Old Wounds (3 page)

2.

E
VERLASTINGS

Wednesday, October 5

“Aunt E?” Ben’s
lanky frame filled the doorway. “I need to talk to you.”

Elizabeth looked up from the wreath she was constructing. A giant hoop of twisted grapevine, nearly five feet across, lay on the worktable before her, surrounded by baskets of dried herbs and flowers. Branches of silvery-needled, aromatic lavender jostled pungent green-needled rosemary. Spikes of deep purple lavender blooms, olive-green bay, velvety convolutions of blood-red cockscomb celosia filled the baskets, as did the seedpods of iris, poppy, nigella, and lotus, all gathered at summer’s end. Willow hampers held masses of airy white baby’s breath and clouds of hydrangea in moody blues and mauves that whispered of tea gowns and
fin de siècle
decadence. Along the workshop’s back wall, sheaves of cattails and ornamental grasses drooped elegantly from tall wooden crates.

Half of the wreath’s framework was already covered with swathes of the dried foliage, painstakingly wired in bunches onto the bare vines. Elizabeth reached for a handful of rosemary branches and, nodding at her nephew, began to trim them to a uniform length. “Sure, Ben, what’s up?”

But he hesitated in the door, sunlight haloing his red-gold hair. “I’ve got the van all loaded for a delivery run and Julio’s going with me—he’s going to drive.”

“Okay…?” Elizabeth twisted green wire around the clump of rosemary, forming a tight little bouquet. Ben lingered, seemingly unable to go on. Taking pity on him, she added, “It’ll be good for Julio to learn the route too—in case you or I couldn’t—”

“Yeah, that’s what I was thinking.” At last Ben came toward her. He stood by the table, aimlessly picking up and putting down her pruning shears. Elizabeth continued with her work, trying not to reveal her growing apprehension.
He’s not here to chat…but he’s having trouble saying what he came to tell me…I wonder…

“Big wreath, huh? Must be a special order.”

She gathered a handful of the hydrangea blossoms and made another bouquet. “Yep, it’s for the show house in that fancy new development up on Turkey Run. Evidently it has a huge stone fireplace and they needed something this big to hang above it.”

“Development!” The word was flung at her like a curse. “Why can’t things stay the same? They’re going to ruin this county—turn it into something like Gatlinburg—waterslides and cutesy gift shops and shit!” He jabbed the pruning shears into the scarred surface of the worktable. “I
hate
how Marshall County’s changing. When I used to visit, back when you all first moved here, there wasn’t all this…this
crap.”

Thump. Thump. Thump.
The sharp tip of the shears dug little triangular gouges into the unfinished pine. “And all these new people! Driving fancy foreign cars and they’re walking around Ransom in
overalls,
for god’s sake, like they think that’ll make them fit in.”
Thump, thump, thump.
Three more gouges were added to the tally. “And they’re buying up the old buildings and turning the town into a different place. A gourmet
deli
where the old dime store used to be! And an Internet café next door!”

Elizabeth gently took the shears from her nephew as he waved them at her. “Ben, that dime store closed at least fifteen years ago. And it sat empty, just like the old grocery store and all the other little businesses that shut down. When the new road opened and made it easy to get into Asheville, folks just started doing their shopping where it was cheaper. And where their jobs were. And speaking of new people—what are we?” She clipped the ragged stems of a bunch of lavender. “Plus, you have to admit, the deli has great sandwiches. And it’s a kind of gathering place—whenever I’m in town I always see people I know there.”

He was shamefaced now, looking with startled recognition at the marks the pruning shears had left on the table. “Yeah, I’ve been eating there too, now and then. But I still wish—” He broke off. Then the words burst out. “Aunt E, I’m sorry but I’ve got to get away from here for a while. I don’t know…I might go to Florida…. Mom’s been after me to come down for a visit and…well, I just need some time to think about things.”

