Authors: Lucy Arlington
I’d had my eye on this creamy yellow house with the periwinkle shutters since it came up for sale, but because Trey had totaled my car and trashed the Dunston High School’s football field and bleachers in the process, I hadn’t been able to make an offer on this picket-fence paradise until I sold my house in Dunston. The moment I was freed from my financial burdens I rushed into the Sherlock Homes Realty office and put down a deposit to ensure that after a mid-October closing, I could lay claim to the two-bedroom house in the lovely subdivision of Walden Woods Circle.
Throughout the months of August and September I’d fallen asleep to visions of the cottage’s sunny rooms and secluded rear garden. I couldn’t wait to hang family pictures on the walls and dig up the previous owner’s spent annuals to plant row after row of perennials that would burst through the ground the following spring. My head was filled with images of Van Gogh’s irises and sunflowers, O’Keefe’s poppies and lilies, and a riot of Manet’s roses, and I planned to transform my back yard into an impressionist painting.
As for the interior, I wanted to decorate using a combination of furniture from my old place as well as some new pieces in bright, cheerful hues. Unfortunately, I’d have to sell a few more of my clients’ books to major publishing houses before I could afford to head over to High Point to
pick out comfy living room chairs or a farm table for the kitchen. Up until now, I’d only sold two book series. One was a cozy mystery featuring a sushi chef and the second was a romantic suspense set in a Scottish castle. And I couldn’t really take credit for the sale of the romantic suspense. That deal was already in the works when I was promoted to literary agent.
At the storage unit in Dunston, I pulled out boxes of clothes and milk crates stuffed with books for the boys to load into their truck. As I worked, my thoughts focused on another client I’d inherited from the previous agent. I still couldn’t believe that I now represented the international bestselling romance author Calliope Sinclair. If I could just convince her to make some changes to her latest manuscript, I felt certain that several publishing houses would enter into a bidding war to acquire the latest masterpiece from one of America’s best-known authors.
“Stop gatherin’ wool, girl!” My mother’s voice startled me out of my reminiscing. “You’re standin’ in the middle of the path and this box isn’t gettin’ any lighter. What’ve you got in here? Cannonballs from the Civil War?”
Putting my own box on the ground, I rushed forward to take my mother’s burden and set it on the bed of her turquoise pickup truck. I added the last box and then shut the tailgate, causing the magnetic sign plastered to the side of the truck to fall askew. I realigned the purple and black sign advertising the services of Amazing Althea, Psychic Advisor. “Sorry,” I told Amazing Althea. “I was thinking about work again.”
“
This
is work. Good work. The kind that gets you out in the open air and invites the sun’s rays to paint your face. Before long, it’ll be winter and we’ll all be starvin’ for this
feelin’.” My mother held out her free arms as though she could embrace the whole world. “I always feel like a kid durin’ the fall. This is gonna be the best Halloween ever! I am gonna decorate the front door and scare the masks right off the kids who toilet papered my holly bushes last year. They won’t come near my place totin’ rolls of Charmin ever again.”
I waited until we were both inside the truck before saying, “Is that an official prediction?”
My mother swatted me with the paperwork from the storage facility. “I don’t read the cards for somethin’ like that. I’ve gotta save my spiritual energy for when someone needs me, and my appointment calendar is as stuffed as a Christmas goose.”
We chatted about her clients as I maneuvered the winding roads leading to Inspiration Valley, Trey following right behind me in his pickup truck. The town sat in a circle of low mountains like a teacup in a saucer and I never grew tired of the view. After that last sweeping curve, the town suddenly became visible through my driver’s side window—an oasis of tree-lined streets and beautifully designed houses and storefronts. There were no concrete boxes in Inspiration Valley. Nearly every home boasted a garden, and the business district was lush with public green spaces.
Making my careful descent, I was struck anew by its charm. An army of multicolored trees surrounded the town, standing guard over the bookstore, garden center, organic grocery, restaurants, art studios, and tidy subdivisions like timeless sentinels. Today, the foliage show was magnificent. Corn yellow, pumpkin orange, and spiced cranberry leaves encouraged rich and aromatic fantasies about the first meal I’d cook in my new house.
By the time we’d unloaded all the boxes and I’d arranged my pots, pans, dishes, and utensils in the green and ivory kitchen, however, I was too tired to do anything but order takeout.
“What would you boys like to eat?” I asked Trey and his friends.
“Everything!” Trey answered wearily, putting his feet up on my coffee table.
I knocked them off with the sweep of one hand and held out the menu for Godfather’s Pizza with the other. “Your wish is my command, gentlemen.”
The three young men suddenly shucked off their fatigue and began to argue over the merits of pies made of sausage and mushroom, ham and pineapple, quattro formaggio, pepperoni, or spinach and feta. Before they could get too fired up, I promised to have all five delivered to my new house.
After the pizza arrived, my mother and I set the table and put a pitcher of iced tea and a pile of extra napkins in the center and then called the boys into the kitchen.
“Thank you so much!” I told them, feeling my heart swell at the sight of my family gathered around my table.
Trey raised his glass of iced tea. “To making new memories!”
His two friends shouted a hearty “here, here” and then dug into their food.
Trey devoured the pizza with such gusto that I couldn’t help but wonder if my son was getting enough to eat living in the self-sustained community he’d joined in June. Although I’d had my reservations at the time, I had to admit that the Red Fox Co-op had done Trey a great deal of good. He was stronger, more independent, and treated his elders with respect. He’d gained a quiet confidence and was willing to
throw himself into hours of demanding physical labor. Yet at the same time, he was missing out on a college education.
