gonna be?” Cecily asks. “Another caffe mocha?”
I smile. “I’m surprised you remember with all the orders you must fill.”
“Comes from years of waitressing experience.”
I study the menu on the wall behind her, considering several options. “I’ll have an iced coffee, please.”
She removes a disposable cup from the stack and fills it with ice. “So . . . what brings you to Hope Springs?”
“I inherited the Hope Springs Inn from a father I didn’t know I had.”
“Seriously.” She laughs and then sees from my expression that I’m not joking. “Holy moly!”
“Long story. Remind me to tell you sometime.” I remove my wallet from my bag to pay for my drink. “What about you? How did you end up here?”
She slides my drink across the counter. “Mine is also a long story.” I pay for the drink and she hands me my receipt. “I’m a trained chef. Why don’t I make you dinner in exchange for a tour of the inn? I drive by there every day, and I’m dying to see inside. We can exchange stories while we eat.”
“You mean tonight?” I’ve never had dinner with a virtual stranger before. She must be as desperate for friends as me.
She shrugs. “Sure! If you’re free.”
“Are you joking? I’m free for the foreseeable future. Does six o’clock work?”
“Six o’clock is perfect.”
Back at the farm, I venture over to the main building with Billy’s camera slung over my shoulder. My goal is to take before photographs for my album, but when I can’t figure out how to adjust the light sensor on the camera, and the images turn out yellow, I resort to using my phone to take the pictures.
Outside is a different story. The camera loves the blue sky and natural sunlight. I snap dozens of images, not only of the exterior of the rotting buildings but of the budding flowers and trees. I see the world through different eyes. Through my grandmother’s eyes, a woman passionate about gardening, and through Owens’s protagonist Kya’s eyes, a child living on her own in a swamp with only seagulls and herons for companions. As I walk around the grounds, I look for signs of Janis’s gardens, but it’s been twenty-seven years since her death, and a few spindly rose bushes are the only signs of her handiwork.
I make my way up to the barn and slide open the heavy doors. I’m terrified I’ll find Bernard passed out drunk under the lawn mower, but his rusty pile of odds and ends is the only remaining evidence of him.
I attack the pile, setting aside most of the junk to be hauled off to the dump while salvaging a few useful items. At the back of the barn, I discover a variety of flower containers in all shapes and sizes. I find a charming pair of cast iron urns that are still in good shape despite their obvious age. I drag them one by one across the lawn to the cottage.
An hour later, promptly at six o’clock, I’m in the library of the main building, thumbing through flower books for container ideas, when Cecily arrives with a large basket. Peeking out from beneath a red-and-white checkered cloth is a bottle of red wine and a loaf of french bread.
“You went to too much trouble,” I say, taking the basket from her and setting it on the reception desk.
She waves off my compliment. “It was no trouble at all. Now.” She claps her hands. “How about that tour?”
We start in the solarium and work our way down the hall through the lounge. When we enter the dining room, she does a little spin, taking it all in. “You inherited all this from a man you didn’t even know was your father? Stuff like that only happens in the movies. Start talking, Stella. I’m dying to hear your story.”
I tell her about being an only child to same-sex parents and my brief and lackluster career in the hotel industry. She listens to my every word without speaking, and when I finish, she peppers me with questions.
“So, we know Hannah and Billy were romantically involved. But were they in a relationship or was it a one-night stand? Maybe he raped her.”
I frown. “That’s a possibility I haven’t considered. But from what I’ve learned about Billy, he doesn’t sound like the type.”
“Why don’t you just ask Hannah?”
“We’re not on speaking terms at the moment. I blocked her number from my phone. Anyway, Brian Powers, the estate attorney, thinks I’m better off figuring things out for myself. In a weird way, I think maybe he’s right. I’m putting together a jigsaw puzzle one piece at a time. Now it’s your turn. Tell me your story.”
“Let’s finish the tour first.” Cecily grabs my arm and drags me through the swinging doors to the kitchen. She stops short in the center of the room. “Whoa. I’ve seen some old appliances before, but I’m afraid to even turn these on.”
She moves about the room, opening cabinet doors and investigating the walk-in pantry. “The space has potential. Good bones with lots of natural light and plenty of room. Update the cabinetry and appliances and you’ll have a kitchen any chef would love to work in.”
I watch her with interest. “You clearly know what you’re talking about. You mentioned earlier that you’re a trained chef. Start talking, Cecily,” I say, throwing her words back at her.
