Where Hope Begins Page 7

  My breath comes in shaky fits and starts and I turn to face her. “But I . . . saw . . .” How to begin?

  Her knowing smile says there is no need. “This place was my Joe’s refuge. He could spend hours in here, puttering away, talking to his plants, caring for them. Of course, he never had to do much, as magnificent as it was when we moved in. But he kept it going, until he got too sick. I’ve never been much of a horticulturist myself, and once he died, I couldn’t come in here at all. So I’m afraid it’s gone to rack and ruin.” She shuffles forward, bends to pick up a stray pot, and turns. “But there is hope.” Out of the dry dirt, one tiny, stubborn shoot appears and Clarice nods her approval. “There is always hope.”

  I reach for the sliver of green and slide my finger along the cold plant. “Must be a bulb of some sort.” How it has survived is beyond me.

  “Do you garden, Savannah?” Her eyes light with interest.

  I shrug and kick aside a few shards of terra-cotta. “I used to. These days I only seem to kill things.” Friendships. Marriages. Children.

  Clarice places the pot on a shelf that has not fallen down, brushes dirt off her hands, and smiles. “Brock can get the electricity back up and running in no time. He’s quite handy when he wants to be. Once we get some heat in here . . . and water . . . repair the windows, it could be lovely again. What do you think?”

  I don’t know what to think. The old greenhouse is a heap of rubbish waiting to be thrown away. “It would be a massive undertaking. Besides, it’s winter. Nothing will grow now.”

  “Don’t be so sure.” She pulls her coat tight. “I think you’d be surprised what can happen when you work for something you really want.”

  I shove my hands in the pockets of my coat and study her. I’m not so sure we’re talking about the greenhouse anymore. “Some things aren’t repairable, Clarice,” I say softly. “Sometimes it’s better to let go rather than linger, wishing for the impossible.”

  “My dear.” She rests her hands on my arms and looks up at me. Through me. Straight into my soul. “Nothing is impossible if you have enough faith. You know that, don’t you?”

  I did. Once. I’m not so sure I do now.

  “And when our faith seems to fail?”

  She shakes her head and lets me go. “You pray for more.” Clarice clasps her hands together and gives me a smile that almost makes me believe in miracles. “Will you work in my greenhouse with me, Savannah? I’d like to see what can be made of this mess. It’s time.”

  And before I know it, I am nodding. And smiling.

  I have a new friend. A new purpose.

  And maybe a reason to get up in the morning.

  Perhaps Clarice is right.

  Perhaps it is time.

  A week later I’m startled from slumber by someone banging on the front door. I’m fully awake in seconds and glance at the clock as I pull on my robe. It’s 9:00 a.m. Why am I sleeping so well here? Must be the fresh air. And maybe the fact that I’m not in my own half-empty bed where the scent of Kevin’s cologne still lingers and screams my sorry situation each time I enter the room.

  The knocking grows more insistent.

  “Coming!” I pad down the hall, smother a yawn, and fling open the door. “Maysie.”

  She’s beaming, jumping up and down like her red boots are pogo sticks. “Willow had her puppies!” she squeaks, her eyes bright as she relays the information. “There’s six! You have to come pick yours, Miss Savannah!” She grabs my hand and pulls. “Come now!”

  “Whoa, sweetie, slow down.” I look down the path, across the lawn. Snow is falling lightly around us, landing on her hair and coat and nose. “Did you walk over here all by yourself?” Scratch that. She ran. Her flushed cheeks say so.

  “Uh-huh.” She nods and blows out a big breath. “Aunt Clarice doesn’t mind, ’cause I’ve got my guardian angel.”

  “Your . . . what now?” I rub my eyes. Maybe I’m still asleep. Still dreaming.

  “My guardian angel, silly.” Delightful childish laughter fills the air as she points to the path. “She’s right there.” Maysie takes a long look at me and her mouth turns downward. “You can’t see her, can you?”

  I shrug. How am I supposed to answer that? But she’s smiling again, so maybe I don’t have to.

  “It’s okay. Daddy doesn’t see her either. Just Aunt Clarice and me.” She jumps up and down impatiently. “Are ya coming?”

