Hearts Unfold (3 page)

Reentering the
gate, she followed the drive to the back of the house.
 
To the east, beyond the barn, the land
dropped away steeply to a wooded hillside.
 
Below the woods, she could just make out the tall brick chimneys of what
was locally known simply as “the springs.”
 
A hundred years earlier, Charlotte Springs had been an elegant resort,
the destination of wealthy vacationers who came for the cool summers and the
waters of the deep sulfur springs.
 
Now
all that remained were crumbling foundations and the sentinel chimneys.
 
The road to the springs was closed to all but
local traffic, and it had become a preserve for native flora and fauna.
 
Her father had often taken her there to
picnic by the bubbling water, teaching her the names of the wildflowers and the
songbirds.

The barn and
the rail-fenced paddock seemed unchanged, but beyond, to the west, the
overgrown furrows were a forlorn reminder of how long it had been since the
lush rows of the garden had flourished.
 
Five years now, since that final planting; her father had lost interest
after that, allowing the land to go fallow.

As she strolled
across the yard, a fat gray squirrel paused in his brisk rummaging among the
leaves and stood watching suspiciously for a moment, before scurrying up the
huge oak that stood at the back of the house.
 
From his perch, he chattered furiously down to her.
 
The invitation was irresistible.

“Not used to
sharing the place, are you?” Emily called up to him.
 
“Well, I won't be here long this time, but
you'd better be prepared for company, come summer.
 
And by the way, how about keeping this yard a
little neater?
 
Anybody would think no
one lived here!”
 
The squirrel gave her
the benefit of his bright, inquisitive gaze, finally turning to race up to the
nest high above, bidding her farewell with a very grand flourish of his
tail.
 

Turning to
survey the yard, with its mounds of windblown leaves and remnants of long-ago
flower beds, she shook her head.
 
Her
mother would be horrified that things had been so neglected after the years of
careful cultivation.
 
The rose bushes
she'd so prized, now gnarled and overgrown; the beds of azaleas and
rhododendrons in dire need of pruning, and the brick-lined borders where in
summers past, bright annuals had bloomed, all now cluttered with several
seasons' worth of weeds and debris.
 
In
and out of the tangled beds, wrens, sparrows and chickadees darted for their
breakfast, and a pair of cardinals dove gracefully into the dark green haven of
a juniper.
 
Not deserted, she thought,
just in need of a loving hand to bring back its former beauty.

After walking a
full circle around the house, checking for broken windows or loose shutters,
she decided the house had fared amazingly well.
 
A good cleaning and it would be almost as good as new.
 
Of course it had not been new in almost
seventy years, but it had been gently used, and in her lifetime, at least, much
loved.
 
A little of the same kind of
attention should bring it back to life.
 
With one last sweeping view of her surroundings, she drew a deep breath
of the cold, clean air and squared her shoulders.
 
Time now, she told herself, for some real
work.

First checking
the level of the fuel oil tank, she was satisfied that she could safely raise
the thermostat above the fifty-degree chill that had greeted her last
night.
 
With the furnace humming along,
her next chore would be getting water to the house.
 
The pipes had been drained for winter two
years ago.
 
She would have to forego the
luxury of running water.
 
Her only hope,
short of crawling into the root cellar and locating the proper valve in the
maze of plumbing, would be to haul water from the pump by the barn.
 
Bucket in hand, she approached the rusted
relic braced for a fight.
 
After several
minutes of slowly forcing the handle, screwing up her face at the screeching
protest, she was rewarded with a gasp of air, followed by a gurgle of dirty
sludge spewing into the trough below.
 
A
few more strokes and she let out a triumphant howl as clear water began to
flow.
 
Filling the bucket, she carried it
with careful steps to the house, repeating the procedure a half-dozen times,
until satisfied the supply would last the day.

Pleased with
her accomplishments so far, she turned her attention to digging for any
cleaning supplies that might have been left behind.
 
Crawling under the kitchen sink, she pulled
out a plastic bucket filled with carefully organized brushes, sponges and rags.
 
A box of baking soda, a jug of bleach and a
somewhat cloudy bottle of pine-scented cleaner completed the kit she had always
carried from room to room.
 
Digging
deeper, she located a can of lemon oil, the only acceptable substance for
polishing her mother's prized antiques.
 
In the pantry she found the mop and broom, propped in their usual corner
beside the ancient vacuum cleaner.

For the next
two hours, Emily cleaned her house.
 
It
was an amazingly celebratory experience.
 
As she worked her way across the long front room, she was convinced that
with every pass of the vacuum wand, with every stroke of her dust cloth, the
colors in the room came to life.
 
The
warm brick red of the drapes, the mossy green of the velvet couch, even the
cabbage roses on the wing chairs glowed, once relieved of the layer of dust
that had settled on every surface.
 
Each
small treasure she held in her hand to polish was returned to its place with a
renewed presence, as if in response to her touch.
 
By the time she stopped for lunch, the
mustiness of neglect was banished, replaced by the warm scent of burning wood
and the faintest hint of lavender and lemon.

From the
hearth, flanked by glass-fronted bookshelves, to the west end of the room that
was home to her mother's piano, the room seemed restored.
 
As in her dream, the wood floors gleamed and
the tabletops shone from a fresh coat of oil.
 
Going to the piano, she carefully removed the dust cover.
 
The ebony surface, smooth and cold, reflected
the sunlight from the nearby window.
 
Hesitantly, she opened the cover and touched a key with one finger.
 