Cecily moves to the bank of three windows and stares out across the back lawn. “I have a master’s degree in culinary arts. I was working as a sous chef in a five-star restaurant in DC when I made the mistake of hooking up with the head chef one night after work. We’d both been drinking. It didn’t mean anything for either of us, but the bastard fired me the next day.”
“Ouch.” I cross the room to her. “On what grounds?”
“He claims I was sexually harassing him.”
“No way!”
“The whole thing was so unfair. He wouldn’t even let me use him as a recommendation. I should’ve contested it, but I was so angry, all I wanted to do was get as far away from him as possible. I threw my stuff in my car, and left DC with no particular destination in mind. When I stopped in Hope Springs for gas, I found the town so charming, I ended up staying here.”
I nudge her with my elbow. “We have something in common. Lack of impulse control.”
She offers me a sad smile. “This little town feels like home to me, but unfortunately, there aren’t enough opportunities for me to stay. I’m certainly not furthering my career by managing a coffee shop. But I can’t bring myself to leave.”
“Have you applied for jobs with any of the restaurants in Hope Springs?”
“Of course. Even though I’m qualified to be their head chef, the owners don’t take me seriously. They say I’m too young.”
Something else we have in common, I think to myself, but I don’t say it.
“I’ve eaten in every establishment. Elmo’s is the best, but none of them are great. Given the chance, I could really make a difference.”
The unspoken hangs in the air between us. She needs a job, and come September, I’ll be in need of a chef. The old impulsive Stella would have hired Cecily on the spot. But, with so much responsibility on my shoulders, I can’t afford to make a mistake.
If preparing a meal for me is her way of applying for the job, I like her style.
I press my hands together. “Now that I know you’re a chef, I’m even more eager to sample the goodies in your basket. Let me show you the grounds, and we’ll go to my cottage for dinner.”
Exiting the back door, we drop her basket off at the cottage and head down to the lake. “After all that rain yesterday, the grass is growing at a rate of three inches an hour. You don’t happen to know anyone in landscaping, do you?”
She thinks before answering. “Not off the top of my head. Surely you already have a lawn service.”
“We had a lawn service, although I wouldn’t necessarily call him a service.” I tell her the story of Bernard.
“That must have been terrifying. Aren’t you scared living here alone?”
“Not really,” I say, but even to my own ears, I sound unconvincing. “Okay. Maybe I’m a tiny bit afraid. The police are patrolling the farm over the weekend, and next week, I plan to hire a private security firm. I’ve lived all my life in small apartments with hundreds of other tenants in large buildings. But in a weird way, the farm feels like home.”
“Did you leave a boyfriend behind in New York?”
“I wouldn’t call Vince a boyfriend. I’m much better off without him anyway.” When an image of Jack Snyder flashes in my mind, I push it aside. “How about you? Have you met anyone in Hope Springs?”
“I’m not very trusting of men after what happened in DC. But there is this one guy. He’s a lacrosse coach at Jefferson College, but he doesn’t know I’m alive. Wait! I take that back. He knows I make a mean caramel macchiato.”
We burst out laughing at the same time.
When I show Cecily the hot spring, she insists on dipping her feet in. Slipping off our shoes, we sit on the cobblestone coping and dangle our feet over the side.
“The hot springs I’ve seen are much bigger. Why close it off in this hut? Wouldn’t your guests enjoy the view of the lake and mountains while bathing in the healing waters? Imagine it, Stella, illuminated at night by strategically placed landscape lighting.”
“Great idea, Cecily. I’m impressed.” Jack had mentioned incorporating the springs into the spa facility. Making it open air would be all the more appealing to guests.
Cecily beams. “I’m full of good ideas.”
And she proves it throughout the evening by making one innovative suggestion for improving the inn after another. If Cecily is vying for the position as my head chef, she doesn’t admit it. Dinner consists of a light but flavorful crab quiche, a mixed green salad topped with assorted berries, and homemade sourdough bread. Her food is some of the best I’ve ever tasted, and I devour every bite. Cecily prides herself on tweaking traditional recipes by adding a modern flair and using only the freshest farm-to-fork ingredients. She talks wine like an expert, and pairs the dinner with an excellent dry Riesling. By the time we’ve finished eating, I have no concerns about offering Cecily the job. I consider her age a bonus, not a disadvantage. She’s young with fresh ideas. While we may get some pushback, we’ll prove to everyone that we’re up for the challenge. Strength in numbers and all that.
“So . . .,” I say as we finish the last of the wine. “How do you feel about joining my team as head chef?” I like the sound of that. My team. My project. My inn. I break out in chill bumps. How cool is this?
Cecily clinks her glass to mine. “I thought you’d never ask.”