We chatted about her clients as I maneuvered the winding roads leading to Inspiration Valley, with Trey and the guys 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, storefronts, and buildings. 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 like timeless sentinels over the bookstore, garden center, organic grocery, restaurants, art studios, and tidy subdivisions. 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.
Not for the first time, I sent up a grateful prayer of appreciation for the circumstances that brought me here. When I was handed a pink slip last spring from my job as a Features reporter for the Dunston Herald, it had originally seemed a setback. There I was, a forty-five-year-old single mother with a college-bound son, having to start a new career. However, being fired had spelled not only the beginning of an exciting and unique career path, but an opportunity to make my home in this delightful town.
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, I was too tired to do anything but order takeout, and the meal I had envisioned en route to the house vanished.
“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 formaggi, 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 pizzas 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!”
His two friends shouted a hearty “hear, hear” and then dug into their food.
Trey devoured the pizza with such gusto that I couldn’t help but wonder if my son was getting enough to eat living in the self-sustained community he’d joined in June. Although I’d had my reservations at the time, I had to admit that the Red Fox Co-op had done Trey a great deal of good. He was stronger, more independent, and treated his elders with respect. He’d gained a quiet confidence and was willing to throw himself into hours of demanding physical labor. Yet at the same time, he was missing out on a college education.
In early August, Trey had received a letter from UNC Wilmington containing a welcome packet and the name and contact information of his future roommate. Several weeks later, when my son should have been attending his first class as a college freshman, he was grooming the co-op’s herd of goats and preparing for a trip to Dunston to sell goat products to a selection of natural food stores and chic boutiques.
I had called the school and managed to defer Trey’s admission until January, but I feared he’d refuse to attend then as well. From the beginning, I’d assumed his interest in the rustic, rather primeval way of life on Red Fox Mountain was a passing phase. It seemed that his enthusiasm had been compounded upon meeting the lovely and ethereal Iris Gyles, the co-op leader’s younger sister.
Autumn in North Carolina is a gentle season, but I was worried about Trey spending a cold winter up on the mountain. The members of the co-op stayed warm with the help of woolen clothing and potbellied stoves. However, if our area received more than a dusting of snow or a freezing rain, the dirt road leading to the mountaintop community would be impassable. I hated the idea of my son being cut off from electricity, medical care, and me. I was ready for him to resume the life of an average American teenager, and was terrified that he would never do so.
Pushing these irksome concerns aside, I focused on one last task before a dessert of raspberry sorbet. I had picked up a fabulous mirror at Dunston’s largest consignment shop and was given an enormous discount by the owner. When I was still an intern, I’d passed along her query letter on decorating with vintage objects to Franklin Stafford, the agent representing nonfiction books. He had found her idea compelling and later signed her as a client. As a result, the oval mirror, set in a wood frame embellished with carved flowers and small birds, didn’t cost me much more than tonight’s pizza order.
Trey had drilled a hole and secured a wall anchor right inside the cottage’s front door, and I was just about to lift the mirror onto the hook when my mother entered the hallway.