The Maxwells were in residence only a few times a year. The rest of the time the land was worked by hired hands and groundskeepers, making sure it was always ready for the city folk. As time passed, most of the land went fallow, the fields were retaken by the woods, and the house was shuttered for years at a time. I suppose the Maxwells had found other places to “get away” to.
The home and barns fell into disrepair, and the property became a lonely estate on the edge of town. In the 1970s, the new Mrs. Maxwell became interested in the history of the family she’d married into and began a restoration of the house. No one ever lived there for any length of time, but tours were given on special occasions, and my own fourth-grade class trotted up there on a field trip to marvel over the views and the house and the grandeur.
I saw all that land not being used, all those barns not filled with livestock, a cold stone house filled with flowers but no other form of life, and always felt it was a waste.
“Well, I’m glad to see it’s going to good use now,” I said.
“Agreed.”
“And Leo is the guy that delivers all the produce? Well, that’s great. Just great.”
“Agreed.”
“Do they have a stand at the farmers’ market?”
“They do.”
“Well, maybe I’ll check it out. It’s still on Saturdays, right?”
“Mmm-hmm.”
“Might be a good idea to see what they’ve got in season, for the diner.”
“Agreed.” My mother sipped her coffee, a dreamy look on her face. Must be thinking about her amazing race.
“Let’s go home,” I said. “You can make me some of your vegetable soup, and then I’m going to bed as soon as the sun sets.” I dragged myself out of the booth and grabbed my bag. My jeans literally creaked as I walked, stiff with dried potato and snap pea water, reminding me of the tumble I’d taken with the cutest farmer this side of Little House on the Prairie.
“Why are your jeans creaking?” my mother asked.
Nothing, and I repeat nothing, gets by her. Except final due notices from the electric company. And property taxes. And renewing her driver’s license. But walk in the kitchen and find your daughter spread-eagled on the floor with some random guy’s face in her lap, while nuts and sugar snap peas skate around? She won’t miss that. Or the subsequent jean creak.
“It’s nothing. Let’s go home.”
I’m assuming she also didn’t miss my blush.
I drove in my car, my mother drove hers, and despite my exhaustion, I used the few minutes of quiet (quiet! I’d almost forgotten what it sounded like, after the diner chaos) to take stock. Some things in town had clearly changed since I was home, and I tried to really see it.
It was beautiful, actually. Drive through Bailey Falls pretty much any time of the year and you’ll convince yourself that there’s not a prettier town on the planet. Autumn in upstate New York? Forget it. The flames of orange and yellow and red that raced through the forest and turned everything into a blanket of crispy, crunchy, kicky leaves—there’s nothing like it. Except maybe the winter. When the snow piles for miles, and everything takes on a hushed quality, all stars and silver and moonlight. Then again, spring was pretty extraordinary, when the apple blossoms pillowed out, and the air was soft and warm and filled with that gorgeous growing green scent. Yeah, plenty going for it in the scenery department.
So why was I always so reluctant to go home, and why was I so adamant about making sure my mom knew this was temporary? It wasn’t to be hurtful . . .