DUSKYWING FARM.
Xander wasn’t sure what intrigued him more—the lush organic field of nature’s bounty that sat beyond the wooden gate, or the barefoot owner carrying armloads of what looked like jars of honey to the market stall nearby.
Barefoot. In early winter. Xander might have chuckled if he didn’t think he’d somehow offend Calliope Jones. Not that she seemed aware of his presence. She moved as silently as a morning fog, drifting over the ground like a whisper, the tiny bells he’d grown accustomed to in such a short time silent. Only now, when he concentrated, did he hear her humming a tune he recognized but couldn’t identify. He did, however, notice a lightness about her that included a secretive smile tilting her generous lips.
She wore green today, the rich green of a shamrock field, and no doubt just as lucky. He caught a hint of fresh grass, dirt and something that smelled oddly of licorice.
He pulled out his cell to check the time. Nearly an hour before opening. He’d decided on the morning walk well before the sun, east coast time still running his system. The blinking, mocking cursor of his laptop had continued in his mind long after he’d turned off his computer to spend the midnight hours staring helplessly at the ceiling. It had been arrogant and shortsighted of him to think this project was going to be easy.
And arrogance had no place in the vicinity of Calliope Jones. Or, it seemed, anywhere within the borders of Butterfly Harbor.
His first clue to this revelation had been when he’d arrived back at his room after his meeting with the mayor and found a fresh evergreen wreath on his front door. Thick boughs had been draped over the windowsills and a beautiful, lush, three-foot tree situated on a skirted table in the corner of the sitting room beside the fireplace.
On the coffee table Lori had left a gift-wrapped package that when he opened it, revealed lights, ornaments and a silver-star topper. It wasn’t often he used the word charming, but so far his time in Butterfly Harbor could only be described in that way. His irritation over the reaction to his design faded beneath the unexpected warmth and kindness of this town. “Mew.”
From where he now stood outside the entry gate to Duskywing Farm, Xander glanced down and found a thin, sleek, grayish silver cat twining itself around his feet. “Well, good morning.” He crouched as the cat walked around him, blinked two large black eyes at him, then plopped her—at least he thought it was a her—backside down and lifted her chin. “Out for a morning pet, are we?” He stroked two fingers down the cat’s head, then scratched under her chin. He took the engine-loud purr as a good sign. “Aren’t you a pretty thing?”
“Mew.”
Xander started. He frowned. Had the cat just answered him? When he pulled away, she reached up a paw and knocked him on the back of his hand. The purring resumed when he stroked her fur. “I wish your mistress were as easy to interpret.”
“We each of us have our soft points.” Calliope’s voice carried far less of the coolness he’d come to expect. “Seems you’ve found hers easily enough.”
He grinned. The cat did seem to enjoy his attention. “She’s beautiful.”
“And she knows it.” Calliope, still carrying two jars in her arms, shifted them so she could open the gate. “You may as well come in.”
“I wasn’t sure I’d be welcome this early.” He inclined his head as he pushed to his feet. “I figured I was in for another lecture on my punctuality.”
“I don’t lecture.” Her words came with a defiant spark in her eyes.
It was a spark that didn’t burn quite as bright as it had yesterday. Progress? Maybe he was growing on her. Or maybe she’d resigned herself to the idea of working with him. Either way, he’d revel in her acceptance while he could.
“But acknowledging you have an issue is the first step to fixing it,” she continued. “Come on, Ophelia. Let the man inside, please.”
“Ophelia, huh? I have a sister named Ophelia.” One who was currently as irritated with him as the rest of his family.
“It’s a good name. A strong name. Despite Shakespeare’s interpretation.” Calliope watched as her cat led him inside. “A bit delicate in the heart, perhaps?”
“Yes.” Xander thought of his sister, newly remarried after a disaster of a first go-round. “She’s stronger than she thinks.”
“Hmm.” Calliope nodded and latched the gate behind him. “Seeing as you’re here, you can help me finish setting up. After you have some breakfast, of course. Careful you don’t slip in those fancy shoes of yours.”