  And I haven’t even had my coffee.

  Maysie waits in the kitchen while I take a quick shower, dress, and grab a bagel. I also call over to the Chandlers to make sure they know she’s here, which of course they do, and Clarice tells me that it’s quite all right indeed.

  The little girl practically drags me all the way back to her house through ankle-deep snow. By the time I enter the kitchen, I’m pretty sure there’s about a foot of the white stuff in my boots. I shake them off at the door and wipe down my socks and jeans as best I can. Maysie has already scampered away in the direction of the laundry room, where she tells me Willow and the puppies are resting.

  I find a hook to hang my coat on, turn, and almost barrel into Brock.

  He arches a brow, steps back, and holds a steaming mug toward me. “Coffee. Can I trust you with it?” His voice is thick with sleep, he’s bleary-eyed, his hair is mussed, and the sight of him steals my breath.

  I really need to stop fangirling over the fact that I’m living next door to a bestselling author. “Tha-thank you.” My stammered words are nothing short of embarrassing. And why can’t the man be ugly?

  “Welcome,” he mumbles and heads back to the coffeepot for his own cup.

  The aroma is tantalizing and I breathe it in. “Guess you didn’t get much sleep last night?”

  “Nope.” He takes a gulp from a turquoise ceramic mug that says Daddie, obviously made by Maysie, and gives a tired grin. “But Willow’s fine and all the puppies look sound and healthy.”

  “That’s good. You do this often? Have puppies?”

  “Uh, no.” His smile brings out a dimple in his left cheek. “It’s my first time.”

  I just asked the man if he has puppies. Often. Somebody slap me.

  “I meant . . . has Willow . . .” I give up because he’s laughing at me.

  So not nice.

  “You ready?” He nods toward the door at the end of the kitchen. “Maysie’ll start yelling soon if we don’t get in there. You remember that age, right?”

  “Very well. My girls were just as persistent.” I realize too late what I’ve said. He shoots me a sidelong glance but makes no comment, and I follow him through the door.

  The puppies are gorgeous. There are four boys, one yellow and three black, and two girls, one black and one yellow.

  “Chocolate’s the dominant gene,” Brock explains with a hint of self-satisfaction. “I looked it up.”

  I choose one of the girls, the black one, and Brock ties a soft-pink ribbon around her little neck. I watch his careful hands and memories plunder my mind again. How sweet it was in those early days after we brought Shelby home from the hospital . . .

  I’m barely twenty years old, sore, sleep-deprived, and scared out of my mind.

  Kevin carries the car seat into our one-bedroom apartment like he’s carrying a crystal chandelier, puts her down in the middle of the living room floor, stands back, and crouches in front of our sleeping infant. “Hey, sweet pea,” he says in a singsong voice just above a whisper. “You’re home now. Mommy’s going to go lie down and you and Daddy can hang out awhile, what do you say?”

  We’ve been married barely six months and he’s never talked to me like that. Like I’m the most important person in the world.

  Huh.

  I take off my spring coat and slowly make my way across the room to them. He glances up at me and we share a smile, as though we still can’t believe what we’ve done. Shelby’s perfect little face is puckered in slumber, oblivious to anything around her. My eyes smart when I look at her. She is two d
ays old and has already become my world. Our world.

  Kevin stands and slides his hands around my face. He stares at me for the longest time, not saying a word. And then he kisses me.

  And I know I have not lost him. Not really.

  “I have the most beautiful wife in the entire universe,” he whispers, leaving a trail of soft kisses along my neck. “And together we make the most beautiful children.”

  “I only see one, Kev.” I smile and weave my fingers through his hair. “And she wasn’t exactly planned, if you recall.”

  “Not by us, maybe.” He kisses me again, with a gentleness that makes me ache. “But we’ll do right by her, Savannah. I’ll be the best father, the best husband I know how to be. I swear it.”

  “I know you will.” My emotions are spinning like a smoothie in a blender and tears crest my cheeks. “You already are.”

  “Miss Savannah?” Maysie tugs on my sleeve. “You have to name her.”

