Chapter 7
Elinor, this eldest daughter . . . possessed a strength of understanding, and coolness of judgment which qualified her . . . to be the counsellor of her mother. —Sense and Sensibility
Edward
Elinor blushes a delightful shade of pink in response to my admission.
Her eyes sparkle with surprised pleasure—and a dash of skepticism.
Not much gets past this woman. I wonder if she suspects the changes coming to Norland Park.
Before I leave tomorrow, I need to tell her that my mother intends to sell the place and that I’m on the team planning to turn it into a luxury resort.
I doubt she’ll be smiling at me then. After that, I’ve got to tell her that I’m her new landlord.
Just one night, I tell myself. Let me have one night reconnecting with old friends, free from the depressing taint of business.
Besides, I need to see more of this cottage and the land it sits on in order to come up with a way to save it while still achieving my company’s vision for the new Norland Park.
“We’d better hurry. Mom’s fried chicken is best hot.” Elinor opens the screen door and walks in ahead of me. I pause on the threshold, feeling a little like a wolf in sheep’s clothing.
“Are you certain it’s okay for me to stay here?” I ask.
“Yes, of course,” she waves me in. “My mom’s thrilled about having a house guest.”
“If you say so. It was kind of a jerk move demanding rooms on such short notice.”
“That may be,” she throws me a shrewd look, “but I’m guessing you weren’t the one who made the reservation.” True enough.
“I will neither confirm nor deny your suspicions,” I say as I step into Bumble Cottage, which smells of fresh baked bread, old books, and wildflowers.
Piles of books and bouquets of flowers bedeck every horizontal surface, including the top of the old upright piano.
The entire back wall of the room is bookshelves organized in a beautiful, crowded chaos.
Comic books squeeze in between leatherbound classics.
A pile of sheet music rests on a shelf of picture books.
A bust of Beethoven sits next to a stuffed Eeyore.
The two probably understand each other. An old seaman’s trunk used as a coffee table anchors the room, surrounded by an inviting arrangement of a worn-in sofa, vintage love seat, and overstuffed armchairs.
Driftwood, sea shells, pretty rocks, and small water colors adorn the shelves.
Pink and yellow bunting hang from the corner windows, adding a festive air.
The snug room feels cozy and welcoming, and I find myself falling under the spell of Bumble Cottage.
I want to peruse the titles of the books and study the family photos.
I’d like to fill in the gaps between the Ellie I remember from childhood, and Elinor, the elegant woman beckoning me up the staircase at the far end of the room.
Lucky for me, the wall along the stairs has more family photos. As I take my time heading upstairs, I notice whimsical wildflowers painted on the risers.
“Did you paint the stairs?” I ask.
“Yes—I mean, I helped my mom. We should really repaint them, but there never seems to be enough time.”
“Don’t. I like them.”
“But you also thought my painting was good.”
“Are you insinuating I have bad taste?”
“I would never. Based on your wardrobe, it’s obvious you have excellent taste.
But you could be lying to protect my feelings.
” I’m taken back by how well she reads me.
I really do find the flowers on the stairs charming, but she’s right.
I frequently resort to a well-placed white lie (or even a gray one) to keep the peace.
A photo on the stairwell wall catches my attention. It’s Ellie as a girl in a green swimsuit with long dark braids standing on a rock by the ocean. “That’s exactly how I remember you.”
“You have a better memory than I do.” She pauses a couple steps ahead of me, “For the life of me, I cannot picture your face beyond your curly blond hair. It was too long ago, and my memories are all jumbled with the stories we told ourselves about you.” She steps down a stair to stand next to me.
“Are you saying I was a legend in your mind?” I intend the comment as a joke. But Elinor answers seriously.
“Yeah, it’s really weird to think you and The Boy are the same person.”
“You don’t look like the girl in this photo anymore.
But you do still make that expression.” Young Elinor watches the horizon with this far off look.
