Chapter One
Of all the people I didn’t want to run into, the person at the top of that list just happened to be in line in front of me at the Grocery Mart. By the time I realized who I’d stepped behind, it was too late. I glanced around, wishing I could spontaneously vanish. Much to my relief, Catherine Whitacker kept her perfectly coiffed head of shoulder-length auburn curls turned stiffly forward.
I’d met her back in seventh grade and had instantly landed on her blacklist. Catherine (never, ever Cathy) had always avoided speaking to anyone she didn’t want to take the trouble to be nice to. Overt rudeness was not something Mrs. Henderson’s daughters indulged in, but acknowledging an unwanted presence often included a soul-shredding remark—delivered in the nicest possible way, of course.
So, when I found myself in the checkout line behind her, I stood quietly, hoping she would leave without a backward glance. But luck abandoned me. Just as Catherine pulled out her wallet, recognition dawned in the clerk’s eyes.
“Hey, you’re Maggie Walker, aren’t you?” She snapped her gum and nodded in rhythm. “Yup, I remember you. I’m so sorry to hear about your gram’s passing.”
That’s all it took. At the sound of my name, Catherine turned in horror-movie slow motion. When she realized the clerk was right, a saccharine smile replaced her frown.
Catherine’s tone oozed faux long-lost friend. “Why, Maggie— Oh, but you go by Margaret since you left for the big city, don’t you?” Tiny lines had appeared at the edges of her steely blue eyes since I’d last seen her, but her makeup was as impeccable as ever.
The clerk slid the last of Catherine’s purchases across the counter and into a pristine red, white, and blue shopping bag with THINK GREEN printed across it. “Um, Mrs. Whitacker?”
Catherine’s face fell into neutral as she turned. “Yes?”
“Do you have any coupons today?”
“Of course not.”
“Then that’ll be thirty-three ninety-seven, please.”
“Of course,” Catherine said, introducing a credit card to the reader. “So, Margaret—Carruthers, isn’t it now?” She scribbled her signature and extended her hand for her receipt without another glance at the clerk.
“No, Walker,” I said. I really didn’t want to get into the whole once-I-was-Walker-then-Carruthers-now-Walker-again story in a public place—especially not with the slow smirk I could see forming on Catherine’s face. I’d bet my first vine-ripened tomato she’d already heard it in one form or another anyway. I wanted to head back into the aisles, saying I’d forgotten something, but Catherine would likely interpret that as a victory, and I hadn’t reached the point of surrender. Not by a long shot. If she pushed, I’d just fall back on the easy explanation: Walker is the name I write under.
“Thank you for shopping at Grocery Mart, Mrs. Whitacker,” the clerk said with her best retail smile.
Catherine nodded in return. “Well, I always say, we have to support our local businesses. If we don’t care for our own, who will?” She pulled her purse over her shoulder and gathered the grocery bag, but before I could contemplate a sigh of relief, Catherine turned to face me again.
“I hear you’ve moved into your grandmother’s house. I suppose with all you’ve been through you’ll want to sell it as soon as you can. My brother will be in touch with you.” Without a pause, she was gone in a swirl of expensive perfume. Like so many times in the past, Catherine’s assumptions about my intentions were dead wrong, and I’d lost an opportunity to set her straight. If that was at all possible.
* * *
Back home, I couldn’t recall what else the clerk had said or how much my few groceries had cost. The drive to the house was a blur, too. Somehow, with just those few words, Catherine had brought back every Twilight Zone moment of growing up in Marlowe, a tiny town in the Berkshires of western Massachusetts, in my grandparents’ care. She was the cherry on top of a week of frustrations, the worst of which until this morning had been the certified letter from my cousin Simon. And that I’d been trying to ignore since its delivery the day before.
But one sight of the old, in-need-of-paint Victorian brought a smile to my face. I’d fallen in love with the big wraparound porch and gingerbread trim when my parents first brought me here as a young child. As I grew up and times got emotionally tough, I’d retreated into books in the bay window or on the porch swing. Now that I was back here and it was mine, I had plans to restore what needed to be restored in the house and the garden. Gramma had loved both. She’d lived here into her nineties but in recent years hadn’t been able to keep the place in the condition I so fondly remembered. The flower gardens had become smaller each year, and the growth of the trees and underbrush of the woods that bordered the backyard inched closer to the house. Yet I had no trouble picturing it as it would be again. None at all.