“Ah, breakfast?” Xander ignored the slight to his imported leather loafers even as he admitted he should have packed his running shoes. “Have we called a truce?”
“For today at least.” She set the jars down on one of the black iron café tables at the foot of her front porch. A collection of small pots spilling over with brilliant red cotoneaster and delicate snowdrop blossoms was only the first hint of holiday splendor on Calliope’s land. “I don’t have the energy to deal with negativity. I’m choosing to pick my battles from here on in.”
“So I’m a battle to be fought, am I?” He hoped so. He’d come to like the idea of battling wits with this eccentric woman.
She stopped, her hand on the doorknob of her home, and turned to him. “That depends. How tied are you to the plans you’ve already made for the butterfly project?”
“Hardly at all.” How could he be when the flaws seemed so obvious to him now. Not that he had other ideas. Yet.
Calliope lifted her hand, touched her palm to his cheek and stepped closer. Her eyes darkened, and the gold flecks in their depths sparked like flame. “We aren’t going to get along well, Mr. Costas, as long as you continue to lie to me.”
“Ah.” It was the only sound that came out of his mouth. Could one freeze under such warmth? His entire mind had gone blank, as if her touch had erased every thought coursing through him.
“Until you see.” Her voice was as light as a feather brushing against his skin. “Until you understand what it is we have to protect, what it is we need to do, your mind should be open to all possibilities.”
“All possibilities are never an option.” He’d managed to get out a reply as he struggled to be coherent. When he felt the pressure from her fingers ease, he reached up, caught her hand in his and looked deeper into her eyes. Surprise softened her gaze, but she pushed away the emotion almost as quickly as it had appeared. It was then he realized he could stare into her eyes—into that face—forever. “You’re meant to be my guide through the process. That I am open to.”
She quirked an eyebrow. “Quick with a word, aren’t you? Let’s hope your heart can follow.” She pulled from his grasp as easily as water trickling through his fingers. “I’ve scones coming out of the oven and fresh eggs from a neighbor’s chickens. Coffee to start with?”
“Yes, please.” He trailed behind her without a second thought. Entranced was a word that had come to mind yesterday and he had yet to find another that fit. He stepped onto the porch as she disappeared inside, and took a few moments to look over the vast expanse of lush vegetation that stretched almost as far as he could see.
He’d done a bit of research last night, not that there was much to be found on Calliope Jones and her farm. She didn’t have a website or social media page. What he had found was on the city site, where the Friday and Saturday farmers’ market was listed as a tourist must. The menu outside Flutterby Dreams touted its dedication to farm to table. All its produce came from Calliope, as did local deliveries to homes and other businesses.
She was both a throwback and a progressive when it came to her business model. And she lived in a house made of stone. Stone older than Xander had seen in a long time.
He ran his hands across the grey river stones that made up her house as he wiped his feet on the mat. The weathered red door reminded him of a cottage he’d rented in Ireland one summer during a college break when he’d consulted on some historic restorations. Homes like that, and like Calliope’s, were built to stand the test of time.
A wreath that matched the one on his own home away from home was topped with a crooked, shiny gold bow. The window boxes positively exploded with holiday color—red, white and pink poinsettias intermingling as nature intended.
“Are you going to gawk at my home all day or come in?” Calliope lifted a crookedly made coffee mug into the stream of sunlight arching through her kitchen window. He could see—and smell—the steam rising into the air. His stomach growled.
“Can’t I do both?”
“I don’t know how you can do anything when you’re buttoned up as tightly as you are.” She motioned him to the table, where she set down his coffee. “Loosening one or two might make you breathe a bit easier.”
“Now you’re criticizing my clothes?”
“Merely making an observation. No offense meant.”
“None taken, then.” He touched his fingers to his throat and…opened the top two buttons of his shirt. “The scones smell amazing.”
“Thank you. They’re lemon thyme. My grandmother’s recipe. She taught me to bake them when I was a little younger than Stella.”
