I squeezed Ellen in a one-armed hug and smiled. “Ms. Cheatham, if you haven’t already guessed, this is my daughter, Ellen.”
She focused on Ellen, and her eyes were kind. “Well, I’m old, no doubt about that, but I didn’t move here until a while after George died, so I couldn’t have known your papa, sweetie. Call me Mamie, please.” She smoothed her collar. “I remember meeting you at your great-grandmother’s funeral. What a beautiful little girl you were, and now such a lovely young lady. I’m a cousin of the Bridgers through George’s wife, Belinda. I hope you’ll come visit me sometime. I miss having young people around.”
She turned back to me. “I knew someone was here because the butterflies took wing. Magnificent, aren’t they? My cousin Belinda planted all those butterfly-friendly bushes around the property when she came here as a young bride.” She laughed. “Funny to think of butterflies as an alarm system, isn’t it?”
“It was beautiful seeing them fly around like that,” Ellen said.
“Oh, just you wait until July and August. They’ll be thick like crazy. In fact, you put me in mind of her. Belinda, that is. Those dark eyes of yours and your hair. My cousin Belinda had that beautiful glossy dark hair.” She continued. “Well anyway, I was about to drive into town. A Ladies Circle meeting at church, you know. Would you like to ride along? Or if you’ve a mind to visit, I can miss this one. Freda can catch me up later.”
Stay for a visit? Not a chance.
Belinda, indeed. Dark eyes. Dark hair. It angered me, as if Mamie Cheatham was trying to assert some kind of claim based on hair color . . . My reaction was crazy. I was crazy. Not crazy, but I was guilty. I took a deep breath, trying to rein in my madness before I lost it on this poor woman. She looked so hopeful that I smiled, but regretfully, hoping my true feelings weren’t obvious.
“We need to be getting back home. Ellen wanted to climb the ridge, but the afternoon is moving on, and, of course, Ellen has school tomorrow.”
“I understand. Do come by sometime. I’m usually here.”
Ms. Cheatham walked back between the fields to the house where her car was parked. Ellen and I moved back into the shade of the trees, but Ellen touched my arm, and I stopped.
“What?”
She had a funny, mischievous look on her face. I couldn’t help myself. I responded with my own smile, curious.
The sounds of the car diminished.
“I want to see,” she said.
“See?”
“The house.”
My smile vanished. “I don’t understand.” I bit my lip rather than continue and perhaps drive the wrong questions.
“I want to see. Not do any harm. I heard about the Bridger house growing up. We’re here now. Why not?”
“A quick look outside. I don’t want to risk her coming back or someone else at the house seeing us and being embarrassed.”
“Us or them being embarrassed?”
“Both or either.”
“Just a quick look. I promise. I remember hearing about the stained glass window. One of the kids at school . . .”
Her voice trailed off as I followed her, trying to keep up. She wasn’t running, but my legs felt especially heavy, and my feet dragged.
She stopped at the end of the field. The driveway was maybe twenty feet away, and beyond that was the house. My knees felt weak. It looked much the same, and yet different—better. Clearly Mamie had taken her caretaker responsibilities seriously.
The porch had been reinforced and hardly sagged at all. Instead of cartons and junk, there was a nice bench, chair, and table where George Bridger used to idle while he drank and spit. I imagined Mamie was more genteel in her porch-sitting habits.
“Look at it, Mom.” Ellen was staring upward.
I observed her as she looked at the house and the window. Uneasiness stirred in me. If she’d ever seen the house from this view, she’d surely been too young to remember. But from the inside? That was more likely. She seemed fascinated.
The stained glass window was beautiful and perfect. When I’d seen it years ago, it must have been covered with a film of dirt that had diminished its quality—plus I’d had other things on my mind at the time. I moved forward and stood beside my daughter.
“Butterflies,” she whispered. “Everywhere I go, I seem to run into butterflies. Are those monarchs?”
“I imagine so. Those are pretty common, right? And orange. Ms. Cheatham mentioned the bushes that attract butterflies. I guess the original Bridger who built the house commissioned the window. Belinda carried that further and planted the bushes. She must’ve been a real butterfly fan.”
“It looks familiar.”
My heart jumped. “Maybe you saw a picture or something.”
“Did you bring me here? Maybe when I was very little?” She frowned slightly.
“Here? I don’t think so.”
Her frown changed swiftly to a smile. “I’d love to see it from inside.”
“We’ll come back one day and ask.” The words seemed safe enough to say, since she’d be leaving for college in a few months. The passions and interests of teenagers could come and go in a flash. She’d forget.
“It’s time to go home.”
She put her arm through mine, and we walked to the ridge. There, we stopped. Or rather, she stopped, and I stopped with her.
“What’s wrong now?”
She shook her head. “Nothing’s wrong. It hit me that standing here, looking down the hillside and at the land below, at the tops of the trees . . .” She looked at me. “That’s Cooper land. Cooper’s Hollow—where we come from.” She surveyed the slope and nodded. “I wasn’t sure before, about you moving back out here to the woods. I didn’t understand. Now I’m thinking it’s a good thing. I don’t know why, but it feels right. Like it was bound to happen.”
“Like fate?”
“Or maybe destiny?”
“What do you know about destiny?” I teased.
“Only that we’re supposedly shaping ours by studying hard and getting good grades and making good choices. That’s what my English teacher says.” Ellen laughed and began the descent.
“Watch your step,” I reminded her.
Ellen chattered about butterflies as we negotiated our way back down the path to the Hollow. She walked with the grace of youth. I watched my own footing more carefully.
I loved the sound of her voice, its rise and fall, as much as I loved her smile and the brightness in her eyes when she was excited about something—even the down times, I loved them, too—and the sparkle of tears on her lashes when something moved her to compassion, though seeing her cry wrenched my heart.
After we were back home and Ellen was in her room working on her school paper, I sat on the back deck watching the night bugs trying to become one with the outdoor light and the fireflies played hide-and-seek among the branches of the fir trees.