On Saturday, I finally get around to unpacking my wardrobe boxes that arrived earlier in the week. The bedroom feels a little more like home with my clothes in the closet. On a whim, I walk to the home goods boutique in town and purchase a comforter set with an abstract floral design in shades of blues, greens, and yellow.
Loneliness sets in when I see couples holding hands as they stroll about on Main Street. The chances of me meeting a guy in a town the size of Hope Springs is slim. For the first time since coming to Virginia, I feel homesick for New York. I can’t stop thinking of Hannah and Marnie. I should let them know I’m alive, but their betrayal is still fresh. Without unblocking their numbers, I send a simple group text. Things are going well in Virginia. I’m sorting through some issues. Will call when I’m ready to talk.
I click on Rachel’s number. She understands my history with losers like Vince. She’ll know what to say to help me forget about Jack.
When she answers on the third ring, I hear noise in the background. “Stella! I’m so sorry I didn’t call you. It’s been such a whirlwind.”
I grip my phone tighter, and even though I already know the answer, I ask, “What’re you talking about? What whirlwind?”
“My engagement to Bert. Didn’t you see my Instagram post? Listen, I’m at brunch with my friends. I’ll call you later.”
She hangs up on me before I can offer congratulations. I tap on my Instagram app and access her account. Sure enough, there’s a pic of Rachel and Bert, gazing into each other’s eyes. She’s holding up her left hand for the Instagram world to see the ginormous diamond on her ring finger. In all fairness, Rachel and Bert only got engaged last night. But still, we’ve been best friends most of our lives. I deserve to hear it from her instead of learning about it on social media.
I replay the brief conversation in my head. Rachel said, “I’m at brunch with my friends.” I’ve been gone from New York for less than two weeks, and I’m already a distant memory.
That night I eat leftover Mexican food and watch Casablanca, which only makes me miss Hannah and Marnie more.
On Sunday, I go to the late service at the pretty stone church in town. The minister is ancient and his sermon a sleeper. I leave feeling more depressed than ever. The weather matches my mood—dreary with off and on showers and cooler temperatures. That afternoon, wrapped in my new comforter on the sofa, I escape to the land of fiction where crawdads sing.
On Monday morning at seven o’clock, I’m waiting at the door to greet Jack’s crew with a cardboard travel box of coffee purchased from Caffeine on the Corner. Jack is professionally polite toward me but the easy interaction we previously shared doesn’t return.
Once the crew start to work, the banging of their sledgehammers in the guest bathrooms drives me to my office where I stay until the decorators arrive at ten.
Cary and Kathleen are more than partners at Ramsey Designs. They’re sisters. And they are badasses in smart business suits with expensively highlighted blonde hair piled in messy buns. While they’re confident in a manner that commands authority, they are in no way condescending. Not only do I strive to be like them in my new role, I trust my project is in excellent hands.
Jack and Cecily sit in for the first part of the meeting. Jack appears antsy and excuses himself after only a few minutes. “I need to be hands on for this first day of demo.” He gives each of the designers a business card. “If I can be of any assistance, do not hesitate to contact me.”
We take a break after an hour of discussing ideas for the kitchen and dining room. While Cary and Kathleen make phone calls to handle an issue with another client, Cecily pulls me aside. “Jack is seriously hot. But I agree with you. He’s totally married. If I were you, I’d keep things between you—"
I hold my hand up to silence her. “Strictly professional.”
When Cecily returns to the coffee shop, I give my guests a tour of the building, starting on the top and working our way down. Cary and Kathleen get super excited when I share my thoughts for Billy’s Bar. I can almost see gears spinning in their heads as they listen and look around. And then I get super excited as they begin to launch one idea after another, flipping them around like balls in a pinball machine.
“I’m thinking navy as the predominant color,” Kathleen says. “With lots of gleaming surfaces—mirrors and marble and high-gloss paint.”
Cary scrutinizes the room. “We’ll tray the ceiling and choose a bold geometric carpet.”