“Was this your grandmother’s house?” He sipped at his coffee and accepted the morning jolt happily. The tree in the corner of the sitting room displayed flickering lights and antique ornaments, most of them handmade. Sprigs of mistletoe dotted the branches and cascaded down from the window ledges on the inside of the house.
“And her mother’s, yes. Gran built on, of course.” She turned on the gas stove beneath a well-seasoned cast-iron skillet and set to cracking eggs in sizzling butter. “Originally it was just this room here. Then as the family grew, and technology improved, so did the house.”
“You’ve lived here all your life.” He reached out and plucked a persimmon from the bowl on the table. “Do you mind?”
“Help yourself.” She glanced over her shoulder. “Just save enough for Stella. She plans to make cookies for the Christmas fair.”
He nodded, retrieved a knife to cut off the top, then bit into the orange flesh. That crispy snap reminded him of Saturdays in the apple orchard with his grandfather. “My mother used to make persimmon jam. I remember coming down on a Saturday and slathering her homemade bread with it.”
“Your mother’s a baker then?”
“My mother’s a bit of everything. Dad was focused on the family business, Mom minded the family.” If only his father had paid a little more attention to the firm in the last couple of years, maybe they wouldn’t be in the situation they were in today.
“You mentioned your sister, Ophelia. Older or younger?”
“Younger. I’m the second oldest. Antony, then me, Ophelia, Dyna and Alethea, the baby.”
“Five.” Calliope breathed the word as she shook her head. “Yes, your mother would be a bit of everything. Good morning, poppet.”
“Morning.”
Xander looked over his shoulder as Stella shuffled into the kitchen. She wore knitted cat slippers on her feet and a yellow nightgown dotted with tiny pink flowers. Her long red hair tumbled around her shoulders, as if to keep her warm against the morning chill coming through the open front door.
“Hello, again.” Xander retrieved the mug Calliope held out and set it on the table for the little girl. “Did we wake you up?”
“No.” She sank onto the bench across from him and rubbed her eyes. “I had that dream again.”
“About the owls?” Calliope went about her breakfast, flipping and seasoning the eggs before stooping over to retrieve the sheet of scones from the oven. “Was it the white or brown one this time?”
“Both. They were trying to tell me something.”
Xander watched Stella’s brow furrow as she gnawed on her lower lip. “I used to dream about a talking frog named Sherman,” he offered.
The sisters looked at him, something akin to confusion on their faces.
“Frogs can be powerful omens and spirit animals,” Calliope said after she blinked a few times. “Do you mind me asking what Sherman said?”
“No, I don’t mind. But I don’t remember. I was about Stella’s age when it stopped.” Or at least when he stopped talking about the dreams. Antony had taken inordinate pleasure teasing him about dreaming about amphibians rather than baseball or soccer.
“Did the dreams scare you? Did…Sherman scare you?” Stella cupped her mug between her hands and leaned her arms on the table. The way her wide amethyst eyes peered into his had Xander shifting in his seat.
“Ah, not that I recall. I’ve always seemed to attract frogs, though.” He drank some of his coffee. “I remember working on a construction project in Louisiana. Place was teeming with them. They didn’t stay long. A few days later they were gone.”
“Frogs are considered good luck in many cultures.” Calliope slid the nicely toasted scones onto a plate and set it on the table. “They symbolize life and abundance. They’re also helpful in cleaning one’s soul and eradicating negativity. I would think that was their way of bestowing their approval on the project.”
“Not sure if my soul needs cleaning,” Xander said as he and Stella both reached for the biggest scone. He grinned and let her win and considered her wide smile his reward. “All I know is Antony still calls me Frog Boy when he wants to annoy me.”
“I’ll keep that in mind. Stella, did you talk to the owls this time or did you run away again?”
Stella ducked her head and looked far too interested in her breakfast. “I don’t remember.”
Xander glanced up at Calliope.
“Until you listen to what they have to say, the dreams won’t stop. We talked about this before, remember?”
“I know.” Stella sighed. “Sometimes I just wish they’d leave me alone.”
“They will.” Calliope reached over and caught Stella’s chin in her hand to tilt up her sister’s face. “When you’ve heard them out.”
