ROSEHALL: A Southern Gothic

1

 BECCA

            She walked gingerly across the porch, each step setting off a palsied shudder to the boards underfoot.  The sudsy water in the pail splashed onto the rotten flooring as she set it next to another pail of vinegar water for the rinse.  She hoped to get all the downstairs windows washed before winter set in, but she probably wouldn’t.  The windows in front were the easiest.  She gave a sigh of resignation and began to scrub at the year’s accumulated grime on the sidelights next to the front door.  So much to do.  She finished the lights and then tackled the two large windows on either side, scrubbing furiously. 

            Temporarily exhausted by her efforts, she threw the chamois into the rinse water and stepped off the porch onto the gravel drive where she sat down, legs outstretched.  She leaned back on her arms and gazed upward.  Above her, the house with its crested peaks on the broad, high front she likened to a great white bird with folded wings.  A wounded swan, maybe.  Or better, an ugly duckling.  The white-painted bricks were worn through in places like scabs, but strangely enough, the old house was still beautiful, even after years of neglect.  All the window sills were down to weathered wood, the loose sashes rattling at the slightest breeze.  The massive wooden door surround was disintegrating at its base on both sides as if some beast had chewed at them.  When she’d first come to Rosehall fifteen years ago the whole house was still in fine shape and bright with new white paint.

            Edward had admitted soon after their marriage that the money was running out.  “You won’t get all the fine things that Mama got on her entry into this family.  Things haven’t gone well, not just for me, but Daddy, too; he got in trouble financially before he died.  That’s when it all began.”

            She assured him the money wasn’t important.  And it wasn’t at the time.  She’d lived all her growing up years so poor on the Ridge, she couldn’t contemplate what Edward meant by money running out.  It could never be as bad as what she’d come from, that she knew. 

            But from that time on, Rosehall had merely existed, waiting for the end, living off the remnants of their combined incomes and barely reflecting past glory times amid the social elite of Monroeville, Tennessee.  Still, Rosehall counted for something in this town.  People took notice of its inhabitants.  Becca clung to that.  She dumped the buckets of water onto the patchy lawn and then stepped around the gravel drive to the side porch.  Two older model cars sat somewhat askew in the drive as if abandoned.  Becca marveled to herself, even after all these years, how remote her chances had been of ever living in such a grand old place.  Ridge dwellers were a thing apart, never accepted in the town, never even noticed.  Marrying Edward had brought her into that magic circle of at least half-acceptance.  And she’d done her part to hold the Rosehall together.  The work it took!  And now more than elbow grease was needed.  Love and money, and she only had love to give. 

            Off she marched to do the kitchen windows and Miss Mitty’s room.  And then finally, she’d tackle Charles’s, on the end of the house.  She’d do more another day when she found the time.  She’d need to start the cookies soon, a special after-school treat for Trey and Jenny.

.           David came to Rosehall that day.

            She’d just taken out the last batch of spicy oatmeal cookies from the oven when she heard the commotion.  She could see down the length of the great hall that a man was at the front door.  Miss Mitty was talking to him a mile a minute, her dyed black bob shaking emphatically..

             Someone needs rescuing, Becca thought to herself.  She had in mind both the stranger and Miss Mitty. 

            “Can I help, Miss Mitty?”   The echo of her voice hung like a bright flag in the high space of the hall as she walked towards them.  The man was quite young and attractive in a citified sort of way with smart clothes.  He had nice eyes, and in an instant, Becca liked him.

            “Hello.  I’m David Mueller, the new editor of the Gazette-News and I was hoping--”

            Miss Mitty clapped her hands.  “He’s come about my clothes, Becca.”  She turned back to the stranger.  “The Nashville Tennessean came once, oh, I can’t remember when, and wrote a story about them.”  Her face puckered briefly.  “I wish you had called first.  I’d have had them ready to show.  So many people want to see them, but I don’t admit just anyone.  You know that dress that Scarlett O’Hara wore in the first scene in Gone With The Wind?   Well, that was my dress.”  The makeup on her old face cracked in a million pieces as she smiled.

            “How interesting.  I’d like to see them sometime, but I’m here on a different matter.”  He gave Becca a desperate look.  “Are you the--ah, lady of the house?”

            She nodded, stepping aside and motioning for him to enter.  She saw him gaze wonderingly around.  She could understand that.  The room, shabby though it was, was fair sight, if not for all those dingy old portraits of by-gone Thorpes, then for its size. 

            He tore his eyes from the surroundings and turned to her.  “I just moved to town a couple of weeks ago.  I’ve been staying at the hotel.  I need a place to live, but there doesn’t seem to be a single decent apartment for rent in town.  Mr. Robison at the hotel suggested you might have some rooms you could rent me.”

            “How many rooms would you be thinking of?”  Her eyes went to the doors of the unused library.  A little odd for old Robison to recommend Rosehall, but still, a Godsend!  She’d have a time convincing the family, even though he seemed nice enough.  Not as young as she first thought, possibly more than twenty-six or seven, and clean looking.  A professional man, too. 

            “I’d like two rooms at least.”

            “We might could find you a couple of rooms.   You’d have to share the bath, but--”

            “Becca!  Whatever are you discussin’?” 

            Mama Kate.  She poked her head from one of the double parlor doors on the other side of the hall and then shuffled over in her slippers to join them.  Behind her, Becca heard the muted voices from a television soap opera.  At least she, unlike Mitty, was presentable with her crisply waved white hair and deep blue woolen dress.  But when she moved closer, Becca saw her with the eyes of a stranger and noticed the dress was spotted with food stains and tea splashes, a consequence of older woman’s failing eyesight–and her vanity.  Her glasses were reserved for reading alone.  Becca would have to get that dress away from her and work on it.