Moving to the rear of the lounge, Kathleen says, “We should think about putting in a parquet floor back here to use for dancing and as a stage when small groups perform. Which reminds me, Stella, we’ll give you the name of the firm in Richmond we use for network and Wi-Fi installations. They do audio and video as well.”
“Can you show us Billy’s memorabilia?”
“Now?” I ask, and they nod in unison.
It’s almost two o’clock, and I’m starving. “Can I take you to lunch first?”
“Who has time for lunch? We brought power bars.” Cary removes three RX Bars from her oversized designer handbag, offering one to Kathleen and me.
I accept the bars, grateful for anything to satisfy my hunger.
We spend another hour at the cottage. After discussing innovative ways to showcase Billy’s collections, we talk about budgets and fees. As I’m walking them back to the main building, I ask, “Do you have any concerns whatsoever about meeting our projected completion date?”
Kathleen, whom I deem to be the older of the sisters, says, “None at all. We know which vendors offer reliable lead times. We’ll only order goods that are in stock. We have an efficient staff who will stay on top of all deliveries. While we won’t be completely finished, the inn will be in good enough shape to reopen in early September. By the way, do we have an exact date for that yet?”
“Subject to change, of course, but as of now, I’m hoping to have a soft opening the week after Labor Day.”
“That seems so far away, but it’ll be here before you know it.” Kathleen squeezes me in a half hug. “Fasten your seat belt, Stella, you’re in for an exciting ride.”
My days fall into a routine. When I’m not meeting or talking on the phone with vendors in my office, I find ways to occupy my time outdoors. I give Billy’s Wrangler a thorough wash and practice my driving skills on the roads around the farm. I stand for long stretches of time on the grassy hill in front of the inn, imagining Billy and Ethan playing football in the sprawling front yard across the street at the manor house.
When I ask Opal who in the Jameson family sold the manor house, she says, “Billy did. He couldn’t bear the memories.”
I sit for hours on Opal’s park bench, watching her create masterpieces with graceful strokes of her brush. We take long walks around the grounds and picnic at the overlook. Ours is a companionable relationship. We can go for hours without saying a word or have a heated discussion about world affairs. But she makes it clear her past and her family are off-limit subjects. She’s never around on weekends, and I assume she’s at her home tending to chores. I wonder if she lives in one of the tidy houses lining the streets of downtown. Or if she lives in a cabin in the woods somewhere nearby? When I ask Opal what her last name is, she ignores me, as she always does when she thinks I’m getting too personal. But the name Opal is rare, and when I google the white pages for Opal in the Hope Springs area, my result yields one—Opal Powers. So, Opal and Brian are related. I ask her if she’s Brian’s mother, and she gives me the first solid answer since we met. Yes.
Yard work is my new favorite pastime. I prune and weed and plant. I learn to use the blower and the leaf sucker and the weed eater. I make countless trips to the garden center for perennials, annuals, and flowering shrubs. Although the improvements are immediate and drastic, the grounds are extensive and my progress doesn’t put a dent in the work that needs to be completed in order to return the property to Janis Jameson’s standards. There’s no way I can do it alone, and I’ve come no closer to finding a groundskeeper despite my best efforts.
My luck changes on the Friday of Memorial Day weekend. In the middle of the afternoon, I’m shoveling dead leaves into the compost pile when I receive a call from an excited Cecily. “I’m at the coffee shop. Get down here right now! I found you a landscaper.”
Certain it’s another dead-end lead, I say, “I’m filthy, Cecily. I’ve been working outside all day. Text me her number, and I’ll call her later.”
“No way! I’m holding her hostage until you get here. Not kidding, Stella. She’s perfect. You’ll thank me for this.”
A rush of adrenaline surges through me. It would be awesome to finally find someone qualified to take over the grounds. “All right then. I’ll be there in a few.”