  I blink and catch Brock’s cautious gaze. He’s probably wondering why I’m sitting here on the floor of the warm laundry room surrounded by the smell of detergent and dogs, with tears swimming in my eyes.

  “You with us, Savannah?” His soft voice sears me, and somehow says maybe, just maybe, things might work out. And that whatever way they do, I will survive. “What will you call her?”

  I reach a tentative hand toward the soft bundle of fur and touch a finger to the puppy’s velvet head.

  “Hope.” I meet his eyes again. “I’m going to call her Hope.”

  “That’s a beautiful name. She’ll like that very much,” Maysie declares, snuggles next to me, and wraps her arms around my waist. I stiffen slightly because it’s been so long since I’ve felt this kind of affection: the unconditional love of a child who has no ulterior motive, only wants to give of herself.

  My throat is too thick for words, so I just lean in and hug her back.

  “Hope.” Brock rolls the word on his tongue, thoughtful as he processes it, but then he smiles too. “Well chosen.”

  CHAPTER 8

  “Friendship is certainly the finest balm for the pangs of disappointed love.”

  —JANE AUSTEN

  I feel I’m finally finding peace.

  This dilapidated old greenhouse is the last place I expected to find it.

  Brock has been tasked with fixing the electricity, and he’s also taken it upon himself to rebuild the shelves. The smell of sawdust still fills the air and I set out a row of pots on a shelf he’s repaired in record time. I’m impressed, but I keep that to myself. There is still so much work to do. But each time I set foot in here, the warm and mysteriously fragrant air winds its way into my soul and whispers that all may not be lost.

  As I add to the pile of broken terra-cotta, I do have doubts.

  Even with the heat on, how will anything grow, let alone bloom again?

  Despite what I saw or think I saw that first day, I’m not convinced this place can be resurrected.

  Even so, a sweet fragrance filters through the air every now and then, and I swear when I close my eyes I hear the sound of that gurgling stream.

  It’s hard to believe I’ve been in the Berkshires almost a month. My heart doesn’t hurt as much, and I smile when I wake in the morning. In between hauling away dead things from the greenhouse, I’ve spent some time scouring the surrounding towns, venturing into every bookstore I can find and all the small knickknack shops that are still open. I’ve been searching for the perfect gift for Clarice. She’s been so kind to me. Eventually I settle on an orchid that I find in a whimsical store that seems to be a cornucopia of sundries, plants, and handcrafted furniture. It’s in bloom, a deep pink with a faint vanilla perfume. I think she’ll like it.

  The happy smile on her face as I present it to her that afternoon, along with a loaf of banana bread I baked last night, proves me right.

  “I wanted to thank you. For being so welcoming, for inviting me into your home.” She has done so numerous times now. Tea. Lunch. Morning walks and talks as we work together in the greenhouse. “It’s so nice to know you’re just next door here. I don’t feel quite so alone.”

  “Oh, my dear.” She laughs and beckons me in. Once I shed my coat and boots, Clarice leads me through the house, her fuzzy slippers slapping the wood floors. “You’re never alone, you must know that by now. Ah. I’ve got the perfect place for this beauty.” She stops outside a door I’ve not noticed before, clicks the handle, and pushes it open. “The library.”

  She’s not kidding.

  It is indeed a library.

  An absolutely amazing room, and one I immediately long to get lost in.

  It’s like something you’d see on Pinterest or in the movies. And I suddenly feel like Belle from Beauty and the Beast.

  Books are everywhere, from floor to ceiling. There’s even one of those cool stepladders you can slide from shelf to shelf to reach the high places. Two long windows let in the light and show off the lake. A fire burns in the far corner, framed in marble and sheltered by a thick wood mantel that holds a myriad of photographs I wouldn’t mind examining. But it’s the books that demand my attention.

  The entire room hums with the energy of story. Ancient leather bindings in reds and browns beckon and fill the air with anticipation and I wonder what their gilt pages might offer—adventures and romance and poetry and long-ago odysseys—worlds beyond my imaginings.

  “Magnificent.” I almost feel the need to whisper.