            “Mama Kate, this is David Mueller, the new editor of Milt’s paper.  My mother-in-law, Miz Thorpe.  He’s wanting to rent some rooms from us.”

            “Oh, I think not, Mr. Mueller.  We don’t have roomers at Rosehall.”  Her frozen smile and tone of voice were so forbidding that Becca saw him edge toward the door

            Becca touched his arm lightly and gave him a look that said, “Wait.”  She faced her mother-in-law.  “What about Mr. Roscoe, Mama Kate?”

            “Oh, that’s different, dear.  He’s like one of the family.  And, too, he has his own quarters out back.”  She inclined her head toward David.  “Sorry, Mr. er . . . , no strangers at Rosehall.”  She turned and silently glided off in woolly knitted slippers in the direction she had come from.  The door closed behind her.

            Becca opened the door of the apartment in question and motioned him in.  Miss Mitty followed, murmuring something incoherent, but Becca stopped her and said, “Why don’t you fix yourself some tea, darling?  The water’s hot, and there’s some fresh baked cookies.”

            “Oh, goody!”  Miss Mitty pulled her long velvet skirt around to maneuver her exit, then stopped and leaned close to Becca’s face and hoarsely whispered, “We don’t want to make Kate angry, do we, Becca?” 

            “I’ll take care, Miss Mitty.  Go along now while the water’s hot.”  She winked at David who smiled uncertainly.  Goodness, she thought!  He thinks he’s in a crazy place.

            “Look, I don’t want to intrude.  If this will be a problem . . . .”

            “Don’t mind them.  I’m mistress here.”  She swept past him and went to the center of the room, surveying the lofty space with critical eyes. 

            The front room had been a library, not used much in recent years.  It had a few old padded chairs and near the fireplace a camel back sofa with shredding upholstery.  The fireplace, though needing a coat of paint, was a fine one, with paneling and carvings of urns and ribbons that covered the wall from mantel to ceiling.  Deep niches on either side housed shelves overflowing with old, damp-swollen volumes in tattered vellum or morocco.  Edward kept his personal books in their bedroom.  At the front of the room, the broad, deep-silled windows overlooking the porch admitted the weak November sun, brightening patches on the faded floral carpet.  How glad Becca was that she’d just cleaned the windows.  She saw David Mueller looking at the empty curtain rods.

            “The curtains was rotted, so I took them down.  I can cover the windows with something.”

            “The room is wonderful.  I like it a lot.  And I can work at that table.”  He pointed to a large mahogany table near the window.  “Room for typewriter, books.”

            “Let’s see about the bedroom,” she murmured almost to herself.  He followed her through a narrow doorway into an enclosed porch.  The three windows on the outside wall and the glazed top of a door to the back yard were trimmed in short muslin curtains.

            “Great!  I’ll take it!”

            Becca looked at him with amusement and then at the empty room.  “I’ll have to fix you up with a bed and dresser.”  It was nice he was so eager.  He’d be easy to please.  Talked funny, though, like a Yankee.

            “So you’re Milt’s new editor.”

            “I worked on the Butler Eagle, in Pennsylvania, before taking this job.”

            She nodded.  So that explained his accent.  She turned her attention again to the porch that was to be his bedroom.  “This here room isn’t vented for the furnace.  I can get an extra heater from old Roscoe’s place, though.  He never goes upstairs in his cabin anymore.” 

            She pointed out the back windows to the two story-clapboard shack that had been Roscoe’s home long before Becca had come on the scene.  Smoke was rising from its chimney.  Opposite was a row of brick structures.

            “What’s that row of little brick outbuildings?  Looks like one, two . . . about ten in all?”

            “Individual stallion barns.  Once Rosehall bred horses in a big way.  Those buildings are all that’s left.”

            “How fascinating!  Coming from a city environment, I’ve never been around horse country.  What kind of horses were they, if you don’t mind my ignorance.”

            She laughed.  “No more ignorant than me.  Race horses, I was told.  Kentucky Derby, that sort of thing.  This farm was called a stud, which means they bred a certain line of horses, both for themselves and others for a fee.”

            “Too bad that business died out, isn’t it?”

            “Like about everything else around here,” she admitted dryly.

            He continued to look around through the window.  “Is that the back wing?  This is really a big old rambling place.  It’s lovely.”

            “Yep.  It’ll fall down one of these days if something isn’t done about it.”

            He continued to look out the window and said musingly, “I hope not.  It’s a thing of beauty.  Something very civilizing went into its construction.  I’d hate to see it disappear, swallowed up by the ordinary.”

            She gave him a close look.  He sounded like a philosopher or poet maybe.  He said what she felt.  Rosehall meant more to her, too, than just an old house.   

            “The tub and commode are through here.” 

            They passed through another inner door into the back hallway.  The kitchen door was opposite, and they could see Miss Mitty scooting around the kitchen, shawl and skirt flying.  The bathroom was under the stairs and was odd-shaped.  There were bottles of perfume and lotions as well as shaving gear.

            “Who else uses this bathroom?”

            “Miss Mitty and my brother-in-law, Charles Thorpe.  They both have rooms in the back wing.  The rest of us sleep upstairs and have our own bathroom.”

            Becca guided him back through the apartment, thinking aloud about the arrangement of furnishings and other details. 

            “Do you want your evening meal here?  You might get tired of restaurant food, and it wouldn’t cost you as much either.  You’d be most welcome.” 