Xander frowned as he ate, caught between the buttery goodness in his mouth and the oddity of the conversation. Talking to animals in your dreams? Listening to them? He’d already decided Calliope was eccentric, but this was taking things a bit far…wasn’t it?
“Finish up your breakfast and go get dressed,” Calliope said. “Our guests will start arriving soon and I’d like you to help fill people’s orders.”
“Really?” The heaviness in Stella’s eyes eased as her face lit up. “You mean like without supervision?”
“I think you’re ready. Just remember to—”
“Be kind and gentle and thank the earth for its gift. Yeah, yeah, I know.” Stella rolled her eyes and grabbed a napkin for her scone, then darted back to her room.
“You’re just humoring her with all this omen stuff, right?” Xander asked Calliope as she set a plate of eggs in front of him. The yolks stared back at him like glistening orange balls of sunshine. “You don’t really believe—”
“I believe every creature in this world has a story to tell. A message to convey. In whatever world they inhabit.”
There was resignation in her tone, as if his comment had confirmed her worst suspicions of him. Not that it wasn’t a unique way to help Stella deal with her nightmares, making whatever was scaring her seem less intimidating than it was. That said he’d have gladly traded his frog dreams for one of majestic, wise owls.
“Is the butterfly your spirit animal?” He watched as she joined him, sitting in Stella’s vacated seat.
“In a manner of speaking.” Even when cutting her eggs and breaking apart a scone she had a gentle touch. “I’ve always felt a connection to them, for as long as I can remember. Have you ever heard a butterfly’s whisper?”
“I can’t say I have.” As far as he knew butterflies didn’t have vocal chords.
She reached for a napkin and wiped her mouth. “It’s not something I can describe. It’s something one has to hear for themselves, but it only happens if you’re open to it.”
“And you don’t think I am?” Why on earth should he feel so offended?
“I think there’s a lot of noise in your world. In your life. In your mind. Not just you,” she added when he opened his mouth to argue. “All that white noise in our lives, from the traffic outside to the buzzing of a television, to the constant hum of appliances and electronics. It all deafens us to what’s really going on around us. Like now.” She leaned forward and peered into his eyes in that way she had earlier, only now instead of restrained irritation he found challenge in their purple depths. “Tell me what you hear.”
“Nothing.”
Calliope sighed. “You didn’t even stop to think before you answered. Come with me.” She slipped her hand around his and pulled him away from the table, back outside to her front porch. She dropped down on the plank floor, tugging him beside her as she curled her legs under her. “Look out there. What do you see?”
He stretched out his legs and tried to get comfortable. “Green. Lots and lots of green.”
“You might know that even if you were color-blind.”
“How do you know I’m not?” he teased. She gave him a side-eyed glance that felt far more intimate than he would have expected. “Okay, sorry. You’re right, I’m not.”
She released his hand and brushed her fingers up his arm. He shivered and credited the cool morning air as the cause of the sensation. “There’s more to see in the world than color. In everything that surrounds us. Not just plants and flowers and trees, but for now, let’s focus on those. Look, really look at what’s just beyond here.” She lifted her hand and traced the outline of one of the crops along a board with her finger. “There’s contour, placement, how each leaf of those plants nestles against one another, supporting one another as they grow to fruition. And there’s what’s under the soil, the roots, the foundation of all that rises above it.”
“I can’t see any of that.” How did she?
“Just because you can’t now doesn’t mean you won’t ever. Look closer. See the way the vegetation interacts with the soil, how it draws its strength from all that surrounds it. One plant can exist on its own if its will is strong enough. It will provide what it’s meant to, if only for a short time. But place that same plant in a community, surround it with nourishment and care and love, and it will thrive and continue to do so until that security is removed.”
Something told him they weren’t talking about broccoli and rutabagas anymore.
“Everything is connected.” Her voice softened. “Here in Butterfly Harbor, out there, in every other city, town, home. You live in a noisy world, Xander Costas. You’re inundated with sounds and thoughts and intentions that come flying at you twenty-four hours a day. Now close your eyes.” She leaned toward him and lowered her voice. “Close your eyes and tell me what you hear.”