Elizabeth’s first instinct was to throw her arms around her nephew, but his face warned her off. Only a few days past, Ben’s romantic involvement with a beautiful but troubled woman had ended abruptly. Much of the drama had played out right there on Full Circle Farm; indeed, a wreath the girl had made not long ago hung on the wall by the door, and Elizabeth tried not to let her eyes go to its somber circle of rosemary. The dark red roses that adorned it had dried to resemble nothing so much as clotted blood.
Rosemary for remembrance…why didn’t I think to take that down?

“…feel really shitty about leaving. I mean, here you made me a partner in the business and all, but if I don’t get away…” Ben was pacing now. “I wouldn’t leave if I didn’t think Julio and Homero could take up the slack.”

He was right, of course. Now that Julio’s brother-in-law Homero was joining him in the little house across from the workshop and drying sheds, the work would still get done. And if Julio’s wife and children were able to make the move from Mexico soon, there would be even more help. Elizabeth raised her hand to lay it on Ben’s arm, to arrest his pacing, to achieve some sort of contact.

“Hey, Ben, it’s okay. Things slow down along about now. It’ll be fine. We’ll manage….”

“I’ll get everything caught up and I’ll make sure that Homero understands the work before I take off.” Quivering under her touch like a high-strung horse ready to bolt, he had hardly heard her. “I just have to be away from here before—”

“Ben, it’ll be fine.” She fought to keep any hint of chagrin from tainting her reassurances. “I understand. Really. When do you want to leave?”

He closed his eyes and exhaled a long sigh of relief. “I was afraid you’d be pissed.” He looked around the workshop, then went to the big permanent calendar that mapped out the farm’s yearly schedule. Tracing his finger along the days of October, he frowned. “I don’t know…maybe next week? Once we get the greenhouses ready for winter, the load ought not to be too much for the guys.”

Elizabeth returned to her wreath, struggling to conceal her feelings. “Rosie’s coming home for the weekend. I know she’d want to see you before you take off. What if I plan a family dinner for Friday night? Then you could leave Saturday or Sunday, if you wanted.”

Ten uncomfortable minutes later, the van’s door slammed and Elizabeth heard the roar of the engine and a spatter of gravel as Ben and Julie drove off.
It’ll do him good to get away. He’s hurt and confused and needs to figure things out…. And a little time with Gloria will probably remind him why he came here in the first place.

Ben Hamilton, the only child of Elizabeth’s much-married (and much-divorced) sister, Gloria, had been born in the same year as Elizabeth’s daughter Laurel, and from an early age had spent his summers at Full Circle Farm. After graduating from college, he had come to Elizabeth and asked to learn the ins and outs of her work—growing and selling herbs and flowers. Ben had quickly become a valuable asset to the farm and Elizabeth had made him a partner in the business.

And now he’s leaving. Just when I’d started depending on him. Just when…But he said it wouldn’t be for long. I don’t know…this thing…this romantic entanglement may have hit him harder than I know. Oh, Ben…

She tidied up the worktable, moving mechanically: putting the unused flowers back in their baskets, returning the wire, the pruning shears, and various implements to the proper places, bringing a semblance of order to the chaos of the crowded workshop. The familiar spicy-sweet smell of the dried herbs interwoven with the new-mown hay aroma of dried grasses and flowers filled her nose. The baskets of dried flowers were a muted rainbow, a soft symphony of color. Poignant melancholy swept over her as she surveyed the rich harvest of her summer’s labor.
Everlastings. They call dried flowers everlastings. But, in point of fact, they’re only good for about a year. Then they fade and get dusty and covered with cobwebs. And you toss them out.

Her spirits lifted as she ate her lunch—a quick bowl of ramen with dried shiitake slivers, cut-up green onions, a bright red blob of fiery
Sriracha
sauce, and an egg poached gently in the broth. Her silver spoon broke into the bright yolk nested in the soft white noodles, and she paused to enjoy the picture the vivid colors made in the cobalt blue bowl—
a picture of domestic comfort, like those old Dutch paintings.
She smiled to find herself so cheered—
and by a twenty-cent pack of noodles too. Am I a cheap date or what?