            He seemed to hesitate, and remembering how frosty Mama Kate had appeared, she added, “My husband is most admiring of anyone who can write.  Your company’d be a fair treat for him.”              “Well, thanks, yes, that would be a good deal for me.”

            They stopped in front of the cold fireplace and settled on the price for meals, including morning kitchen privileges.  He could fix his own coffee and toast or cereal.  Fine.  She thought he could move in this weekend.  He grabbed her outstretched hand shook it longer than necessary. 

            She smiled at him.  “Don’t get the idea that anyone here will give you trouble.” 

            “Trouble?”

            “The family won’t want to admit it, but they’ll soon get used to the extra money.  I’ll fix it up with them.”

            “I’m sure you will.”  He gave her a curious look that made her tuck a stray hair back into her ponytail.  She knew she looked a fright.  Worn jeans and one of Edward’s shirts with the tails tied around her waist.

            They strolled through the hall, and she opened the door for him.  The November air was mild as she stepped outside and went with him to his car.  Not a very new car, but better than the two that her husband and her brother-in-law owned.

            Standing beside his car to say goodbye to her, he lifted his eyes to look over the house.  She saw him pause and give an uncertain smile.  She saw her husband peering at them through the curtains of the bedroom window.  He had his face close to the glass without acknowledging their presence.  David Mueller looked at Becca with a raised eyebrow.

            She didn’t explain.

Reprising "Celebration and Sorrow" from my novel, SNUSVILLE.

 This short piece describes the typical Norwegian celebratory (and mourning) style of the 1950s in Iowa. It's part of the larger picture of this family as seen through the eyes of a girl growing up in that environment.

 The Lilleys always ate dinner on Thanksgiving and Christmas at Alma’s parents' farm with her brothers and sisters.  Joanie wouldn't have called her mother’s clan a particularly merry group, except for the rare times when Aunt Louise played the piano and a few voices joined in. 
    The winter holidays when Joanie was twelve were memorable.  The Lilleys arrived for Thanksgiving dinner with Alma's four pies--two coconut creams and two pumpkins.  All the women brought their specialties to the dinner.  Uncle Roy's wife, Lillith, always made the dressing, a mild concoction to suit Scandinavian tastes with a hint of the exotic in her addition of chopped black olives.  Louise, being single and somehow exempt from more rigorous cooking, brought relish trays and rolls, while Aunt Rose's husband, Helmar, furnished the giant bird which he baked with loving attention to a crisp, golden brown.
    Just as Joanie began to take her place at the kitchen table to eat with her younger cousins, Louise grabbed her arm and marched her into the dining room.  "You're too old to eat out there with the kiddies.  It's time you sat with the grown-ups."  Well!  Joanie’s face burned with pleasure though no one seemed to notice this big change.  The meal didn’t begin until her grandfather gave the blessing, ending it in some Norwegian phrase, and after her plate of food was handed to her, Joanie ate her dinner quietly listening to the adults talk.
    "Can't make a nickle with hog prices so low."  This from Roy, who always complained loudly about his farming.
    Uncle Ralph nodded his agreement to his brother's concerns but as usual didn't say anything.  Grandpa ate with quiet appreciation.  Joanie’s cousin Geraldine and her boyfriend Tony Marello sat together, while the others were segregated--the men sitting near Grandpa and the women around Grandma.  Geraldine's voice occasionally rang out, competing with Roy's.
    Joanie felt free to look around the table and observe how nice everything looked.  The good china had been taken out of the built-in china cabinet with the leaded glass panes.  Haviland, her mother said, ordered by her grandfather when he built this place in 1915.  No decorations, however.  Such things were considered frivolous by her grandmother.  After dinner the women cleared the table and washed dishes.  Grandma had left immediately following the meal to take her nap, while Grandpa sat in his rocker and dozed, his face lightly touched by the lengthening rays of the sun.

