Where Hope Begins Page 6

  Stepping back into the past.

  That’s how I feel as I approach the old house next door.

  Like I’ve been here before.

  As if somehow it knows me and has been waiting for this day.

  Clarice Chandler is five feet nothing and looks about a hundred years old, but she is the most intimidating woman I have ever met. Her hair is not gray but almost white, like her finely lined paper-thin complexion, and she wears it pulled back in a neat bun. Her clothes seem to match her personality. A navy dress covers her knees, and a colorful silk pashmina is draped around her small shoulders.

  It’s the fuzzy pink house slippers that throw me off.

  Although she leans on a walking stick, she possesses the self-assurance of a woman who knows who she is, where she has been, and where she is going. She studies me through deep lake-blue eyes that seem to hold a thousand secrets. And when she takes my cold, trembling hand in hers as I stand on the threshold of her historic home, I almost want to cry.

  “Savannah.” Her firm grip is warm and sends a little strength into me.

  “Yes, ma’am.” I have not said ma’am in years. Suddenly I am Maysie’s age and ready to do whatever this ethereal sprite tells me. She links our arms and leads me down a dark paneled hall into a cozy sitting room where a fire is burning.

  While this house was probably built in the early 1920s, around the same time as my family’s, there do not appear to be any modern upgrades in Clarice’s home. It’s like walking through a museum. Chintz wallpaper, black-and-white pictures on the walls, a gleaming copper hood over the fireplace, and a gramophone on a high table by the window. Floor-length, floral-patterned curtains faded with age lay heavy alongside the windows, tied back with twisted blue-and-gold brocade. A gilded birdcage sits in one corner of the room. A blue-and-yellow parrot of impressive size blinks black beady eyes at me, tips his head, and croaks, “Hallo.”

  The air sings with scents of potpourri, wood polish, and the musty books that sit on shelves along the far wall.

  I truly feel as though I’ve stepped back in time.

  I like it.

  “Won’t you sit down?” Clarice waves me into a chair, settles into its twin, and taps her rather formidable wooden walking stick—complete with ivory bird-head handle—on the floor in three sharp, successive beats. The parrot squawks. Clarice swivels to face him.

  “Oh, Martin, do be quiet.”

  A moment later Maysie skips into the room. Clearly the child does not know how to walk. She’s wearing a pretty velvet dress today. Deep purple, with a white-lace collar. Blond curls bob at her neck as she bounces in black, patent leather Mary Janes. She also looks as though she could have lived a hundred years ago.

  “You’re here!” She lands at my feet with a wide grin.

  “Well, don’t you look nice, Maysie.” I place a hand over the stain on my jeans and wish I’d worn slacks instead. At least my hair is washed and brushed.

  “We always dress up for tea parties,” Maysie is pleased to inform me. Then she jumps up and does a little twirl.

  I didn’t get the memo.

  “Good afternoon.” Brock Chandler’s brooding presence suddenly fills the room. He’s pushing a cart that carries a silver tea service and a three-tiered cake plate filled with delectable goodies I can’t wait to sample. I’m relieved to see he’s also wearing jeans and a rumpled plaid shirt that isn’t tucked in. Clarice peers at him over her bifocals, disapproval sparking in her eyes.

  Guess he didn’t get the memo either.

  He maneuvers the tray until it is within Clarice’s reach, and she begins to pour steaming dark liquid into gold-rimmed china cups. “It’s Darjeeling. How do you take your tea, dear?” She raises a thin brow and smiles at me.

  “Just a little milk, please.” There’ll be enough sugar in those macaroons I’m eyeing. If coming over here for tea becomes a habit, I’ll have to break into Mom’s stash of workout videos. My sixty-five-year-old mother is in much better shape than I am. In fact, I’m pretty sure she has Jillian Michaels on speed dial.

  Brock presents me with the most beautiful china cup and saucer I’ve ever seen. Royal blue, patterned with gold overlay. Has to be vintage and probably worth more than a few dollars. I’m almost afraid to take it from him, afraid I’ll send it clattering to the ground. The smirk he’s wearing under a day’s worth of blond scruff tells me he’s thinking the same.