Abandoning my rake, I jog around to the front of the main building, and I don’t stop until I arrive, sweating and breathless, at Caffeine on the Corner. Cecily and the landscaper are seated at a table with their heads close together. When I enter, they stand to greet me, and Cecily provides the introductions. Katherine Arnold is about my age, maybe a few years older than me, with medium brown hair, hazel eyes, and a trail of sun freckles across her nose. She’s dressed the part in work boots, khaki cargo shorts, and a sleeveless cotton top. A worn straw fedora rests on the table beside her coffee mug.
“Katherine just moved here from Savannah,” Cecily explains. “Her husband is the new admissions director at the college. She has a degree in landscape architecture.”
Katherine adds, “My landscaping business was just starting to take off when my husband accepted this job. I’m starting over from scratch.”
“Did Cecily explain the scope of the property? I’m looking for someone to restore and maintain it.”
“I understand,” Katherine says with a nod. “I was considering taking the summer off before starting back to work, but this job sounds ideal. Cecily says the farm is within walking distance. Do you have time to show it to me now?”
“Of course!” I turn my attention to Cecily. “Can you come with us? I assume you told Katherine that today’s your last day here, and that, as of Monday, you’re the new head chef at the Inn at Hope Springs Farm.”
Cecily lifts a finger to correct me. “The still unnamed restaurant at the Inn at Hope Springs Farm. And, yes, I told Katherine all about it.” She glances around the empty cafe. Aside from the three of us, there’s only one other customer seated at the window counter and another barista behind the bar. “Y’all go ahead. I’m not supposed to know this, but my coworkers have planned a surprise going-away party for me when our shift changes at three.”
“Well, you certainly can’t miss that,” I say. “We’ll catch up with you later. Maybe for drinks around happy hour.”
Katherine tugs her hat down over her head, and we exit the cafe together, walking back toward the farm. “Tell me about yourself, Katherine. Were you sad to leave Savannah?”
“Yes and no. I wanted to support my husband. This is his dream job. And I’ve lived in Savannah my whole life. I’m excited to try something different for a change.”
“This is definitely different,” I say with a laugh. “I’m from New York. There’s a learning curve for small-town living. Do you have children?”
She offers a despondent smile that lets me know she really wants a family. “Not yet. With the move and all, we decided to stop trying until we get settled.”
When we reach the farm, we switch into work mode as we tour the grounds. “Your beds are in desperate need of mulch,” Katherine says right off the bat.
“Don’t I know it.”
“The grass needs attention. We’ll fertilize now, and then wait until the fall to seed and aerate.” We loop down to the lake, and as we’re starting back up the hill, she says, “You have plenty of property to do so many wonderful things. You could put in a maze garden, incorporating hidden sculptures and benches and containers of bright flowers.”
“Wonderful suggestion.”
“It’s a shame to use this charming space for storage,” she says, about the barn. “You could rent it out for parties or dances or even weddings. You would need to spruce it up by painting the outside a neutral color and finishing off the interior. I would get rid of the stalls and have one big open space.”
“I had the same thought myself, but what do we do with the mower and all the yard tools?”
“Have your builder install a prefabricated commercial storage unit, out of sight somewhere on the edge of the property.” Katherine stops circling the barn and faces me. “I don’t mean to overwhelm you, Stella. Feel free to tell me to shut up. My husband thinks I have too many ideas.”
“There’s no such thing as too many ideas. Every idea is worth considering, even if we don’t use them all.”
“True. But you need to start by getting what you already have under control.”
“Agreed.” My phone has been vibrating on my hip for the past hour. Removing it from my pocket, I scroll through the string of texts. “Cecily wants to know if you’ve accepted the job.”
There’s mischief in Katherine’s smile when she says, “Tell Cecily I’m waiting for an official offer.”
“I thought that was a foregone conclusion,” I say, and take a stab at a salary based on my research. “But that’s negotiable. I want you on my team whatever it takes.”
Katherine counters for five thousand more a year, and I agree, reminding her about medical and dental insurance.
She points at my phone. “Text Cecily that I accept.”
I thumb off the text, and Cecily responds right away. Celebratory drinks at Buddy’s in ten.