***

    Christmas ordinarily would have been a repeat of the Thanksgiving celebration with the added excitement of gift-giving, but this year was different.  Grandpa Ekdahl died ten days before Christmas of a massive coronary thrombosis that killed him instantly.  It happened on a Saturday night just as the Lilleys were beginning dinner.  Joanie answered the phone and heard her uncle Ralph asking for her mother in such a strange, hollow voice she felt frightened.
    She went to her grandfather's funeral, her first, with her parents the following Saturday at the Lutheran church in Bethany.  She didn't hear a word the minister said, but at one point Ralph, silent Ralph, bent his head into his hands and shook with sobs.  Nothing could have impressed her more.  But the others, as far as she could tell, were as dry in the eye as the stiff old body with the dry browned skin that had been Nels Ekdahl.
    After the funeral and the trip in the painful cold to the burial site on a windy hill, everyone hurried back to the farmhouse for refreshments and subdued conversation about matters that Joanie decided were not quite fitting.  Shouldn't they have talked about her grandfather?  She continued to think about him the following week and how he had passed out of their lives so easily, so completely, his passing hardly noticed except for the slight, tearful convulsion of Uncle Ralph the day of the funeral. 
    Christmas plans proceeded.  By the time the Lilleys arrived for the occasion at the farm, packages were clumped around the base of the tree and the table was set for dinner.  A large ham was being carefully whittled into slices by Helmar and placed on the huge platter around kumla, grated potatoes cooked in ham broth.
    After dinner, the men congregated in the living room while the women cleaned up the dishes.  Joanie wandered into the dining room and saw Geraldine, sitting in grandpa's big wicker rocker by the low window overlooking the side garden.  Joanie remembered Grandpa dozing there Thanksgiving, caught by a pale November sun as in a distant floodlight that exposed his weathered face.  No sunlight streamed in today.
    "Hi, Geraldine.  I wonder when we can open the presents."
    Her cousin turned.  No smile, but her voice was pleasant.  "You know this bunch.  They can't let themselves have any fun until all the work is done.  Heaven forbid they leave a dirty dish or do anything out of order."
    Joanie knew in some deep, hidden place what Geraldine meant.  She wanted to know more.  "Why are they like that?"
    "Mainly because of the old man.  At least, he was the worst.  Rigid as a post, no give in him that anyone could see."
    "Didn't you like Grandpa?"
    "Sure, I did, kid; you don't get it.  He was a softie inside, but these Norwegians can't let anything get out.  It has to explode from them.” She cocked her head at Joanie.  "Ever hear the word love mentioned around here?"
    "No."  It was true!  Geraldine had said something marvelous and true.  She knew about emotions exploding, too.  Sometimes her feelings ran so strongly in her she would have to cry or give her mother a hug.  Alma would chide her.  "Get control of yourself.  Do you want to end up like poor Paul, raving?"  Her father’s brother had had a “breakdown.”
    "Oh, yeah, I know about these Norwegians," Geraldine nodded sagely.   “They used to have prayer meetings here, and I witnessed one of them.  My God, did they ever howl then!  They'd fall all over themselves confessing their sins."
    "Grandpa did all that, too?"  Impossible to imagine the man in the throes of such fervor.
    "He was the most emotional of them all.  Didn't you ever see him cry sometimes?"
    "I've heard Mom say that Grandpa was tender-hearted and cried, but I never saw him do that."  Her own eyes filled with tears that overflowed as she thought of her grandfather, his whole life bound into uncomfortable silence by something.  What?   
    Christmas proved to be exciting, even this year.  Aunt Rose had drawn Joanie’s name and gave her a bottle of Tigris perfume, a grown-up scent that thrilled her.  Grandpa, though not mentioned by anyone, seemed to be present in spirit, quietly approving the sedate celebration that marked all their big occasions.

Grace: An Excerpt from the Foxhill Series

 Chapter 1

            As spring settled into the Nashville area, Grace Madison felt a stab of joy in seeing the bright colors in jonquils and tulips, massing in unexpected places; the pale green buds on the trees; and the bravely sprouting blades of grass in the neighborhood lawns.  Spring had always been her favorite season.  She was still hanging in there, as she explained to well-meaning friends like Tessa Wenger and her boss Rob Hendrickson, who were concerned with her well-being, no doubt fearing another suicide attempt.  But even though Grace had refused to see a therapist, saying she would be too bored talking about herself at length, she met frequently with her regular doctor, a kindly man, who seemed to have his own methods of determining her mental health.  And because he seemed optimistic, Grace was beginning to feel the same.  Yet she still harbored a darkness that she couldn’t quite understand.  She could only hope it might fade away in time.

            The move to her new house six months earlier had been difficult, coming so soon after her hospitalization.  But her mother, who stayed with her a number of weeks, had declared keeping busy was the best thing for overcoming depression.  She had no faith in designer drugs, thinking they masked the problem.  Grace had only recently discontinued the medicine provided by her doctor; they both believed she was now over any suicidal impulses.   She also ascribed, somewhat, to her mother’s view and had thrown herself into the move to the miniature half-timbered and stucco house in historic Foxhill.  It was an uncanny reminder of England and the

17^th century manor house where she’d grown up.  Her own place was built in the 1980s.  It met the neighborhood’s requirement to reproduce or at least compliment the original structures, in this case the 1920s houses still standing.  Even those were considered late for Foxhill, which had been in development since the early 1800s.  Grace, however, was pleased to have found her own niche in this historic neighborhood.

            Grace had agreed to go with Tessa this Thursday evening to a meeting of the Foxhill Association, a gathering she’d avoided by saying she’d been busy getting settled in her house as well as getting her momentum back up at the library.  Yet she was aware of her need to restore her confidence by reaching out beyond her comfort zone.  As she considered this plunge into a new group, it reminded her of going each year to the English seaside as a child.  She remembered the roar of the waves, the ponderous lift and subsiding of the swell, the piquant odors of the sea, and above all, facing the unknown.  She’d always felt a little anxiety at first sight of the vastness, coupled with excitement and anticipation.  For Tessa’s sake and her own, she would not funk this outing.

            But Tessa, understanding Grace’s qualms, promised she could slip into the room and remain virtually unnoticed if she wished.  Before first Tessa and then Grace moved to Nashville, they had become friends while working together at the library in Tarryton, Tennessee, Tessa’s home town.  So now at Tessa’s behest, Grace would be inserting herself into this new group.  She watched for her friend’s car from the living room window, feeling silly at the apprehension that she couldn’t quite tamp down.  It was a silly fear since there was no reason for anyone in the neighborhood to know her history, and that was the real problem that dogged her–a residual embarrassment.  She’d been fortunate in having friends like Tessa and Frank, her boss Rob, and even good old Hal, whom she had treated abominably, none of them capable of gossiping about that unfortunate episode in her recent past. 

            Grace sighed, remembering almost against her will her misbegotten relations with Hal–and his famous Scandinavian reserve.  If she had to be indiscreet with anyone, better him than anyone else. Well, that episode was over, and over quickly without any repercussions except shame–at least on her part.  Hal was now married most happily to his Mihaela, for whom he’d been carrying a torch even while dating Grace.