  “Isn’t it? Brock had the room remodeled when he moved in.” Clarice marches across a patterned rug and places the orchid on an empty, ornate wooden plant stand by the window. “There. We were waiting for you, my beauty. Now you settle in, and I’ll get you some water in a little while.”

  She talks to her plants. Somehow I’m not surprised.

  “Would you like to stay and look around?” Clarice is positively beaming. “Brock works over there.” She nods toward a massive desk that holds a computer surrounded by piles of papers and notebooks. “Don’t touch anything. I tried to tidy once and never heard the end of it.”

  I can imagine. “Thank you. I won’t venture that far. I’ll just look at the books. Is it all right to touch them?” I’m afraid to ask. Some of them look so old. This collection is far more impressive than ours, and I’m in awe.

  “Of course you may touch them. Books are written to be read and enjoyed, dear. Don’t you agree?”

  Sounds simple enough, I suppose.

  She watches me wander around awhile, until heavy footsteps and the sound of someone clearing his throat interrupt the sacred silence.

  Brock strolls into the room, iPhone in hand. “Mitchell wants to say hello.” He holds it out to Clarice, whose face lights like a Fourth of July firecracker.

  She shoots me a look of apology. “Excuse me, Savannah.” She scurries out of the room and Brock lets loose a low chuckle.

  “My brother. He calls once a week. They’ll talk for a good hour. Lord only knows about what.” He moves toward one of the long bookcases and an almost wistful sigh leaves his chest. “I see you’ve found my sanctuary. I’ve been meaning to bring you in here, but Clarice has beaten me to it.” He runs a finger along a row of old books and I watch his smile. “This is my favorite room in the house.”

  “I can see why. It’s amazing.” I return to the shelf I’d been studying and reach for a leather-bound copy of Pride and Prejudice. “Oh my goodness.” I’m seriously thrilled as I turn to the first page. “This is one of my all-time favorite books.”

  “‘I declare after all there is no enjoyment like reading! How much sooner one tires of any thing than of a book!—When I have a house of my own, I shall be miserable if I have not an excellent library.’” Brock’s voice startles me and I glance his way.

  “You . . . memorized that?”

  He taps his head and grins. “Photographic memory. Comes in handy at times.”

  “I’ll bet.” I clutch the book to my chest. “I’ve read this so often. I
wish I could quote from it. But I’m not great at memorization.” Save for the few Alice quotes that have somehow stuck, I have to look up everything else.

  “Maybe you just need to take more time. Some things are easily attainable if we want them bad enough.” He leans forward a bit, his eyes dancing. “‘The power of doing any thing with quickness is always much prized by the possessor, and often without any attention to the imperfection of the performance.’”

  I can’t stop a smile. “You do suit Darcy.”

  The corner of his mouth lifts ever so slightly to tease that dimple out of hiding. “I don’t know whether that’s a compliment or an astute observation.” His eyes catch the glow of the ornate Tiffany lights that hang from the ceiling and turn an even deeper shade of blue.

  My stomach does a traitorous flip all on its own.

  There is something inherently attractive about a man who quotes Jane Austen.

  “Where does your brother live?” I ask, thinking it probably wise at this point to direct the conversation elsewhere.

  Brock’s half smile says he sees right through the diversion. “Back in Atlanta, when he’s not traveling. Mitch is a pretty high-profile attorney, specializes in international law. He’s a few years younger than me, single, rich as sin, and not in the least bit ashamed of it.”

  “Should he be?”

  “Oh, I don’t know. When you spend your time jetting around the world, chasing skirts and the next big adventure with little care, save what five-star hotel you’ll be sleeping in that night, life seems good, I guess.”

  “You don’t get along?”

  “We get along fine. When we’re not together.”

  “I see.” I reach to put the book back in place.

  “Take it home if you like,” Brock offers. “If you want to read it again.”

  Because I wasn’t flustered enough. “Oh, I couldn’t . . .” What if I spilled something on it?

  He laughs, rounds his desk, and starts to sort through the piles. “As long as you don’t attempt to hold a cup of coffee at the same time, I trust it will be safe enough.”