It might well have suffered from the cold and
damp of the closed house, but she would contact the tuner who had come
regularly when her mother was alive.
 
Emily
herself could play only the most elementary of tunes, but the beloved instrument
deserved to be maintained.
 
With one more
timid note, she closed the cover over the keyboard, passing her hand across the
satiny wood in a tender caress.

Lined on the
shelves along one wall, the extensive collection of recordings and the stereo
purchased not long before her mother's death caught her attention.
 
Hesitating for only an instant, she
approached and after running her finger along the rows of jackets, drew one
from its slot.
 
Vivaldi's Four Seasons
was precisely the sound she wanted to fill the house with today.
 
Soon the chiming strings shattered the
silence, invading every corner with glorious music.
 
Collecting her rags and broom, she marched
off to the kitchen to prepare her lunch.

After a quick
sandwich and the promise of something hot for supper, Emily stood in the center
of the room, surveying her handiwork.
 
It
would be all too easy, she knew, to just sit down and enjoy the afternoon,
listen to music, browse the bookshelves for old friends.
 
“Coward,” she prodded. “What are you afraid
of?”
 
Turning herself firmly toward the
half-open door of the guestroom, she forced her steps in that direction.
 
Last night she had gone in just long enough
to pick out the quilts for her pallet, choosing the least precious from her
mother's collection stored on the shelves of the wardrobe.
 
Certain she was not ready to sleep in this
room, she had chosen instead to make her bed on the floor by the hearth, using
the argument that she needed to stay near the warmth of the fire.

Now she opened
the door wide, and going in, drew back the drapes to let in the streaming
sunlight.
 
It was a beautiful room, with
pale yellow walls and blue and white
toile
draperies.
 
The mahogany sleigh bed was
another of her mother's antique treasures, as was the imposing walnut
wardrobe.
 
This elegant room had been
reserved for those rare occasions when friends or relatives from far away had
visited the farm.
 
In this room, her
mother had slowly died that long summer five years ago.
 
If there were ghosts in the house, Emily thought
they would surely be here.
 
Not only the
ghost of her mother, but that of her father as well, keeping his hopeless vigil
at her side.
 
But she didn't believe in
ghosts.
 
Memories were haunting enough,
she knew.

In the light of
day, as she slowly turned to take in the entire room, she told herself it was
really just four walls, filled with fine furnishings and nothing more.
 
Try as she might, she could no longer
honestly picture her mother in this room.
 
She might be out there at the piano, that intensely focused expression
on her lovely face, or perhaps sitting in the porch swing, her eyes closed as
she listened to music through the open window on a warm afternoon.
 
In this room, there was nothing but quiet
calm, a welcoming sense of comfort.
 
Going to the bed, she gently smoothed the white
matelasse
coverlet.
 
Maybe, in another day or so,
she could sleep in this bed, she told herself.
 
But today, she could open the windows and let the cold fresh air blow
away the lingering scent of old sachets.
 
Today she could sweep aside the last of the memories, move a chair,
rearrange the pictures on the wall.
 
One
day at a time, living in this room would push back the past, making space for
the future.
 
With a squaring of her
shoulders, she went to gather her supplies.

To complete the
final chore on her list, she rolled up her sleeves and heated water in a
stockpot.
 
Throwing open the windows,
armed with hot water and bleach, she attacked the two bathrooms, scouring tile
and fixtures, wiping down walls and mopping floors upstairs and down.
 
Her father had remodeled the rooms during her
childhood, but the old claw-foot tubs remained, lending their charm to the
bright spaces.
 
When porcelain and chrome
gleamed from her efforts, and the black and white tiles shone like new, she was
convinced the house was glad to have her back.

At the end of
the day, she longed for a hot soak in the depth of one of the tubs; her arms
and back ached from unaccustomed labor.
 
But the best she could do was a quick sponge bath at the kitchen sink,
punctuated with cries of “brr” and “ugh” as lukewarm water met bare skin.
 
She brushed out her hair and shampooed away
the dust.
 
As she dressed in her
nightclothes, glad of her heavy flannel robe, she congratulated herself on
having been truly content all day.
 
No
fog, no depression, even when confronted by the past at every turn.

For her supper,
she had opened a variety of cans from her stock of provisions—beans, tomatoes
and corn, pouring the contents into a pot and adding a handful of rice.
 
Now she lifted the lid to savor the aroma of
her stew.
 
Ladling a generous bowlful,
she carried it into the front room.
 
Seated at the table by the window, she ate, watching as the final red
glimmer of daylight faded from the wintry sky.
 
When the last drop was consumed, she took a notepad from the table's
drawer.
 
She would make a list, map out
her strategy and plan her maneuvers.
 
All
day, shreds of argument and logic had been darting through her brain.
 
It was time to get serious, before she was
caught off guard and found herself tongue-tied and defenseless.
 

While she knew
Jack's support was essential to her success, she would need other allies, Mike
and Sara McConnell in particular.
 
They
had been the ones who made it possible for her to stay on through her senior
year of high school, who had guided her during the confusing months following
her father's stroke.
 
When J.D. had been
admitted to a nursing home in Charlottesville, Mike and Sara had taken Emily
into their home.
 
As the family's
long-time pastor and as the couple her parents had socialized with most
frequently, they were the likely choice.
 
With two sons, one a classmate of Emily's, the other four years older
and just entering the Army, they provided a family environment, which Jack, as
a bachelor, could not have done.