            In thinking of Hal, she was reminded of an untranslatable Norwegian word describing desirable qualities she’d come across when reading a biography of a Norwegian writer.  The word exemplified Hal and seemed typically Scandinavian: not wishing to put oneself above others; in control of one’s emotions; and most importantly, being a kind and thoughtful person.  That was Hal Stensson, all right, and she wished him well with his young and spunky wife.   For herself, she thought she would prefer a man that engendered a bit more excitement.  No wonder she and Hal hadn’t really hit it off, both being–what?–too northern European in emotional expression?  Perhaps.

            Tessa’s car was waiting at the curb, and thoughts of a past that Grace hoped had really passed went on the back burner as she exited the house.  Under a globe spruce near the steps she spotted again the large grey cat curled up and sound asleep.  She wondered again whose it was and why it had been roaming the neighborhood these last few weeks.  As Grace slipped into Tessa’s car, the two friends greeted each other casually.  Tessa was undoubtedly as aware of Grace’s appearance as she was of her friend’s, Grace knew from experience.  Yet neither had any sense of competition.  Although Grace in her early thirties was a little older, she wasn’t bothered by that, particularly since her ordeal hadn’t seemed to have noticeably aged her.  In fact, she was happy enough with her honey blonde looks, enhanced by careful makeup and clothes, but she thought Tessa a natural beauty with her rarer auburn hair and those luminous grey eyes.

            “I like your hair that shorter length,” she said to Tessa.  “Does Frank?”  Some men, she knew, had a fondness for long hair and objected to their wife’s cutting it.

            “Frank?” Tessa laughed.  “Now, Grace, you know he never objects to anything I do with my hair.  I’m lucky that way.”

            “That’s for sure,” Grace said, giving a little sigh.  “That’s what I’d like, an adoring man who isn’t a Milquetoast.”

            “It goes both ways for us,” Tessa said. “We’re pretty much free to follow our own little personal stars if we believe they’re important.  Not that we don’t consider each other’s wishes, of course, but we do enjoy a kind of marital autonomy.”

            “Now, Tessa, you must have some disagreements, some differences of opinions.”

            Tessa shook her head.  “No, not really.  We talk things out, and if Frank makes more sense, I go along with him.  If I do, according to his lights, then he sides with me.  I can’t quite explain it, but it works.”

            “You really are lucky, I guess.  I’m still working on finding the right man and using the right formula so we could get along together when I do find him.”

            “Don’t give up hope.  But I will say this,” Tessa said, looking at Grace with a smile, “most of us, I fear, have something of the child about us and want our own way on certain matters.  A good partner has to sense what they are and not object.  And I give Frank the reins if there’s a real dispute.  I maintain he’s the head of our household, but he wants me to be happy, and that mix seems to work fine.”  She pulled into the driveway of the Foxhill estate, built in the early part of the 19^th century, once a large plantation but now reduced to only a few acres.  They turned toward a broad, graveled area for parking to one side of the house.  “Looks like a nice crowd even this early, maybe because we have a fine president.”

            “I recognized his name.” Grace had only skimmed over the newsletter that she occasionally read on-line.  She knew the organization had events to raise money to help any needy owners to renovate or do necessary yard work.  When she had taken up residence in Foxhill, someone named Martha Metcalf had called on her with a packet, including the rules of the Foxhill Association, which Grace did read carefully, deeming them reasonable and important.

            “Yes, Alejandro Arenas,” Tessa said.  “As a state representative, he’s gotten a reputation as a real dynamo, uncovering dirt in state government.  Now I understand he’s throwing his hat in the ring and will be running for governor.”

            “I’ve read about that scandal he exposed last year.  I don’t know all the details.”

            “That was quite a coup,” Tessa explained, as they walked toward the front of the mansion. “He ferreted out under-the-table payoffs to lure certain businesses to the state as well as other monetary schemes for the governor’s political benefit.  It’s fine to make deals for businesses interested in coming here, like tax write-offs or property bargains, that sort of thing, but it has to be above board, not favoring any one seller or buyer, for that matter.  Abuses in those areas are what Arenas uncovered, which got the governor thrown out of office.  I hear Alex is onto something new that he’s going to reveal shortly.”

            “How to be very, very unpopular,” Grace said dryly.  “But then, he’s a lawyer, isn’t he?  So he’s probably used to rancor from certain quarters anyway.”  She looked up at the tall facade of the house and exclaimed, “This is lovely, isn’t it!  I do admire that neoclassical design.”

            Tessa agreed it had a timeless beauty as they climbed several steps to the front door where she gave a sharp tug to a bell pull.

            An elderly woman admitted them, Tessa introducing Grace to the owner of Foxhill, Mrs. Walker; Tessa went on to explain that from the founding of the Homeowners Association, the Walkers had offered the house for meetings.  They stepped into a wide hall with a broad staircase on the right and a double doorway to the left that led to a large parlor where people had begun to gather.  Grace saw the room at first as a blur of furniture, the walls with large, framed portraits, and people dotted about.  Farther to the back, huge pocket doors had been opened to nearly their full extent, providing additional seating space in the back parlor.  As Grace and Tessa stood for a moment in the doorway, a woman gestured to them from a Chippendale-style sofa across the room.  Tessa murmured to Grace in an aside, “Martha will insist on us joining her.  Sorry.”

            “I remember her,” Grace said, following her friend.  “She stopped by to give me the information packet when I moved in.”  She gave a bright smile to the dark haired, attractive woman, who had moved to one end of the sofa.

            “You’re Grace Madison,” Martha said, after introducing herself.  She greeted Tessa, who sat down beside her, with a pat on the hand and a smile as well.  “I’m glad you two are here early.  It’s getting to be quite a crowd at these meetings.”