“You had a similar look when you were painting on the trail.” I remember how she stared out at the cliffs and the water with such attention, as if she could see hidden beauties beyond my sight.
I can’t help but think that if I spend more time with her, I might begin to see them too.
She studies the photo for a minute. “Funny you should say that. I was such a dreamer back then. But my dad got sick . . . and I grew up.” She shifts her head slightly from the picture to me. “I didn’t think any of that girl was left.”
Standing on the staircase a step above me, we are face-to-face, only inches apart. Her words move me in a way I can’t explain. Her expression is so sweet and wistful and her lips so very close.
It’s not that I want to kiss her . . .
Okay, I don’t not want to kiss her. I swallow and look away, hoping she didn’t notice me staring at her lips. By the time I look back she has almost reached the landing.
“This is your room,” Elinor opens the first door on the left. As I walk past her into the tidy room with dusky blue walls, she expertly averts her eyes from me. I take that as a yes—she definitely noticed my lip staring.
A mason jar with wildflowers sits on the antique nightstand. A colorful patched quilt covers the queen bed.
“Your mother’s?” I point to the painting of the sun dipping into the ocean above the headboard. The colors aren’t exactly what you find in a sunset, but they feel emotionally true. The brushstrokes are bold and full of texture.
“Yes.”
“Nice, but I like my E. Greenwood better.”
“You don’t honestly have it on your wall?”
“I do.”
Elinor opens her mouth as if to say something and then closes it. She walks to the window and pulls back the lace curtains.
I step next to her. We’re facing the same direction as the porch, but since we’re higher up, the view is even better. We can see more of the undulating coastline, the cliffs blushing in the sunset.
“The view’s not bad,” she says.
“Not bad at all.” I chuckle. “My friends and family tease me about my love for understatement, but you might have me beat.”
“My dad used to say, ‘With Ellie everything is understatement, and with Annie everything’s hyperbole.’”
“Look at you with your fancy SAT words,” I quip.
“I figured you could handle it with your Ivy league education,” she shoots back.
“How did you know I went to an Ivy League school?”
“Same way I knew the Ferrari belonged to you. I excel at the educated guess.”
“I bet you got excellent SAT scores and got into some very good schools.”
“I did,” she says.
“So where did you go?”
“Nowhere. My dad was dying. I took over his job managing the park. If I quit, our family would have to leave.”
“Oh . . . I didn’t realize.” I think of my months of college tours, the college admission consultant my mom hired to ensure I had the best applications, and the woman she brought in to help with my essays.
All while Elinor was working to support her family.
“That’s just so unfair. I’m sorry.” She leaves the window and sits down on the bed, giving me a half smile.
“It is what it is. I was happy to do my part. And your grandpa was really nice about it. When I proved my worth after a couple of years, he offered to pay for my schooling. But I already knew how to run the park, and Annie had just been accepted to UC Santa Barbara, so I asked if the money could go towards her tuition.”
“That’s even more unfair. Didn’t you say she’s a poet? You would have studied something more practical.”
“I did. I got an online degree in accounting—which your grandfather also paid for. All in all, I consider myself extremely fortunate. You don’t need to feel sorry for me, Mr. Frechette. I have a good life.” She hops off the bed and crosses back to the window.
“I know. Sorry. I just . . . I think I’m mainly struck by how hard you’ve worked and how easy I’ve had it compared to you. But also—poetry?”
“It would be nice if she contributed a little more financially. But I wanted Annie to have the chances I didn’t have.
” She gazes out the window, a hand resting on the window frame.
“Originally, I wanted to study art in school. My dad’s death ended so many dreams. I wanted Annie to keep hers.
” Her face glows in the lowering sun. Right now, I’m feeling very good about my irrational decision to tell her that we won’t be kicking her out of Bumble Cottage. This woman deserves every good thing.
