Chapter 5
I glance at the speedometer on Prissy’s dashboard, and my blood pressure rises. “How come your car hasn’t rebuked you yet?”
This morning, we’re driving thirty minutes outside of town to look at a property. She asked me to wear jeans and keep an open mind.
I’m not sure this bodes well for me.
Prissy slides a triumphant glimpse in my direction. “I disabled the monitoring system. You can find how to do anything on YouTube.”
In spite of my giggle, I’m a little nervous. I glance at my white knuckles clutching the door handle. “How long before Derrick notices?”
“I feel sure when I immobilized it, the Bat-Signal alerted not just my husband but my insurance agent and the police departments in three surrounding counties.” Her black leather–gloved hand swirls in the air for dramatic effect.
My love-hatred of Prissy grows. No suit today. She sports a pair of age-defying jeans that imply gravity hasn’t taken a toll on her backside. She paired the dark wash with a thin red cashmere sweater. But the black-and-white woven wool poncho is what gives her the sass.
“Forty-two speeding tickets in twenty-five years of marriage,” she declares.
I laugh at the window as we pass open fields. “Prissy, no.”
“After yelling at each other about the first ten violations, we came to a truce. He installs every gadget on the market to help me stop breaking the law, but doesn’t react when I come home with a citation.
In return, I choose to view his monitoring me as an act of love instead of a violation of my privacy. ” She shrugs. “It works for us.”
I can remember a thousand incidents for which I want to apologize to my late husband. My biggest guilt comes from the energy I wasted criticizing Steve for the mundane. None of my grumbling complaints matter now.
Who cares if he wanted to wear his grandfather’s old, worn, plaid shirts?
Who cares if he didn’t cut the apples for Clayton’s lunches the “right” way?
Who cares if he missed the turn to the highway for the seventy-fifth time and we added three whole minutes to our drive time?
None of it matters today.
It shouldn’t have mattered then.
Our marriage wasn’t perfect. It was perfectly normal. Two flawed people deciding to do life together. Ten years that weren’t always easy but held a lot of wonderful times.
Steve died, and there are no regrets about where our relationship ended.
We said everything there was to say. Our goodbye is our legacy of respect for one another, the love we showed by serving each other, and the efforts we made in our purposeful parenting.
That knowledge has to be enough because I wasn’t afforded a chance to say the word “goodbye” to him.
Something that only took me a few years of therapy to believe and accept.
Elbow pressed to the window, chin resting in my palm, I watch the clouds race our car to the mountains. Steve, I know. I know it was all so stupid. I know how amazing you were. I get it.
I get it now.
I hate that I get it now.
Prissy’s talk about her speeding tickets truce is a reminder. It just doesn’t matter.
I sense Prissy’s scrutiny as she slows to turn right on a county road. “What’s going on in that pretty head of yours?”
Reaching for my purse, I weigh my words. “My brain is jumbled.”
She maneuvers the car to a stop and shifts into park. Her hair doesn’t move when she pulls off her sunglasses to reveal understanding eyes that seem to be waiting for my reply.
I angle my body toward her and plop my purse on my lap. “Steve is at the forefront of my mind today, and I can’t figure out why.”
She cocks an eyebrow. “Is it necessary to figure out why?”
“For me, yes.” I toss my hair over my shoulder and let out a frustrated sigh. “I’m not sad today, which catapults me into guilt over not feeling sad today, which catapults me into anxiety.”
She remains silent, and I shake my head. “No, that’s not it. I’m always sad he isn’t here. But today I don’t miss him.”
I sit in those uncomfortable words for a beat.
“Yes,” I murmur to myself. “That’s it. I’m sad he’s not here, but I don’t miss him, which catapults me into guilt, which catapults me into anxiety.”
Prissy clears her throat in a way that sounds almost judgmental. “Could this have something to do with a certain Hercules?”
I’m too young to know what a hot flash feels like, but I’m guessing what I’m feeling now must be similar because my face is on fire. “You’re ridiculous.”
Tap, tap, tap. Her pristine index fingernail sounds like a gavel calling our meeting to order. “Did you or did you not go to dinner with him and his friends last night?”
Wait a minute. “What? Why would you know that?”
“The Broadmoor is like a small town. The doormen gossip like girls. News travels fast.”
I blow out an unladylike breath. “Okay, fine. Yes. We ate a very benign dinner. Pizza, for goodness’ sake. There is no way some guy from Hollywood is interested in me.”
She pauses and stares, long enough for discomfort to crawl through my nerve endings. “Do you have an open mind?”
With theatrical flair, I lean forward and put my head on the dash in protest. “Prissy, I do not want to talk about Harlan Holcombe.”
“Meredith.”
Out of the corner of my eye, I see her arm pointing. I sit up straight and follow her lead until I find the target.
“Do you have an open mind?” she asks again.
Past the spot where we pulled over, a dirt road leads to a wide metal-framed entrance. High above sits a sign.
Twelve Bluebells Ranch.
I almost snicker out loud. It’s a full working ranch. What is she thinking? I am City Girl with a capital C.
She maneuvers the car to a narrow strip of gravel, heading to the open gate. “This property has unofficially been on the market a while.”