            “I think everyone wants to listen to our local celebrity,” Tessa said, indicating to Tessa a group of three people at the front end of the room, conferring with one another.  Two women with a man between them were seated behind a table and were obviously the officers of the organization.

            Grace, sitting at the end of the sofa, looked at the man of the hour, as she was beginning to think of him.  He was darkly handsome, probably in his mid-thirties, she guessed, wearing a pale blue dress shirt with an open collar–Alex Arenas, as he was referred to on television news stories.   She shrugged to herself, wondering what could be so mesmerizing about him that would get people to leave the comfort of their homes at night for a boring meeting.  She couldn’t help but be deeply suspicious of that type of man–powerful and attractive to both men and women–especially women.  She had to admit that probably her own history had affected her judgment of men.  After her engagement ended when she discovered her fiancé had been stepping out on her, she had moved to Nashville to start a new life.  And even though it had been almost two years since their breakup, her bitterness still remained.  She wondered if Arenas was married and if he was faithful to his poor wife.     

            “Is his wife here?” she asked Tessa in a whisper, gesturing with a nod to the front.

            “No wife,” Tessa whispered back.  “He supposedly has been devoting himself to his various interests.”

            “Oh, that is sad, with only groupies to keep him company,” Grace said in a low, ironic tone.  Yet she knew it was possible for people to keep their minds and energies engaged to the exclusion of emotional commitments.  And he was obviously an extremely dedicated and disciplined fellow.  Then Grace’s attention was captured by a couple that stood for a moment in the doorway; she recognized Hal Stensson and his Romanian-born wife, Mihaela, who was obviously pregnant.

            The couple gazed around the room, looking for seats, until Hal saw the group of three, all looking at him and Mihaela.  He gave them a friendly wave.  Martha called out, “Hello, you two,” and Grace smiled and nodded at him.  There, she thought with relief, that wasn’t so bad.  Giving them another glance, she watched the couple find chairs farther on down the room.  She and Hal hadn’t seen each other since his visit to the hospital had cleared the air between them.

            “Do you ever see Hal and his bride?” she asked Tessa.

            “Not much.  I hear they’ve gotten involved with an arty crowd, mainly through the Tremaine Gallery people.  The owners are good friends of Hal’s.  And then Mihaela’s an artist, too, and takes part in various exhibits at the gallery.”

            More people were arriving with the front room filling up.  An attractive black couple approached Tessa, who introduced them as Robert and Rita Shepherd.  “These are my neighbors who adopted my protégé,” Tessa said to Grace.  She’d heard the story of the rescue of the boy from the projects and his new home and school. 

            “How’s Louis getting along?” Grace asked politely. 

            “He’s loving the school,” Rita said with a smile at her husband, “isn’t he, Bob?”

            “This year is much better, now that he’s acquainted with more students,” Bob Shepherd said.  “And he’s turned into a great little soccer player, too.  Top scorer.”

            Tessa expressed her pleasure at the boy’s success, after which the couple moved on to the back room to take their seats, for it was close to meeting time. 

            Grace’s attention became riveted on the president as he called the meeting to order and asked first the secretary and then the treasurer for their reports.  His voice was deep and strong and easily carried to the back parlor.  He moved efficiently through various items on a rather limited agenda.  She thought she knew why he had become so popular wherever he went.  His style was easy but organized, friendly but serious, and he also had a nice smile.  No contentious remarks slowed down the presentation, which included a discussion about the neighborhood garden party event the end of May with tickets to be sold to the public.

            “Whose gardens?” Grace said in a low voice to Tessa.

            “Some beautiful ones, I’m sure.  Not mine, I can tell you that.”

            After the meeting, which lasted less than an hour, Tessa steered Grace, who had started to make her way to the door, toward the front of the room where a little crowd had gathered around the officers.  “I’d like to introduce you to our president,” she said.

            But Grace took hold of Tessa’s arm and stopped her.  “No, no, please, Tessa, I’d rather not.  Maybe some other time.”  She hated to disappoint her more gregarious friend, but seeing those hovering around Arenas, Grace felt a repulsion to join them.  Groupies, in fact.

            “All right,” Tessa said.  “Let’s go.” 

            But then the cluster blocking Arenas from view opened up suddenly and Grace heard the president say, “Tessa, have you brought a guest?  We should have introduced her.”

            “Hi, Alex,” Tessa said.  “This is my friend Grace, who’s pretty recently moved to Foxhill.”  She drew Grace forward, “And this is Alex Arenas, Grace.  You have something in common.  Both of you have parents that immigrated to America.”

            “Really?” Arenas said, shaking Grace’s hand. “And were you born here like I was?”

            “No,” Grace said with a smile, “I came over after my early schooling and attended university here.”

            Although no more was mentioned about native countries, Arenas asked a few more questions about Grace’s house before she and Tessa moved off, leaving the field for others seeming to be silently devouring Arenas’s words and who were now clamoring for his attention.

            “Well!” Grace said, laughing once they were outside.  “The great man speaks to the little people, and so pleasantly, too.   I can tell he is quite practiced.”

            “Now don’t be cynical about him, Miss Suspicious,” Tessa chided. “He’s all that he seems, as far as I can tell.  I hear he’s seeking the nomination of his party for governor.”  She greeted people along their walk to the car, and then she asked Grace, “Aren’t you glad you went to the meeting?”

            “I am, actually,” Grace admitted, opening the car door.  “It was an agreeable group of people, and maybe I can do something to help out at the garden party.  I’ll call the chairwoman.”

            “And your opinion of Alex?  Be honest, now,” Tessa said, steering the car out of the parking area.

            “Oh, I can see the appeal,  ” Grace said.  “He’ll be the next governor with those looks, his intelligence, and that natural authority.  Seems too good to be true.”