Tingles raced up his arm where she continued to touch him. The practical side of him was laughing, but the hopeful, romantic side surrendered to her urging. He’d humor her. For now. If only because he found conversing with Calliope Jones almost as exhilarating as arguing with her.
With a sigh of surrender, he closed his eyes.
The silence pushed in on him, suffocating, and he knew if he yelled, no one would hear him. This was ridiculous. He had a job to complete so he could get home, and, hopefully, by next year, get his family and the family business restored to what they had once been. Sitting around listening for…what? Exactly what was he listening for, anyway? As if he’d know what nature…
“Stop thinking so much.” Her voice drifted through his mind as gently as the morning breeze grazed his skin. “Stop thinking at all and just…listen.”
Xander bit the inside of his cheek. If his brother and sisters could see him now, he’d never live this down. Except Alethea might be open to it. His youngest sibling really went all in for this connecting-with-nature stuff. It wasn’t that he didn’t appreciate what the natural world offered, but in his experience, in his work, it provided more barriers than offerings. Land could be temperamental, even more so than people, and it rarely, if ever, bent to the will of human beings. Sometimes he felt as if he’d been battling it his entire life, which was why, no doubt, other than the muted roar of the ocean in the far-off distance, the only sound to reach his skeptical, reserved ears was silence.
And then he heard Calliope sigh—it was a resigned, disappointed sound that had him abandoning his efforts and opening his eyes. He turned his head and found her sitting against the porch railing, knees drawn up to her chest, the hem of her green dress brushing lightly over her painted pink toes. As he drew his gaze back to her face, he felt his own pang of disappointment when she dropped her chin, her brow furrowing and a frown tugging at her lips.
“Why are you here?” she asked.
“Is this the existential portion of the conversation?”
“Answering a question with another question is a sign of avoidance.” She wrapped her arms around her knees and pulled herself in tighter. “It also reveals an intent to conceal. Are you hiding something from us, Xander?”
That she’d dropped the formality with his name felt like progress, but the way she continued to watch him made him feel like prey beneath the talons of a persistent hawk.
“No one’s life is an open book. No matter how fast you might try to turn the pages.”
Her lips quirked and her eyes glimmered with appreciation. “A wordsmith after my own heart. Why did you take this job?”
“Because I needed to.” It didn’t occur to him to lie. Not to her.
“But not because you felt a connection to the work.” She leaned forward and those amethyst eyes of hers peered deeply into his. “Intent matters, Xander. The energy you put into something matters. This sanctuary might be some throwaway project to you, something to make your résumé sparkle and shine, but this place matters to us. It matters to me. I suppose it might come off as eccentric or silly to someone like you, protecting creatures as innocuous as butterflies. Just as I—” she touched her fingers to her heart “—might think that the stone monstrosities humans create in reverence to themselves come off as harmful and egocentric. But it’s respect that keeps us from voicing our misconceptions, isn’t it?”
“You don’t think I respect you?”
“I’m not talking about me,” Calliope admonished with the expertise of a teacher chiding a naughty student. “I’m talking about the work. I’m asking you to consider that building something as innocuous and simplistic as a butterfly sanctuary might have a longer lasting impact than a shopping mall in Greece. Or a high-rise in Chicago.” She pushed to her feet and brushed her hands down the back of her dress as footsteps pounded inside the house.
“I’ll go open the gates for our guests and get the baskets ready!” Stella bounded out of the house, feet bare, flowered dress ruffling around her ankles as she darted down the stairs.
“What is it you want from me?” Xander asked Calliope as she stepped off the porch. He didn’t like the idea he’d disappointed her in some way. In any way. And yet…he had.
“An open mind. Listen, Xander. Not to me. Not to Gil or anyone else who might have an opinion of what should be done. Listen to all that surrounds you. Listen to your heart.” She tapped her ear and smiled as the heaviness in her eyes faded under the morning sun. “That’s where all answers can be found.”