  But I manage to hold steady and sip the slightly spicy tea with some degree of decorum. Maysie gets a pretty cup too and sits in a small wooden chair not far from me. She soon jumps up to offer around the mouthwatering treats. I set my cup and saucer on the mahogany wine table beside the wingback chair I’m sitting in, accept a delicate plate from her tiny hand, and muster great restraint, taking one finger sandwich—chopped egg, my favorite—and two macaroons. And then a chocolate biscuit. Why not?

  “You can have more if you want.” Her eyes get bigger, like she can’t believe that’s all I’m having.

  “Oh, no thank you, Maysie. This is just lovely.”

  I think Brock Chandler just snorted.

  He doesn’t take tea but grabs a few cookies and sprawls on the floor, long denim-clad legs stretched out in front of him as he wiggles his gray-socked feet by the fire. There is a hole in one and his big toe sticks out of it. I allow my gaze to wander as nonchalantly as possible toward his left hand. No ring. Interesting. Why am I curious about that?

  “Brock, for heaven’s sake, can’t you use a chair like a civilized gentleman?” Clarice puckers and peers at him over the rim of a red-and-gold china cup.

  “For heaven’s sake!” Martin the parrot echoes.

  Brock scowls at the bird and munches on shortbread. “If I were a civilized gentleman, Aunt Clarice, I’m sure I could use a chair. But your chairs are over a hundred years old, and they hurt my bu—back.”

  Maysie giggles and the two share a smile.

  My heart clenches without permission.

  “I’m quite civilized, aren’t I, Daddy?” Maysie crosses her legs and lifts her cup, sticking out her pinkie finger.

  “No thanks to me, darlin’, but yes, you are a proper young lady.”

  Clarice looks at me and sets down her cup. “Savannah, you have children, don’t you? Remind me again. How old are they?”

  I nod and return her smile. “I have two. My daughter, Zoe, will be twenty in a couple of months. She’s studying at Princeton. Adam is sixteen, and he’s away at school, upstate New York.” And Shelby would be twenty-one.

  “So you are all alone.” She angles her head, already knowing the answer, I’m sure.

  “Quite.” My smile falters and I lower my eyes, but not before I catch Brock Chandler staring at me.

  “That’s sad.” Maysie reaches out and pats my knee. “It’s not good to be alone. Don’t you have a husband?”

  “Maysie.” Brock clears his throat, uncomfortable. Clarice opens her mouth to say something but shuts it again.

  They know.

  Courage. What was that line from Macbeth? “But screw your courage to the sticking place, / And we’ll not fail.” Oh, but we have.

  Failed.

  And failed miserably.

  “It’s all right.” My voice sounds as though it could use a good dousing of WD-40. “Maysie, my husband and I aren’t living together right now. Sometimes grown-ups don’t get along anymore and that happens.” But not to me. At least, I never thought it would.

  She nods, full of understanding. “My friend Felicia’s parents got a DE-vorce last year. Are you getting a DE-vorce, Miss Savannah?”

  “Maysie, dear, do have another cookie.” Clarice leans over and taps the child on the shoulder. Maysie smiles and chows down, her questions forgotten.

  Brock slides his legs up, hugs his knees, and gives me a tight smile. “Sorry. She’s just curious.”

  “It’s fine, really. I remember when mine were that age.” I squirm in my seat, my heart hammering. He’s right. These chairs are not
comfortable.

  “So, Savannah.” Clarice’s warm smile is calming. “What is it you do? Have you a profession?”

  “Uh . . .” Wow. Did I sign up for this game? “Not exactly. I was a stay-at-home mom. The kids kept me busy. These days I volunteer with Meals on Wheels two days a week. And I help out at our local library, take books to seniors, shut-ins.”

  “Sounds like you spend your time doing a lot of things for other people,” Brock says. “What do you do for yourself?” He seems sincerely interested.

  “Oh. Well.” I smile and wonder how much to share. “I play a little tennis. Yoga, sometimes, and I like to walk. I enjoy writing. I love reading. And we . . . I . . . collect old books. It’s something my husband and I started years ago. I love reading the inscriptions inside, thinking about the people who owned them over the years. It’s fascinating when you think about it, how many hands have held this one copy . . .” I’m talking too much, but there’s a gleam in his eye.