“What does that mean?” As I squint down the lane, a darting animal catches my eye. Was that a cat?
“Around here, the locals try to keep the land within the community family. But the current owners, the Carsons, are shaking things up a bit.”
“That’s nice.” I place my purse on the floorboard and lean toward the windshield.
The home in front of me demands my attention. The main building, so grand and inviting, is a gorgeous combination of logs and stone. Off to the side is a more utilitarian addition made only of logs.
“It’s nice until they become stingy about buyers.
This ranch is a bargaining chip between a few neighboring families.
The price goes up or down depending on who is interested.
” She clucks her tongue twice. “But now Twelve Bluebells is represented by a professional, and they don’t have the freedom for under-the-table talks.
Because you’re an outsider, selling becomes a little more interesting.
You’re either viewed as safe because you have no stake in the ongoing feuds, or you’re a threat because you’re an unknown. ”
Pulling my gaze from rockers on the front porch, I turn to face Prissy. “Why would I want to be in the middle of all that tension?”
She answers me with a knowing smile. What she knows, I have no idea. But she’s the expert.
As I step out of the car, my phone alerts me to a new voicemail. I peek at the screen and find I missed two calls from Stanley. Wonder what that’s about.
Glancing up to the house, I freeze. “Prissy?” I speak out of the side of my mouth. “A cow is approaching the vehicle.” I wonder if my poorly chosen tennis shoes can outrun this heifer.
Not even glancing at the beast, she glides toward the house, dirt crunching under her designer boots. “Just ignore Isabel. She won’t hurt you.”
I believe her. Prissy would take down a massive bovine with her bare hands if it threatened a possible real estate deal.
The cow must know this.
As we tour the primary residence, there’s something intangible I’m drawn to. This doesn’t make sense. Why would I move all the way out to the countryside? What would I do with all this space?
Exposed logs and stone fill the walls of the house. Old hardwood covers the floors throughout, and the countertops switch between butcher blocks and stained concrete. The deep colors and materials give a rustic vibe, but everything is updated in modest decor.
Staring at the giant deer head mounted above the fireplace, I debate the buck’s exact level of creepiness. He continues to stare at me. “Prissy, what am I going to do with a working ranch? The last time I rode a horse was two decades ago at summer camp.”
The clack of her high-heel boots announces her approach behind me. “It’s not up to me to discern what you could do with the property.”
I twist my torso, scrunching up my nose in disapproval.
“There are several options to consider,” she says.
“You could retain the hired ranch hands to run the place. They’ve worked the land for years.
If that doesn’t pan out well, you can always keep the house and a few acres but sell the surrounding estate.
Your neighbors would want first crack at the land, and it would be a quick sell. Little hassle.”
I suck in my lip and catch it between my teeth. “I guess you’ve given me something to think about.”
A proud smile crosses Prissy’s face but is quickly masked. However, her eyes still sparkle a bit.
Annoying. Annoying woman with her fabulous clothes and bizarre wisdom.
“Let’s go see the boardinghouse. Twelve rooms, four giant bathrooms, and a full functioning kitchen.”
I want to ask her what I need a lodge for, but I fear she’ll give me a frustratingly Zen answer.
However, I think there’s value to this stranger’s perspective.
Her view of me isn’t distorted by my complicated backstory, and in an odd turn of events, I trust her as more than just a fierce real estate negotiator.
As we exit the boardinghouse, a primitive wooden sign above the door grabs my attention.
I nod at the word carved across it. “Alba?”
Prissy pushes the door open and steps on the porch. “The history of the ranch.” She approaches the corner of the house and crouches down.
I follow suit and wait.
“The original settlers who claimed this area were from Spain. They were hunting for silver. Story is the husband wanted to keep moving north, but the wife insisted on putting their stakes here.”
“Why?” A fly thinks we’re friends, and I swat it away to tell it otherwise.
Prissy stands. “I think they were right here in this spot.” Her eyes search beyond, then fall on me.
“Colorado is known for its Rocky Mountain bluebells. They’re a beautiful hue of blue.
Almost purple. But the wife found twelve flowers that didn’t match the others.
White Spanish bluebells. She believed it was an omen signaling where they should settle. ”
“Twelve Bluebells Ranch.” The wind carries my whispered words away.
“Hyacinthoides hispanica. ‘Alba.’”
“What does ‘alba’ mean?”
Prissy’s baby-blue eyes laser into mine. “Dawn.”
Her response almost takes my breath away.
Dawn. Beginning.
Breaking our gaze, I stand and consider the area where the flowers once grew.
Slowly I spin, taking in each piece of the ranch.
The vast fields, the sturdy boardinghouse, the brown wood fence delineating the property line to the neighboring ranch.
In spite of my fleece jacket, chills race down my arms.
Could this be where I belong?
Prissy walks past me, heading in the direction of her car, her platform boots covering the gravel with unexplained grace. “Legend goes, the Spanish bluebells haven’t appeared here since. The following spring the field was covered only in Rocky Mountain bluebells.”
An odd sensation washes over me, and I find myself hoping I’ll be visiting next spring to witness the blue blanket of beauty.
Maybe even catch a glimpse of an inspiring white bloom.