Chapter 8 Harper #2
Her memories flooded back as they wound through the treed hills and onto a red covered bridge, barely wide enough for Brett’s car.
They must be near the Suttons’ house, because she remembered walking to this river with Brett and a few neighbor friends, all of them masquerading as the musketeers or Davy Crockett’s frontiersmen.
They would create stories together, mysteries to solve, battles to fight. And they would stand on the wooden planks of this covered bridge like it was their fortress. Depending on the day, the fishermen below trying to catch rainbow trout were either friend or foe.
“Do you remember playing here?” he asked.
She lifted an invisible sword in her hand. “All for one and one for all.”
“Ready to defend our territory at any cost,” he said as their wheels rumbled across the wooden planks.
“With cardboard swords, wrapped in foil.”
He laughed. “We were fierce, weren’t we?”
“I’m sure we terrified everyone trying to fish.”
“At least we scared all the fish away.”
Those were the best of memories. She’d loved spending time outside with her cousin and his friends, so different from her apartment at the time in Van Nuys.
On her last trip to Catawba, when she was maybe nine or ten and Brett was off being a teenager, she’d explored a little on her own.
Somewhere near this bridge, she’d followed the creek upstream and found a small lake tucked into the trees.
Or, at least, that’s what she remembered in that cloudy film from childhood.
She’d dreamed of that magical place over the years. The beauty and peace of it along with something more intangible. This sense that she’d had of stepping into something new.
Her aloneness that afternoon long ago created a new sense of wonder. Like the enchanted Lake of Shining Waters that Anne of Green Gables discovered near Avonlea, all shimmering and silver. A portal back into the wonderings of childhood.
If the lake had been real, was it still hidden someplace in these trees?
The car quieted again as their wheels rolled onto pavement. “Is that what you wanted to show me?” she asked.
He shook his head. “We’re almost there.”
Turning away from the creek, they drove several more miles until he pulled the car off the road near an old barn, the stone portions bleached by sun. “Here it is.”
Harper eyed three wooden buildings that extended behind the main barn like a blocky centipede, the shutters of each barn extension painted a different color. The Book Barn, according to the sign, opened in 1910.
“Everyone around here just calls it the barn, but you’ll find plenty of good reading on their rambling shelves.”
“Are they used books?”
“Some of them are practically ancient,” Brett said. “You’ll get lost the first time you visit with the narrow halls and an attic with endless nooks and crannies.”
“Sounds like a place that I’d like to get lost.”
“The staff should be able to tell you more about Via Belle.” Brett’s phone buzzed, and he glanced at a text. “I need to head back to Philly soon.”
“Then I’m ready to meet Boss Man.”
The Sutton home was a two-story Italianate with a sunroom on one side and formidable steps leading to an arched front door, the height of which had scared her as a child. The combination of a gabled roof, dual chimneys, and bay window nodded firmly to its past life.
Brett unlocked the front door then handed her the key. “Welcome home.”
Home.
The entryway smelled like peppers and oregano. “Is someone making dinner?”
“Ingrid Lamb must have left you a meal.” Brett scooted past her, and she followed him into the kitchen to find a crockpot warming some sort of stew.
“Do I know Ingrid?”
“You probably met her when we were younger. We called her Mrs. Lamb back then.”
She had a faint recollection of the name, but it may be purely the power of his suggestion.
“I’ll leave Ingrid’s phone number with you,” he continued. “She said to call if you had any questions.”
“You must be Boss Man.” Harper knelt beside a black-and-white cat who looked like he’d been rolling in mud. He tilted his head but didn’t respond to her outstretched hand. “I think we’re going to become the best of friends.”
“Right.” Brett gave her a tour of the main floor and then two guest rooms above. “I hope one of these will work for you.”
“It’s wonderful.” If he wasn’t in a rush to head out, she’d tell him about her shack beside Evan’s house. These rooms on the second floor, with their poster beds and shared bath, seemed like paradise.
“And the last thing.” Brett handed her a small envelope, and she glanced inside at the stack of bills.
“What’s this for?”
“Spending money.”
She pushed it back. “I don’t need money.”
“Please take it, Harper. My parents have been paying a neighbor to care for the cat, but they’d much rather have you here.”
And how could she argue with that, especially when she really could use the money until she found another job.
“I’m quite sure that Mom will contact you soon.”
She checked her phone and saw two messages. “I’ll call her now.”
“Eat first,” Brett said. “And text me if you need anything. I’m just a couple hours away.”
“Thank you.”
Quiet was her first thought as she helped herself to the hearty stew.
No airplane noise from this morning or Cantor-house drama or the pounding of waves.
After she talked to Marcia, assuring her that all was well, she texted with Kelsey until the Cantor family jet whisked her friend off to the Maldives.
Even though the outside air was warm, Harper opened her bedroom window and dug Lavender Ridge out of her carry-on, resuming her reading in the lamplight. And as she read, she pretended her mom was right beside her.
While the dialogue was outdated, the descriptions long, she was intrigued by the heroine. A woman about Harper’s age, named Verity Chessington, who faced one hard knock after another as she tried to recover from the loss of her parents.
But Verity was a good girl. Devout in her faith and her hope for mankind. Verity didn’t know it at this stage of the story, but Harper remembered the twist near the end. She was the heiress of a fortune, and her uncle had sent her west so he could claim Verity’s inheritance as his own.
Even though Verity had been tricked into working at a laundry in a small mining town, somewhere in the mountains of Colorado, a man she’d met on the train—the hero—was looking for her.
Which was good because another man, a former employee of Verity’s uncle, was also searching the mountain towns.
He intended to take her by flattery or force, whichever was most effective, in order to claim her fortune.
A train blew its horn nearby, rattling the tracks, and when it started to rain, Harper closed the window.
While Boss Man didn’t join her on the bed, he watched Harper like a prison warden from the window ledge.
Rain pounded on the glass and then a roll of thunder, wind shaking the tree limbs outside, dropping branches on the roof.
An eerie dance captured in the flash of lightning.
She was definitely not in California anymore.
Harper read Verity’s story until the words started to blur, her eyes rebelling no matter how hard she tried to stay awake. In the dark cloud of her mind, she could almost see the town’s rocky cliffs. Smell the greasy lye soap and burning coal. Hear the whistle of a distant train.
And she could feel the deep tug on her heart when the owner of the local mine took Verity under his wing, protecting her in the sweetest of romances. Unrealistic, maybe, but a girl could dream about a man willing to risk everything for the woman he loved. A man who still believed in romance.
As Harper began to drift off, a new question prodded at her.
If Via Belle were still alive today, what kind of story would she tell?