Final Rights (31 page)

John stood his ground, unwilling to leave a
crying woman sitting on the bare floor unattended. “Let me help you up.”

Tate reeled herself back in as much as she
could. “I know this seems really weird. I’m a complete stranger to you, but I’m
okay, really. I just need a few minutes to collect myself.” Tate’s crying
slowed and her laughter stopped completely.

“You’re sure? You don’t need help getting up
or anything?”

“Absolutely sure.”

“Well then . . .” and John started back down
the aisle, turning a couple of times on his way, a puzzled and concerned look
etched across his face.

Tate sat alone in the shadowed space and let
her emotions run free again. They ran the gamut from grief to joy, touching
along the way on the countless highs and lows of her life, the concessions she
had made, the stands she had taken, the losses suffered, the battles won, all
the decisions and actions—from tiny to life-changing—that had led her to this
moment. They flowed over her and threatened to drown her, and as she had always
done in the past, she resurfaced to find herself strong and vibrantly alive.

The cathartic experience
left Tate feeling vulnerable. Given the opportunity, she would have curled up
in a darkened room and slept, but she had important things to do that demanded
immediate attention.

“I’ll be back to pick it up soon,” Tate told
John as she paid for the mantle. It’s a gift for a dear friend and I want to
give it to her as soon as possible.”

FORTY-EIGHT

2004

Cally
climbed out of a deep sleep and dropped her feet to the floor. They barely
touched, given the height of the bed, and she felt like falling back into the
cozy nest. But she had already missed breakfast as well as the early morning
hours, her favorite part of the day, so she pushed herself out of bed and into
the shower.

Thirty minutes later, Dawn stopped her as
she was heading out the door of the hotel. “Hey, Cally! How’d your grandfather
like the brownies?”

“Dawn! Oh, sorry! I should have made it a
point to stop by and see you when I got back yesterday. But I was exhausted!
Will you forgive me?”

“No need to apologize, my dear. You look
like you could use a cup of coffee and some breakfast.”

“I could, but I’ll get something outside. I
missed breakfast by a good hour.”

“Well, that works out just fine because we
have the dining room to ourselves and we can chat for a while. If you have
time, that is.”

“I’ve got plenty of time, Dawn, but I don’t
want to put you out. You must be cleaning up and getting ready to leave.”

“Yep, but I have time to fix an omelet and
brew a fresh pot of coffee. I haven’t eaten yet myself. Will you join me?”

Cally watched as Dawn
prepared their meal. Starting with organic, free-range eggs, she dressed them
up with sautéed red onion and portabella mushrooms, Havarti cheese and baby
spinach, then a garnish of fresh, spicy, tomato salsa. They took their omelets,
a carafe of hot coffee and toasted French peasant bread to the small café table
on the back patio. Although chilly morning air greeted them, the women were
bathed in sunlight. Cally sank back and took in a deep, cleansing breath and
let out a long sigh as she exhaled.

Dawn watched as Cally settled in. “From the
sounds of that, you need to decompress as much as you need to eat!”

“That’s the truth! You’re very perceptive.”

“Vacation shouldn’t be so stressful, Cally.
Was it hard seeing your grandfather yesterday?”

“I wish this
were
a
vacation! No . . . actually I don’t wish that, but you’re right. It has been
stressful, and I’m not handling it all that well.”

“Want to tell me about it? I’m a good
listener as well as a good cook.”

“Let me try the cooking first.” Cally took a
bite of the eggs. “Wow! That’s one of the best omelets I’ve ever eaten. What
did you season it with? I must not have been paying attention.”

“That’s one of my little secrets. I’ll tell
you when I get to know you better.” Dawn poured coffee for both of them.

“Well, guess I’ll have to stick around so I
can learn the secret.”

“Hopefully that isn’t the only reason you’ll
want to be my friend.” Dawn held Cally’s gaze.

Cally felt a familiar tug in her solar
plexus and quickly changed the subject. “This is all delicious, Dawn. Thanks
for offering it. I planned to grab something over at City Bakery.”

“Sounds like you’ve got plans for the day.”

“I do. I’m going to look around an old house
in Montford. Tate—you know, my friend who found Gampa for me—she found this
place, which led her to Gampa, and . . . wait. I’m rambling.