I pulled my little red Wrangler around the house and to a stop in front of the garage, then headed to the back door with my paper bag of purchases. When I entered the house, I didn’t see drafty windows, dated wallpaper, or the faded linoleum that covered the kitchen floor. I saw the flowery curtains and tablecloth my grandmother had sewn on her trusty Singer and, through the kitchen doorway, the shelves of books she’d collected—books she’d encouraged me to read instead of sitting staring at the television for hours on end. I’d devoured those books and many more, though I still managed to indulge my television habit.
I put the groceries on the kitchen table and closed my eyes. I felt her arms around me, reassuring me that whatever life threw at me, I’d find a way to deal with it. That included Catherine Whitacker. I hoped Gramma was right. She had been so far.
Gramma passed away last fall. When the time came to dispose of the estate’s assets, the house had been appraised. Her will had specified family had a right of first refusal on the property—me first, and then any other member of the family who would like to place a bid on it. Since I wanted nothing more than to retreat to the one place my heart called home and felt certain none of my cousins—spread to the four winds as they were—would feel the same, I’d put in a bid with the real estate agent at the appraised value. She promptly told me another offer had been made and suggested I make a counteroffer. Confused, I’d called the estate lawyer. It turned out the other bidder, who seemed more interested in the location and the land the house sat on than the house, was not a relative. The house was mine under the terms of the will. I’d rolled over the net proceeds from selling my condo and a chunk of my late, almost ex-husband, Bryce’s, life insurance to pay the purchase price, and now the house and land were mine. I’d moved in a month ago, certain I’d made the right decision.
As I stowed my groceries in the pantry, I thought about my cousin’s letter, a belated demand for a larger share of Gramma’s tiny estate. I’d stopped reading after the first page. No doubt the rest contained a recitation of the numerous messages he’d left on Gramma’s—my—answering machine for the past week or so.
I sighed. It was barely nine on Friday morning and I was already tired from my encounter with Catherine and a lack of sleep the night before. I was tempted to sneak upstairs and crawl back into bed when I finished tidying up, but I had obligations, one in particular I’d been looking forward to.
I had just enough time to get where I needed to be for my meeting with Violet Bloom to cross the last of the t’s and dot any dot-less i’s before tomorrow morning’s opening of the Marlowe Community Garden.
I grabbed my notebook and cell phone and stashed them in my backpack, then headed for the front door. As I stepped outside to get my bike, I took a deep breath and smiled into the sunshine. It was the perfect morning for a bike ride: spring flowers scented the air, a trio of robins hopped across the grass in search of worms. Truth be told, riding my bike to Violet’s house wasn’t just for the scenery or the exercise—as much as I enjoyed both—but I hoped it would rid me of the residual aggravation of dealing with Catherine this morning.
Movement in the driveway next door caught my eye. I raised my hand to wave to my neighbor and good friend Sally Kendall until I realized it was someone else. My hand dropped to my side. As the figure paused to consult his phone on the way back to his car at the curb, I recognized him.
Carl Henderson wanted Gramma’s house. He’d already made what would have been a fair offer if I’d been in the market to sell, which I wasn’t. I’d told him so in person and on the phone more than once. The two letters he’d sent had joined the junk mail in my recycling bin unread.
I retreated a step and unlocked the door. I slipped inside and made a beeline for the back door and my alternate transportation. It may have been a perfect day to ride my bike to Violet’s house, but after my encounter with Catherine, I had no time and less patience to try again to convince Carl Henderson I had no intention of selling my home.
Once I was safely inside the Jeep, I turned on the engine, tuned in my favorite oldies station on the radio, and started down the wraparound driveway. I glanced in his direction. At the sound of John Denver not wanting to leave on a jet plane, Carl pivoted and waved, no doubt signaling me to stop to chat. He cut across the front yard like an arrow to its target and called out something I couldn’t hear over the radio. I just smiled and waved back, glad to be on my way.
Carl Henderson was not a man to allow his prey to escape. His run ended in a gold medal–worthy leap that landed him in the middle of the driveway, several feet away from the Jeep’s front bumper. I hit the brakes. A salesman smile appeared on his face. Captured.
Carl Henderson walked to the driver’s side window and tapped an index finger against the glass. Reluctantly, I pressed the button to lower the window. He spoke. Paused. Motioned for me to lower the volume on the radio. I complied. I might be caught, but I had no intention of making this easy for him. Misery loves company and all that.
“I’m so glad to find you at home,” he began.
“I’m on my way to an appointment,” I countered.
He continued on like he hadn’t heard me. “I have something for you. It’s an offer I know you’re going to want to take a look at.” He pulled an envelope out of the inner pocket of his jacket and held it out, its end poking inside the window.
“No, thank you,” I said, all pretense of a friendly face gone.
“But you’re going to be very happy with the terms.” He waggled the envelope at me. “Take a look.”