In early August, he’d received a letter from UNC-Wilmington containing a welcome packet and the name and contact information of Trey’s future roommate. Several weeks later, when my son should have been attending his first class as a college freshman, he was grooming the co-op’s herd of goats and preparing for a trip to Dunston to sell goat products to a selection of natural food stores and chic boutiques.
I had called the school and managed to defer Trey’s admission until January, but I feared he’d refuse to attend then as well. From the beginning, I’d assumed his interest in the rustic, rather primeval way of life on Red Fox Mountain was a passing phase, but it seemed that his enthusiasm had been compounded upon meeting the lovely and ethereal Iris Gyles, the co-op leader’s younger sister.
Autumn in North Carolina is a gentle season, but I was worried about Trey spending a cold winter up on the mountain. The members of the co-op stayed warm with the help of woolen clothing and pot-bellied stoves, but if our area received more than a dusting of snow or a freezing rain, the dirt road leading to the mountaintop community would be impassable. I hated the idea of my son being cut off from electricity, medical care, and me. I was ready for him to resume the life of an average American teenager but was terrified that he would never do so.
Pushing these irksome concerns aside, I focused on one last task before a dessert of raspberry sorbet. I had picked up a fabulous mirror at Dunston’s largest consignment shop and was given an enormous discount by the owner. When I was still an intern, I’d passed along her query letter on
decorating with vintage objects to Franklin Stafford, the agent representing nonfiction books. He had found her idea compelling and later signed her as a client. As a result, the oval mirror, set in a wood frame embellished with carved flowers and small birds, didn’t cost me much more than tonight’s pizza order.
Trey had drilled a hole and secured a wall anchor just inside the cottage’s front door and I was just about to lift the mirror onto the hook when my mother entered the hallway.
“Everything’s comin’ together,” she said with a smile.
I balanced the heavy mirror on the top of my foot and nodded. “Yes, it is. And not just the house. Everything. I love my job, I’m dating a great guy, and Trey and I haven’t gotten along this well since he was a little boy.”
My mother raised her brows. “So you and the good-lookin’ man in blue are finally knockin’ boots?”
Blushing, I turned away from her bemused gaze. “If you must know, we haven’t progressed beyond the kiss goodnight stage.”
“Why the hell not? You’re a grown woman. More than grown.” She grunted. “Shoot, Lila. Don’t you know that havin’ gray hair means that you get to sleep with a man without anybody’s permission?”
I frowned at her. I spent a pretty penny keeping my shoulder-length hair a gray-free, roasted chestnut hue. “I’m not looking for permission. Work just keeps getting in the way. Sean’s been assigned a string of night shifts, and with the festival coming up at the end of the month I—”
“How about a little afternoon delight?” my mother suggested with perfect aplomb. “When your daddy was alive—”
Thankfully, Trey called out for Althea before she could elucidate the ecstasies of her marital bed. I’d heard them
before, usually after she’d consumed a few fingers too many of her lifelong beau, Mr. Jim Beam, but I really didn’t want to hear her conjugal anecdotes before dessert.
Returning my attention to the mirror, I hefted it against the wall and slowly eased it onto the brass hook. The moment I drew back, the wire attached to the frame snapped. My fingers shot out to catch hold of the mirror, but I couldn’t move quickly enough. The vintage work of art tilted sideways and hit the hardwood floor. The sound of glass shattering echoed down the narrow corridor.
I screamed in dismay and both Trey and Althea came running.
“Did you cut yourself?” Trey asked, worry clouding his handsome face.
“I’m fine, honey, but I doubt I can say the same about this.” I bent over the mirror. It had fallen facedown, concealing the extent of the damage. Gently, I flipped it onto its side, listening to the sickening crunch of broken glass coming loose from the frame and crashing onto the ground.
I sighed in relief. The delicate birds and flowers were unscathed. There was a small scratch on the right-hand side that could be easily repaired with a dab of stain and the glass could be replaced by the local art supply store. I’d seen their custom frame jobs and knew they’d have my mirror fixed in no time.
Trey disappeared to fetch a broom and a dustpan, but my mother stayed rooted in place, her features pinched in concern.
“Mom,” I said softly, touched that she was so upset over the thought of my being injured. “I’m okay. See?” I presented both of my pink, healthy palms as proof.
She shook her head and did not meet my eyes. She
couldn’t seem to tear her gaze from the jagged shards of glass. “Oh, darlin’. It’s not fine. Not at all.”
To my surprise, she knelt down on the floor and picked up a piece of glass shaped like a lightning bolt and began muttering under her breath.
“Mom?” I began to feel a stirring of alarm.
She waved Trey away when he appeared with the broom, insisting that she needed to collect the pieces and take them far away from the house.
“Whatever for?” I asked her, utterly perplexed. “All that nonsense about broken mirrors and seven years of bad luck is just that. Nonsense.”
She took a deep breath and answered in a tremulous voice. “You should believe. I’m takin’ these to protect you, Lila. Trouble’s comin’. It’s comin’ hard and fast as a runaway train.”
My uneasiness grew. “That was this summer. It’s all over now.”
She pointed at the debris on the floor, and I was disturbed to note that her finger shook as she said, “You’re wrong, Lila. This is only the beginning.”