“Rambling is fine. There’s no place I’d
rather be right now.” Dawn’s smile matched her sentiment.

“That’s very generous of you, Dawn. Are you
always like this with women you hardly know?”

“Only the ones I find especially
interesting.”

“Oh, I . . .” Cally
didn’t respond to the obvious come-on.

“So tell me about the place and about your
visit yesterday.”

As they finished breakfast and a second cup
of coffee, Cally talked briefly about the old house in Montford and shared the
highlights of the previous day. She emphasized how much her grandfather and the
staff at Forest Glen had enjoyed the homemade brownies and thanked Dawn again
for helping with them. Cally found herself relaxing into the conversation and
enjoying Dawn’s company, but she took care not to mention how emotionally
draining the past few days had been.

“Sounds like you’ve been in quite a
whirlwind.”

“For sure. It’s been up and down, but mostly
up and filled with surprises. I can’t even begin to say what it’s been like to
find Gampa again after all these years. That’s probably the best thing that’s
ever happened in my entire life.”

“I guess it’ll be pretty hard to leave him
when you head back to Los Angeles.”

“Funny you should bring that up.” Cally
considered how much to share. “I may not be going back.”

“Really?”

“This place feels like home to me. It
is
home. There’s no reason to go back to L.A. At least not a good
enough one to make me want to return.”

“But what about work? And all your friends?”

“I don’t need to work . . . at least not for
a while. And it’s obvious to me I can make friends here.”

A broad smile creased Dawn’s face. “I’m
happy to hear that.”

“I’ve only known Tate
for a few days, and she’s the best friend I’ve ever had. Sounds strange, but .
. .”

“It doesn’t sound strange to me. She gave
you back your grandfather, and from what I can tell, you’ve been longing for a
connection to your past your whole life.”

Cally began weeping. She dabbed her tears
away with her napkin and took a deep breath to help rein in her emotions.

“It’s okay, Cally. You can cry in front of
me.”

“It may be okay with you, but it isn’t with
me. I’m a pretty strong woman . . . very strong, really. But I’ve been crying
at the drop of a hat for days, and I’m getting pretty tired of it.”

“Well, then. I won’t
encourage any more of it!” Dawn clapped her hands together twice. “Buck up,
little cowgirl!” Cally burst into laughter and Dawn joined in.

“Now that’s just what I needed. Thanks!”

“You’re more than welcome.” Dawn noticed
Cally had not finished her meal. “Are you done with that, or would you like to
finish it? I can brew more coffee . . .”

“I’m done. You have things to do, I’m sure,
and so do I. But thanks, Dawn. This has been an unexpected pleasure.”

“I’m glad you joined me, Cally. I hope we’ll
have more little get-togethers like this in the future.”

“I’m looking forward to
it. I’ll see you again, soon, I’m sure.”

Dawn sang a little song to herself as she
began picking up the dishes and watching Cally depart.

Finding
her way around Asheville became easier each time Cally ventured out on her own.
Everything had seemed a jumble when she’d first arrived, but now she recognized
the old streets from her childhood and had a good understanding of the new
routes that had emerged when the Interstate cut a wide swath through town. She
took her time, winding her way through the pretty side streets, checking out
the trendy shops and restaurants that now occupied the old, restored buildings.
Eventually she parked at the curb in front of 305 Chestnut Street.

Yesterday she’d sat at
this same spot with Tate after the intense meeting with Richard Price, and
she’d felt overwhelmed. Huge, dilapidated, ugly . . . those words flooded her
mind then and she made a vow now that she would try to see the place as Tate
saw it: a thing worthy of being cherished and brought back to life. It would be
demolished unless someone took immediate action. But, try as she might, no
vision of beauty materialized as she studied the tired, old house. She wanted
to simply drive away and forget Tate’s haunting words of the previous
afternoon: “I think it belongs to you, now, Cally.”
 

But those words had been
spoken, and they had landed hard on Cally. She’d felt the truth of them
reverberating through her body.
An unwelcome responsibility. That’s what this place is.
Why does Tate love it so much? What on earth will I ever do with it?
Those thoughts rolled
around in Cally’s mind as she left the car and reluctantly climbed the
crumbling steps to inspect her destiny. Most often, life’s challenges are
immediately obvious. The same cannot be said for life’s blessings.