***
I have never tasted better fried chicken than Maggie Greenwood’s. The chicken is tender and juicy, the coating crisp and flavorful. I devour two pieces—along with a generous serving of mashed potatoes, plus a garden salad with tomatoes that taste like sunlight.
Somehow during dinner I let it slip that Elinor and I met last fall
“Really?” Annie snatches this tidbit with the same eagerness I apply to my third piece of chicken. “This is the cute guy you met on the trail?” She says with a mischievous grin. “Edward, you should know, she really regretted saying no to you.”
Elinor scowls at her sister, then mouths. “Stop it.” I stifle a laugh as I take another pillowy roll from the basket and smother it with the homemade honey butter.
“I love honey butter,” I say before taking a generous bite.
“Elinor takes care of the bees,” Mrs. Greenwood says pointedly.
The whole meal she and Annie have been giving me the hard sell on Elinor Greenwood.
I don’t mind—I’m already sold. And I’m eager to know everything about her.
I like knowing that she made that cross-stitch on the wall for her mom.
That she fixed the dishwasher all on her own last week, and that one of her paintings got a blue ribbon at the county fair.
But Elinor appears uncomfortable with all this pointed praise.
So I do my best to take some of the focus off her.
“I understand you’re also an artist,” I say to Mrs. Greenwood. “I saw a cool painting of yours in the guest room.”
“That’s one of my favorites.” She looks pleased.
“My mother is an avid art collector,” I begin.
“I know. She used to be one of my best patrons. As was your grandfather. He commissioned me to paint a portrait of my mother-in-law. That might be my best painting.”
“I know that one!” I say. “He kept it in his office. I always wondered what wives four and five thought of it.”
“Reginald was shameless,” Mrs. Greenwood laughs. “I bet you miss him.” Her kind expression elicits a pang of sadness.
“Um . . . yeah . . . I do.”
“And how’s your mother doing? It’s always so hard to lose a parent, no matter how old they might be.”
“You know my mom. I think the money is some consolation.”
Mrs. Greenwood laughs knowingly, but Elinor looks at me askance. She’s right—I shouldn’t have said that, true as it might be. “Er . . . I mean . . . I think we all grieve in our own way.”
“That’s why I don’t paint anymore. I lost my muse when their father died. For a few years I was a total mess. I don’t know how we would have made it without Elinor.”
Elinor rolls her eyes as if to say, here we go again.
I give her a sympathetic smile. But I’ve given up trying to change the topic.
This is my one night to find out everything about her.
Tomorrow she might not be speaking to me.
So when she gets up to do dishes I follow her into the kitchen, and when we play Scrabble, I make sure I sit next to her.
I’ve never found it so easy to talk to or tease someone.
I’m nearly as shameless as Mrs. Greenwood and Annie.
When Elinor mentions her favorite running trail, I ask if she’ll show it to me in the morning.
The only person who doesn’t acknowledge the obvious attraction between the two of us is Elinor. When the only free spot in the living room is on the loveseat next to me, she chooses to sit on the floor. When her mom suggests she take me stargazing, she begs off.
“Annie can take him. I need to go to bed.”
“I don’t think The Boy wants to go with me,” says a not-so-subtle Annie.
Elinor turns to me with a strained smile.
“It’s been a day. I really need some rest. If you want to go stargazing, Mr. Frechette, feel free to go with my sister.
As for me, if you will all excuse me, I’m going to call it a night.
” She stands up and goes upstairs. My inclination is to follow her. But my better judgment prevails.
“Goodness Mr. Frechette,” says Annie. “You certainly got under her skin.” Mother and daughter break into laughter.
Upstairs I hear a door close. I could find Elinor’s eagerness to get away from me insulting, except I get it.
Meeting Ellie again has been sweet and surreal, and it feels almost destined.
But fate sure has a twisted sense of humor.
Could this reunion be any more complicated?
I may have promised not to kick her out of her home—but until I know how to deliver on that promise, this is not the time to start anything between us. Nothing good can come of the two of us spending more time together under a starry sky.