As she washed the few dishes, the sight of yellow leaves whirling against the clear blue sky beyond the kitchen window called to her.
Maybe a walk before I go back to the shop—I could stand to get away myself.

Lacing up her boots, Elizabeth looked around for the dogs. They were usually frantic with joy at the prospect of a walk into the woods, but at the moment they were nowhere to be seen. Off on their own adventures, no doubt.

“Alone, alone, all all alone!” She declaimed Coleridge’s melodramatic lament in a mock-lugubrious tone and found that she was smiling again as she walked toward the grassy track at the top of the pasture. In the shade by her toolshed, she paused to check the stack of oak logs that Ben had inoculated with mushroom spawn. A lone shiitake the size of a silver dollar, its chestnut cap edged with tiny mocha dots, protruded from an upper log.

Nearby, a shaft of sunlight through the trees illuminated an unruly patch of hardy begonias, shining through the intricate tracery of the red-veined leaves and setting alight the delicately pinky-tan winged seedpods that dangled from slender red stems like inverted candelabra.

Beneath the trees a carpet of fallen leaves covered the still-green grass and made a satisfying crackle as she shuffled through them. Not much color yet—the occasional scarlet and some gold amid lots of brown. The earthy smell of leaf mold was pleasant and she inhaled deeply.
To every thing there is a season.
The words ran through her head as she pushed open the metal gate and stepped into the sunshine of the pasture.

The vista here always took her breath. At the house, the view from the porch had, year by year, become more limited as the trees below grew taller. Someday she would have them cut down, Elizabeth thought, and restore the view to what it had been when she and Sam first came to the farm. It was beautiful, even with the trees blocking the view, and the far peaks of the Blue Ridge were still visible in places, but sooner or later, steps would have to be taken.

She set out across the path that ran into the woods. The wild flowers of autumn, starry lavender asters, deep purple ironweed, and bright goldenrod dotted the mountainside above and below her. At the edge of the woods, where there was more moisture, a patch of deep blue-violet lobelia pooled at the foot of a tall persimmon tree.

Stopping to drink in the view, Elizabeth sat on a rustic bench, one of four Sam had set along this walk. The locust logs that supported the broad oak plank were showing signs of decay and the seat was slightly wobbly.
More change. But you can’t make time stand still.
She pivoted to look up the hill, up to the southern ridge that separated Full Circle Farm from Mullmore—the one-time home of the Mullins family. The slope was thick with black pines, and the sound of the wind through them was a melancholy moan.
“Soughing”—that’s what the wind is doing. What a great word—like “wuthering.”

She stood and looked at the ridge, considering. The ghost of a trail curled up the slope and disappeared into the pines.
That must be the route that Rosie and Maythorn used. Rosie took Sam and me and Laurel along it, that time we went to Krystalle’s big birthday party—that awful party. That would have been ’85, the year before Maythorn disappeared.

The path was still recognizable—probably part of the dogs’ vast network of appointed rounds—and Elizabeth studied it, appraising the possibilities.
It was so beautiful and manicured over there…all that professional landscaping…the rose garden…and it’s been almost twenty years since anyone’s lived there. I wonder what’s left.

She thought about her unfinished wreaths down in the workshop, but the faint trail was too enticing. She started up the slope. Behind her the wind riffled the poplar trees, twirling the leaves with a thousand brittle rustlings to sparkle gold and green in the sun. Higher up, the pines grew close and dark, their long shadows thrusting toward her, but beyond them there was sunlight.

She paused to look back at Full Circle Farm. A hawk was circling high over the fields below and she saw the flash of his pale belly and then the copper gleam of his broad tail. He circled once more, then set his wings and soared south in her direction, crowning the ridge and dropping down into the hidden cove that had been Mullmore.

Elizabeth climbed steadily toward the ridge, carefully pushing aside the pine branches when their prickly fingers brushed her face. Here the trees grew so close that most of the usual clutter of multiflora rose and black-berry bramble had not been able to gain a foothold. Her boots trod noiselessly on the soft duff of pine needles and she was soon at the top, at her line fence.