“I’m late,” I said and reached for the shift. He took a step sideways as though he intended to plant himself in front of me as some sort of human blockade. I let out an exasperated sigh. “I told you no. If you get in my way again, I’m going to file for a protection order against you for harassment.”
That caught him off guard. I had no idea if his pushy-salesman tactics rose to the level of harassment, but the threat seemed to work.
“Of course I don’t want to keep you. I’ll leave it in your mailbox,” he said and scurried behind the Jeep and across the lawn again.
I paused only long enough at the end of the driveway to take a quick look both ways, then headed off toward Violet’s house.
I’d met Violet Bloom for the first time at Gramma’s funeral. Of all those who knew Gramma well—few of whom I recalled at all, if I’d ever met them—Violet was the only one who found a place in my memory, penetrating the fog that had settled over me when Gramma died. To this day, I couldn’t remember a word she’d said, but there was comfort in her words and a seed of friendship planted.
That seed sprouted days later when she’d appeared at my door with a basket of muffins and talk of her plans for a community garden—the very same garden now scheduled to open tomorrow morning due to Violet’s dedication. By the end of her visit, she’d convinced me to volunteer.
So here I was, driving along the now familiar route to her house, through residential neighborhoods where the hum of lawn mowers temporarily drowned out the sweeter sounds of spring. In exchange, the scent of fresh-mown grass floated in through the Jeep’s open windows.
I made the turn onto Violet’s street a good ten minutes early. I parked in the shade of one of the maples that lined both sides of the street and stepped out into the dappled sunshine.
The Blooms’ tasteful white clapboard cottage stood on a quarter-acre lot in what had been a posh neighborhood 150 years ago. Now old Victorians were interspersed with a variety of other architectural styles constructed as lots were subdivided and new homes built over the years.
Like pretty much everything I’d observed where Violet was concerned, the walk leading to her front door was a tidy progression of carefully laid bricks. Well-tended beds sporting spring flowers and emerging perennials surrounded the carpet of green grass at the front of the house.
I crossed the street and followed the pansy-lined walk to Violet’s front door and rang the bell. A moment later, Violet opened it.
“Oh, good,” she said with a smile and motioned me in. “You’re early. I was hoping you might be. I’ve got a bear of a day ahead of me.”
Chapter Two
If anyone else had started out by saying that, I’d expect our meeting to be rushed, but I’d come to know Violet well enough to expect her to be fully present without a single let’s-get-this-over-with moment. Once we were done, she’d be off to the next thing on her list.
“Let’s head into the kitchen. I’ve got everything set up on the table there. Vic and the kids are away at his mother’s, so we won’t be interrupted. They were less than thrilled to be taking along their homework assignments, but so it goes,” Violet said with a laugh. “I thought for sure you’d be riding your bike over today.”
“Last-minute change of plans.”
“Oh?”
“Carl Henderson was in the neighborhood just as I was leaving. I tried to take the coward’s way out and drive off to avoid him. It didn’t work.”
“You shouldn’t let him get to you.”
“Easy for you to say. He’s not trying to buy your house.”
“Don’t be so sure of that,” she said. “He’s got something going on. I hear he’s been making offers on several undeveloped properties around town in addition to some homes.” She stopped and thought for a moment. “What did Vic say he heard it called? Oh, right. Marlowe Estates. Sounds fancy, doesn’t it?”
Violet led the way past the neat and tidy family room into a kitchen the polar opposite of my own much-in-need-of-updating but much-loved kitchen. Gleaming wood cabinets lined two walls, a bank of windows another. A row of potted herbs basked in the sunshine on the windowsill, and white Battenberg lace valances topped the sparkling glass. A large island filled one end of the room near the sink and appliances, while a family-sized table anchored the other.
Violet’s organizer notebook and laptop computer waited on the tabletop, as did a plate of cookies and two mugs.
“Care for some coffee to start us off?” she asked as she grabbed one of the mugs and headed for the ever-ready coffee maker on the countertop.
She paused and turned, frowning. “Do you even drink coffee? You always seem to have something else. Would you prefer tea?”
“That’d be great,” I said as I pulled out my own organizer and located the pre-opening checklist.
Violet filled my mug with water and popped it in the microwave to heat while she pulled out a box of tea bags and set it on the table.
“I think we’re in pretty good shape for tomorrow,” I said as the microwave dinged.
“Yes, I’m happy to say we are. Everything is falling nicely into place.” Violet set the steaming mug in front of me and took her seat.
It didn’t take long to dispense with our checklists and go over the plot assignments. We’d been finalizing plans and working toward tomorrow’s opening for weeks.
Copyright © 2024 by Deborah J. Benoit
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