            “I think he’s true enough.  Type A personality, of course.  So he’s always moving upward and onward.  He can’t help himself.”  They both chuckled at Tessa’s characterization.

            “He said he was born here, though he didn’t say where his parents came from.”

            “They’re Cubans, who arrived as children with their parents after the Castro takeover, according to a little bio I read in the paper.  They met in Florida and married and had two kids, the oldest being Alex.”         

            When they reached Grace’s house, she invited Tessa in for coffee or a glass of wine, but Tessa declined, saying she needed to get home.  “I’m so glad you came with me to the meeting, Grace.  I hope you’ll consider going to the next one, too.”

            “Yes, it actually was a pleasant evening.  Thanks for pushing me.  I needed that.”

            It wasn’t bad at all, she thought to herself.  As she went toward the front door, a slight movement alerted her to the silvery figure in the moonlight that emerged from beneath the shrubbery.  The cat again.  She wondered why had it been hanging around so much lately.  It was skittish, probably from being chased off, though it was healthy looking as if it was well fed.

           

            Then Saturday morning, she had occasion to find out more about the cat from her next door neighbor, Marcia Lassiter, who was emerging from her house at the same time as Grace went to fetch the morning paper.  The cat in question was in front of the vacant house across the street, down a couple of doors.  A For Sale sign was posted on the front lawn.

            The women greeted each other and then Grace, after retrieving her paper, had noticed the animal looking at her.  She called to Marcia, “Do you have any idea whose cat that is?  It keeps sleeping in my shrubbery.  I don’t remember seeing it around my house before.”

            “I do,” Marcia said, turning to look at the cat, which continued to sit like the sphinx and stare at them from across the street.  “It belonged to those people who moved out.  They just left the poor thing to fend for itself.  I’ve given it some fish and chicken scraps now and then, but I can’t take it in because of my dog, of course.  He wouldn’t go for that!”

            “Oh, what a sad thing,” Grace said, rather shocked.  “I hate to hear of that kind of animal neglect.  It does look pretty well fed.”

            “I’ve seen it go down into the sewer for rats or lizards or something,” Marcia said, going to her front door.  “She’s getting protein, anyway.”

            Grace stood for a moment looking at the cat, a lonely female then, who looked back at Grace and then rose to its feet in a hopeful movement.  Relenting suddenly, Grace, her throat tightening with emotion, indicated assent with a wave of her hand and softly called, “Come on, Miss Kitty.”  As if it had been given a reprieve, the cat bounded across the street toward Grace, arriving at her feet and gazed at her for instructions.  Tears sprang to Grace’s eyes.  It wanted a friend, to belong again. 

            “We’re a pair, aren’t we,” she said, opening the door and inviting the sleek animal inside.  Grace locked the door behind her and then looked down at the cat.  “I can find a can of tuna fish for you today, at any rate.  Are you going to be Miss Kitty?  Is that all right?”  The cat looked up at Grace and then purred, rubbing against her leg.  Grace laughed.  “I’ll take that as a yes.”

                       

Chapter 2

            Growing up, Grace had not had a pet, no animals to love.  A border collie worked with the hired man who attended her father’s small herd of cattle and other farm matters on the small estate.  The dog slept in a doghouse on the back porch.  But Bounder hadn’t been a real pet for the girls, more attached to the man who had trained him to work cows.  Her father had been a busy executive and her mother a determined worker among the local charities.  Both Grace and her older sister had been sent off to boarding school or as it was called, “public” school, at what Grace considered the too young ages of seven and nine.  A thoroughly ridiculous English custom, she had thought many times, which hardly fostered intimacy with home and hearth.

            Now with Miss Kitty to care for, Grace felt her basically affectionate nature surge toward the animal.  She wondered if she’d had a different, a more American upbringing would she have been so self-contained around people, so closed in that it took an animal to bring out her emotions.  Much of her early life in England had centered around the rigid schooling and magical “vacs” at their lovely old home, where she and Bettina had enjoyed romping around the small holding, experiencing village life, trips to London, and visiting the seaside.  She couldn’t say that it was a dreadful upbringing–of course not.  It was privileged, and she knew it.

            While the girls were completing their prep school education, their parents had moved to the United States, her father having made useful contacts at a conference which encouraged him to bring his skills to a venue with more opportunities.  Eventually, Grace and her sister, moving to the U.S. and getting their university degrees, began their respective careers, Bettina as a nurse, Grace as an analyst, specializing in languages, who took a job with the State Department, and  in her late twenties fell deeply in love for the first time.  She had left D.C. and followed her fiancé, whom she had thought of as a miraculous healer, to Tarryton, Tennessee, where he’d been appointed chief surgeon of a county hospital system.  But the romance went south for reasons connected to John’s ego when she’d discovered he wasn’t faithful to her.  He’d tried to convince her it was a momentary aberration, a madness fostered by selfishness, and he begged her forgiveness.  She couldn’t or wouldn’t do it.

            Grace had re-educated herself by additional schooling in library science while living in Tarryton and had become head librarian there after Tessa vacated the position to move to Nashville.  The work suited her, so when she rejected John and any rehabilitation on his part, she sought similar work elsewhere.  Keeping in touch with her friend, who encouraged her to try Nashville, she obtained a heavily competitive position at Vanderbilt University and began making friends ever so slowly, as was her style.  Yet, depression had haunted her and she spiraled downward until she hit bottom.