  “You’re an antiquarian.” His smile broadens.

  “I suppose so. I mean, not professionally or anything, but . . .” My cheeks begin to prickle.

  “Have you checked out the bookstore in town? You’ve probably been there before, but Sol has a few new acquisitions you might be interested in.”

  “I haven’t been yet. I’ll do that.” I eat the last macaroon on my plate and study the handsome man on the floor. He could be around my age, but since he says we haven’t met before, I can’t figure out why he feels so familiar. “What do you do for a living, Brock?”

  “My daddy’s famous!” Maysie gets up, puts her plate, cup, and saucer on the cart, and hangs over his broad shoulders.

  “Oh?” I clasp my hands together, suddenly nervous. “Should I know who you are? Are you a movie star or a singer or something?” He’s probably a household name and when he tells me who he is I will look even stupider than I feel.

  “Oh my heavens!” Clarice’s cup clatters against the saucer and she sets it down. She’s highly amused by my assumptions.

  “Nothing that glamorous, I’m afraid.” The man has turned beet red, which somehow makes him all the more attractive. He takes his daughter into his lap, snuggles her close, and kisses the top of her head. “I write books.”

  The lights come on inside my head. He’s that Brock Chandler. B. J. Chandler. One of my favorite authors.

  No wonder he seemed familiar.

  I’m pretty sure my smile is wider than the Grand Canyon. “Wow. You’re B. J. Chandler! I think I’ve read every one of your books. My husband . . . Kevin . . . loves your books. We both do. We fight over them, actually. Well, used to. Mountains of Morn, Willow Road . . . oh . . . and your last release is my favorite, Charity’s Box. And you have a new one coming out soon, right?” I put a hand to my mouth and realize I’m gushing.

  And he’s grinning.

  Clarice claps her hands like a child. “Brock, dear. You have a fan.”

  “So it would seem.” His smile dips as he leans over and whispers something in Maysie’s ear. She jumps up and runs from the room at once. “Our dog is expecting puppies,” Brock explains. “Any day now. Maysie’s off to check on her.”

  “Puppies. Really?” I lean forward. There is definite excitement in my voice. I don’t even attempt to mask it. “What breed?”

  “Willow’s a yellow lab. Bred to a chocolate, so we’ll see what we get.”

  “I wouldn’t say bred.” Clarice sniffs her disdain. “The brute burst into our backyard one night and forced himself on poor Willow while she was out having a wee.” Her disgust is quite comical.

  Brock’s shoulders shake with subdued laughter, but he tries to compose himself. I’m laughing before I can help it and that sets him off again and soon we’re both in fits.

  Clarice straightens and taps her ancient stick on the floor as though we are schoolchildren. “You won’t find it so amusing when you have a handful of puppies to look after, Brock Chandler. Have you made any inquiries as to finding homes for them as I asked?”

  “Yes, ma’am. Sort of.” He sobers and coughs. “But you promised one to Maysie.”

  “I know very well what I promised, but the vet said it looked as though there were at least five in there.”

  “I’ll take one.” The words are out of my mouth before I can think.

  “You will?” They speak in unison. Brock sounds shocked, while his aunt has that hint of veiled amusement about her again.

  “Well, why not?” I nod, convincing myself this is indeed the best idea I’ve ever had. “I was just thinking the other night that I should get a dog. It’s horrible being alone.”

  “I hear that,” Brock says quietly. His expression crosses the border of nonchalance to interest and lands on compassion.

  “It’s settled then. You must have a puppy,” Clarice proclaims, beaming. “You’ll get pick of the litter. And we won’t even charge you.”

  “We won’t?” Brock’s eyebrows shoot skyward.

  “It wouldn’t be neighborly,” his aunt decrees. She ejects from her chair like a gymnast and stands before me. “It’s not terribly cold out today. Shall we stroll the grounds, Savannah? I believe Brock has cleared the pathway.” I notice the wary glance she throws him, followed by a positively mischievous smile. “I’d like to show you my greenhouse too.”

  Brock and Maysie disappear and it is just Clarice and I who walk the path down to the lake, bundled in coats and scarves and gloves. The land around us rests in the serene silence of early winter. Tall pines tower over us and conifers cover the perimeter of the vast body of water, broken bits of ice bobbing by the shoreline, a hint of what is to come. One good freeze and the lake will be covered.