Cally noticed everything
wrong with the house and property at 305 Chestnut—its overgrown and ragged
landscaping, tawdry bits of colored glass embedded in the retaining wall, moldy
paint, missing cedar shakes, sagging gutters, grimy windows, pock-marked front
door. Everywhere she looked she saw decay and sadness. She
felt
it, too, as if by
stepping onto the property, she’d crossed an invisible boundary into a web of
gloom and sorrow and left the living world behind.

A man passing on the sidewalk below noticed
her car, looked up and saw her. A startled expression captured his face as he
quickened his pace and hurried away as if he’d seen a ghost.
No one loves this place. They even try
not to see it.
That thought
broke through Cally’s sense of dysphoria, and she remembered seeing people
respond in a similar way to her mother. Rita had become invisible the deeper she
sank into depression and alcoholism, and the world had shrunk away from her
until only Cally remained.
Ragged,
sagging, tawdry—they could all describe Mom, too.

Anguish took Cally
prisoner as the unexpected comparison between her mother and the old house
exploded. She doubled over from a piercing pain in her solar plexus. Willing
herself to move, she stumbled whimpering around the corner to the back porch
where she dropped to the floor under the long row of kitchen windows. She
curled into a fetal position and sobbed until her grief-induced flash flood of
tears subsided.

Exhausted, she rolled onto her back, pulled
her knees up and stuffed her bunched-up jacket under her head, then fell into a
state of deep contemplation. She lay there for a long time, drifting in and out
of awareness, revisiting times with her mother, both good and bad, the precious
moments she’d recently spent with Leland, being read to while she rested in
Ellie’s arms and a raft of other memories and images. The slow motion chronicle
floated through her awareness like a discombobulated version of the old
television show
This is
Your Life
, and she fell
into it, reliving the ups and downs without judgment or remorse.

She may have slept, she
couldn’t be sure, but she came back to alertness when a ray of sunshine picked
its way through the nearly bare branches of a huge maple tree and played along
the surface of her face. She shivered in the chill, stretched out to her full
length, sat up and leaned against the wall. She felt something poking into her
back, and as she turned to see what it was, she spied the expansive kitchen.
She caught her breath at the sight of it.

Cally’s
long-held-but-never-realized dream of becoming a gourmet cook sprang to the
surface. She envisioned an array of colorful, fresh ingredients laid out on the
white-tiled counter tops, pots bubbling on the vintage stove, the aroma of
hand-crafted bread emanating from the oven, all of it crystal clear. And it
surprised her to find Dawn standing beside her in the imagined domestic mecca
rather than Tate.

Cally realized her
earlier feeling of foreboding had vanished and been replaced by a sense of
anticipation, perhaps even excitement. Maybe the place could be saved,
should
be saved, after all, as
Tate believed. And just maybe she was the person to do it.

With renewed energy,
Cally surveyed the house and grounds with an eye to how it could be restored to
its optimal condition. She knew little about owning property or the various
aspects of construction and rehabilitation. She would need experts, a trusted
team to guide her and carry out the work. Tate would help with that. And she
would need money. She had her savings and investments, a substantial retirement
fund. She could sell the condominium in Los Angeles . . . but she had no idea
if what she had would be sufficient for the monumental task of rescuing the
house.
It
will be my house, mine! I need to own it in my heart before I can even think
about owning it on paper.

Cally took her time
walking the property, poking into corners and peeking into windows. She found a
rusted glider languishing in the brush under the maple tree, a broken birdbath
of blue glazed tiles buried under layers of moldering leaves, a wasp’s nest
cemented under the gutters of a second floor balcony. She sat for a bit on the
edge of the old fish pond and absentmindedly pulled up some of the weeds
growing there. With every new discovery and each small gesture, she took
another step toward possession of the house. By the time she headed back to her
car, the place belonged to her and she had fallen in love with it, even in its
decrepitude. Now she would have to find a way to make her ownership legal.

Cally had lost all sense
of time since she’d parked and climbed the steps to the house. When she reached
the car, she realized with a jolt she had not called Tate as promised. She
reached for her phone and remembered suddenly that she had left it on the
nightstand. She returned to the hotel as quickly as possible and dialed Tate’s
number, eager to make plans to meet for dinner and share the day’s discoveries
and decisions. She just needed a few hours to herself to reconcile all the new
plans forming in her mind.