            Now feeling more confident and comfortable after meeting a few more people at the Homeowners Association, she was a good as her word, checking the website for the garden party chairwoman’s number.  She then called her to volunteer her services.  It surely wouldn’t be particularly onerous or needing a horticultural expert, she hoped.  Much to her surprise, Nancy Woodruff, who had taken on the responsibility for the event, jumped on Grace’s offer to help by saying, “You are a life saver, Grace.  I just had someone very reliable opt out of helping that day due to out of town guests she’s expecting, so I definitely can put you to work at Alex’s.”

            “Alex’s?” Grace asked, a little startled.  “You mean Arenas, the president’s house?  His garden is on the tour?”

            “Oh, yes, he’s a fabulous gardener, and actually, it was his idea to have this garden party as a fund raiser, which we hope will become a tradition for Foxhill.”

            “I’m surprised the women aren’t lining up to help out at his place,” Grace said, trying to keep her tone good humored.  She couldn’t help, though, wondering about the vacant position.

            “Yes, if I put out the word,” Nancy said, laughing, “I expect I’d get a few hands raised.  This just happened to me, not five minutes ago.  So your call is well-timed and wonderful.  You’ll be working the afternoon hours if that’s all right.”

            “Yes, that’s fine.  Just give me the details as to my responsibilities, and I’ll be very happy to do what I can.”  And she was.  It seemed an omen that she would learn more about her neighborhood, and maybe she’d even get to know the wonder boy better.

            “Mainly you’ll be punching the guests’ tickets for admission.  Eight gardens are on the tour with refreshments served on the Foxhill estate grounds.  I’ve prepared a sheet with historic information so you can inform anyone who’s interested about the Foxhill neighborhood and encourage membership.  I’ll send you everything you’ll need.”

            Grace asked, “Who will answer questions, if they arise, about the flowers?  I’m afraid that’s not my strength.”

            “Oh, no, we wouldn’t ask that of you.  The owners have agreed to be on hand to explain to visitors, and in Alex’s case, he’ll be assisted by Stephanie Morrison. You may remember her from the meeting.  She’s our Association secretary.”

            Grace recalled a youngish woman next to the president at the front of the room with long dark hair, leaning in toward Arenas to occasionally confer.  After reading the minutes in a high, childish voice, she remained quiet for the rest of the meeting as she took notes.  Grace thanked the chairwoman amid a return of thanks, and after relinquishing the phone, she congratulated herself on stepping up to the plate and getting herself involved.  It shouldn’t be bad at all, particularly with her duties.  The visitors would be strangers, needing reassurance as they entered the garden.  That should be an interesting afternoon.  She felt unaccountably cheered by her decision to get involved, and she thought it was a hopeful sign.

            Following the meeting, for several weeks Grace began noticing articles in the Tennessean and on-line sources about Arenas’s latest work in illegal adoptions, centered around, according to the stories, Mexican and Central American countries.  More and more had appeared to have nefarious connections, and the adoptions were hidden under layers of bureaucracy.  Were at least some of the babies stolen?  Had they been purchased for a pittance from poor families and sold at exorbitant prices to desperate families in Nashville and elsewhere?  These were the questions being investigated by Arenas and his staff.  They were ostensibly working for families who had become suspicious of the enterprises.

            But in the meantime, Grace had practical matters involving Miss Kitty to attend to.  The afternoon she had taken her in, Grace went shopping for a litter box and kitty litter as well as a variety of cat food.  She had no idea which food would be preferred by her new friend, but she would give her options.  And friend she was, almost instantly.  Miss Kitty hadn’t yet begun sitting on Grace’s lap, but she found a chair she liked and took up residence there while Grace watched TV, staring intermittently at her new mistress with bright, amber eyes.  She purred while she ate, which amused Grace, and after an evening outing of fifteen or twenty minutes, the cat was ready to come in for the night.  It was all very satisfactory for them both, Grace thought.  She sought information about a vet from her neighbor and took the cat in for shots and a check up.

            The next month rolled by quickly for Grace, who found herself looking forward to the Foxhill Garden Party, even as a toiler in the field, she thought laughingly to herself.  She felt some anticipation at the thought of perhaps getting better acquainted with Arenas.  She wanted to see if he really was what he was cracked up to be.  Was he indeed gubernatorial material or just a show boater who loved attention?  She hoped he wouldn’t be taking the afternoon off while the other person, the Association secretary, who might, just might, have a crush on him, took over. 

            Grace found herself thoroughly engaged at work in ordering books, including electronic material, for Fall Semester.  Then it was Thursday evening before the Foxhill Garden Party, and she had gotten out her folder of material to memorize.  It wouldn’t look good, she’d decided, to have to read off the historical information like a tyro.  She wanted to have a professional demeanor, which in this case meant knowing what to tell guests and how to answer any questions they might have.  This was her first real outside interest since moving to Nashville, which seemed impossible when she thought about it.  Time, time, time, how it surprised her by its movement forward like a train carrying her from and maybe toward romance and adventure.

One of the stanzas to a hymn, “O God Our Help in Ages Past” sung regularly at her school in England suddenly arose as if embedded in her brain, providing another image:

Time, like an ever rolling stream,

Bears all its sons away;

They fly, forgotten, as a dream

Dies at the opening day.

            She had had a life of sorts prior to moving here, but it had shriveled up behind her as if it hadn’t mattered after all.   What had she really accomplished?  Whom had she affected to the good?  Had she not chosen the “better part”?  But wasn’t that the message in the hymn, that one’s former life shouldn’t be looked at with longing or regret?  Pray God more was to be her destiny.  Unlike those who dreaded receiving the so-called Chinese curse “may you live in interesting times,” Grace hoped she was ready for something different.  But what it was to be, she couldn’t imagine.