  A few wisps of smoke rise above the white-capped trees, houses hidden from view. We stand and stare in silence. A lone snowmobile zips across the trail on the other side of the lake until it rounds the corner and is swallowed out of sight. It’s so quiet down here I’m almost afraid to speak.

  Clarice places a gloved hand on my arm, but she doesn’t look at me. “Why did you tell us you only have two children?”

  The ground shifts beneath my feet. “I . . . I’m not sure.”

  “You mustn’t be afraid to talk about her, my dear. To talk about Shelby.”

  “How . . .” I whip my head around and stare into kind, luminous eyes. I don’t need to ask how she knows. She just does.

  “Joseph and I lost a son. Our firstborn. His name was Mark. He was sickly from birth and didn’t make it past his first birthday. I thought the grief would kill me.” She holds tight to my arm as we continue on the path, back toward the house. “At first, Joe couldn’t bear it. He wouldn’t enter the nursery, wouldn’t speak his name. Wouldn’t visit the grave with me. He stopped coming to church. Stopped talking to me like he used to. In a way, part of him died right along with my sweet boy.”

  My throat constricts and it’s hard to breathe.

  Kevin.

  Oh, God. Why is she telling me this?

  “How did you get through it?” I have to know. I have to know if they survived it, have to know they didn’t stay together out of duty.

  We arrive at the end of the long glass and white wood structure, and Clarice pauses. “How?” She turns to look at me through watery eyes, yet she is smiling. “I began to pray. And not prayers I normally prayed either. Oh no. But that’s for another day, dear.”

  No, not another day. I want to know now! But I can’t say that because we’ve just met and I feel off-kilter around her as it is. So I nod instead and hold my breath as she hands me her stick, lifts a slim gold chain from around her neck, and slides a small key into the lock on the door.

  Old wood creaks against the intrusion as Clarice gives the door a push. It shudders open and air that should not be warm kisses my face in welcome.

  “Come, Savannah,” she says, stepping over the cement threshold and disappearing inside the greenhouse that I have longed to enter since I was a child.

  CHAPTER 7
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  “Now faith is the substance of things hoped for, the evidence of things not seen.”

  —HEBREWS 11:1 KJV

  There is strange magic here.

  And it is just as I imagined.

  The entire structure, at least twenty feet in length, is filled with lush, green growth. Some trees hold delicate flowers painted in pinks and reds and purples. Jasmine, lavender, and sage permeate the air with their heady perfume. Tropical plants squat with shining leaves that drip with moisture. A gurgling waterfall sits at the far end, and water runs down the cement in thin rivulets along pathways that wind through the deciduous growth. Exotic orchids of every description and color hang from wooden slat boxes and baskets along poles near the top of the building.

  Everyone has a different perception of heaven.

  This comes close to mine.

  Crisp white gravel crunches under my feet as I step forward, inhale the sweet scents on the warm air that is making me a little light-headed, and then I blink.

  I hear myself gasp as I move backward, unbelieving.

  Oh . . .

  Dead and half-dead plants sway in the cold wind that whistles through cracked panes of glass. The top of my boot hits a pile of broken clay pots. Rubble is everywhere. Overturned benches, brown shriveled vines . . . gray roots litter the worn path, having given up the will to live a lifetime ago.

  This is a war zone. Some wayward missile has landed, left its calling card.

  There is no beauty here.

  Only desolation and death and the dregs of what this place once was.

  What did I see a moment ago? Chills race through me as confusion dries up my throat. I shut my eyes and open them again, just to be sure.

  How? How is what I saw even remotely possible?

  I did see it, didn’t I? Of course I did. The faintest scent of jasmine still lingers in the air. I breathe deeply and almost smile.

  Then I clutch my elbows and feel the world tilt again.

  I need to call Dr. Clarke.

  I’ve really lost it this time.

  Clarice moves to stand beside me. Her sad sigh sings over the wind. She places her hand on my arm and simply stands there. Then, finally, she speaks. “Sometimes we are allowed to glimpse the beauty within the brokenness, Savannah.”