Throughout the months of August and September I’d fallen asleep to visions of the cottage’s sunny rooms and secluded rear garden. I couldn’t wait to hang family pictures on the walls and dig up the previous owner’s spent annuals to plant row after row of perennials that would burst through the ground the following spring. My head was filled with images of Van Gogh’s irises and sunflowers, O’Keefe’s poppies and lilies, and a riot of Manet’s roses, and I planned to transform my back yard into an impressionist painting.
As for the interior, I wanted to decorate using a combination of furniture from my old place as well as some new pieces in bright, cheerful hues. Unfortunately, I’d have to sell a few more of my clients’ books to major publishing houses before I could afford to head over to High Point to pick out comfy living room chairs or a farm table for the kitchen. Up until now, I’d only sold two book series. One was a cozy mystery featuring a sushi chef and the second was a romantic suspense set in a Scottish castle. And I couldn’t really take credit for the sale of the romantic suspense. That deal was already in the works when I was promoted to literary agent.
At the storage unit in Dunston, I pulled out boxes of clothes and milk crates stuffed with books for the boys to load into their truck. As I worked, my thoughts focused on another client I’d inherited from the previous agent. I still couldn’t believe that I now represented the international bestselling romance author Calliope Sinclair. If I could just convince her to make some changes to her latest manuscript, I felt certain that several publishing houses would enter into a bidding war to acquire the latest masterpiece from one of America’s best-known authors.
“Stop gatherin’ wool, girl!” My mother’s voice startled me out of my reminiscing. “You’re standin’ in the middle of the path and this box isn’t gettin’ any lighter. What’ve you got in here? Cannonballs from the Civil War?”
Putting my own box on the ground, I rushed forward to take my mother’s burden and set it on the bed of her turquoise pickup truck. I added the last box and then shut the tailgate, causing the magnetic sign plastered to the side of the truck to fall askew. I realigned the purple and black sign advertising the services of Amazing Althea, Psychic Advisor. “Sorry,” I told Amazing Althea. “I was thinking about work again.”
“This is work. Good work. The kind that gets you out in the open air and invites the sun’s rays to paint your face. Before long, it’ll be winter and we’ll all be starvin’ for this feelin’.” My mother held out her free arms as though she could embrace the whole world. “I always feel like a kid durin’ the fall. This is gonna be the best Halloween ever! I am gonna decorate the front door and scare the masks right off the kids who toilet papered my holly bushes last year. They won’t come near my place totin’ rolls of Charmin ever again.”
I waited until we were both inside the truck before saying, “Is that an official prediction?”
My mother swatted me with the paperwork from the storage facility. “I don’t read the cards for somethin’ like that. I’ve gotta save my spiritual energy for when someone needs me, and my appointment calendar is as stuffed as a Christmas goose.”
We chatted about her clients as I maneuvered the winding roads leading to Inspiration Valley, Trey following right behind me in his pickup truck. The town sat in a circle of low mountains like a teacup in a saucer and I never grew tired of the view. After that last sweeping curve, the town suddenly became visible through my driver’s side window—an oasis of tree-lined streets and beautifully designed houses and storefronts. There were no concrete boxes in Inspiration Valley. Nearly every home boasted a garden, and the business district was lush with public green spaces.
Making my careful descent, I was struck anew by its charm. An army of multicolored trees surrounded the town, standing guard over the bookstore, garden center, organic grocery, restaurants, art studios, and tidy subdivisions like timeless sentinels. Today, the foliage show was magnificent. Corn yellow, pumpkin orange, and spiced cranberry leaves encouraged rich and aromatic fantasies about the first meal I’d cook in my new house.
By the time we’d unloaded all the boxes and I’d arranged my pots, pans, dishes, and utensils in the green and ivory kitchen, however, I was too tired to do anything but order takeout.
“What would you boys like to eat?” I asked Trey and his friends.
“Everything!” Trey answered wearily, putting his feet up on my coffee table.
I knocked them off with the sweep of one hand and held out the menu for Godfather’s Pizza with the other. “Your wish is my command, gentlemen.”
The three young men suddenly shucked off their fatigue and began to argue over the merits of pies made of sausage and mushroom, ham and pineapple, quattro formaggio, pepperoni, or spinach and feta. Before they could get too fired up, I promised to have all five delivered to my new house.
After the pizza arrived, my mother and I set the table and put a pitcher of iced tea and a pile of extra napkins in the center and then called the boys into the kitchen.
“Thank you so much!” I told them, feeling my heart swell at the sight of my family gathered around my table.
Trey raised his glass of iced tea. “To making new memories!”