The house on Rose Lane had never been our true home. It was a nice enough brick ranch—an older house that needed fixing up when Mr. Browne found it for us. We were grateful to the pastor and his wife for taking care of us, but Ellen and I needed our own place again. We were accustomed to our privacy and not used to being surrounded by the energy, the noise, the needs of others. In that respect, it was probably a good learning experience for both Ellen and me—but we’d watched our home burn only days earlier, so lessons weren’t sinking in for either of us.
Mr. Browne tracked us down the morning after the fire. He helped us get back on our feet. He found us the house on Rose Lane, worked out the rental details and then the sale, and introduced us to Roger, billing him as a guy who could fix anything. Roger then helped me make the house ours, and it had turned into a lovely home. We were comfortable there, and we had each other, but it was like a long-term settling in—not intended to be permanent. At least, not permanent for me. When I thought of Ellen and me, I thought of Rose Lane. When I thought of comfort, I saw, smelled, and experienced the old house out in the Hollow.
After Spencer left, the door to reality—or to facing reality and perhaps being destroyed by it—had cracked open. It was only a hairline crack, but the strength of the truth behind it shone through that crack in a blinding jolt. It was more than a confirmation of the unraveling I’d feared last night. My breakdown in the garden unnerved me. After I pulled myself together, I grabbed my purse and set out for the Hollow. I needed to think about the future and what Ellen and I were planning, in a place where I could also find peace.
I stopped at the usual place on the driveway, not in memory of the fire but rather in awe of the changed landscape. The shed was gone. The springhouse was still there but looked different. Someone had been doing something with it. The erosion swale blocked most of the view of the creek, but the cemetery was clearly in view up the hill on the far side, and the area around it appeared untouched.
The framing work was still in progress. Somehow, I’d thought that would move faster.
No other vehicles were in sight. I was alone here, and that suited my need-perfectly. The area to the left of the driveway had been leveled to allow for parking. I pulled in and parked.
When the construction was done, would this become an orchard? Was it sunny enough? Vineyards were becoming popular in central Virginia. I could grow a few grapes . . . Or not. Maybe I’d stick with tomatoes and cucumbers.
I walked up to the house and tried to visualize the final product. This corner, nearest the drive, was where the garage began. Beyond it would be the great room with the kitchen on the back at this end. On the far end would be Ellen’s bedroom, a guest room, and a study for me. My bedroom and another guest room would be upstairs. All large, airy rooms.
Roger had cautioned me that people judge building projects by walls and roofs, that erecting the house frame was early days for a construction project and sometimes gave a false impression of progress toward completion. He’d said the majority of the work wouldn’t begin until after the walls were up, and to please be patient. I would try.
I found a spot where I could climb into the house without too much effort, and then wandered through it, the wood sub-flooring feeling like a giant stage. No wiring yet. No pipes. Windows and doors were still in the future. I exited via the low spot and walked around back.
A short distance from the house was the cabin. It was the original Cooper home before it became my pottery cabin. Someone had cleared a downed branch from the tin roof, but otherwise, it looked the same as it ever had in my memory. The glass in the small front window looked cleaner, I thought.
Had someone been messing around in there? Roger had said they’d be fixing up the cabin, but I’d told him I wanted to be here, onsite, for any work like that.
I pushed open the heavy door, then paused on the threshold, allowing my eyes to adjust to the gloom and avoid the webs, both spider webs and cobwebs, lurking to catch in one’s hair or face. The air felt clearer and fresher. I stared into the room, trying to discern what was different.
The cabin was about fifteen by twenty feet, thick logs and chinked. The fireplace hearth was at one end. At the other end was a narrow, enclosed corner stairway to the loft above. Grand had stored bushel baskets up there and old farm implements in the corners downstairs. There’d been other things stored there, too, most of which he’d moved out when he set it up for me and my pottery. In the winter leading up to Ellen’s birth, the first Ellen, I hadn’t been out here much. In those months after her birth, I hadn’t had the energy. What little clay work I did during that time was while she slept, and mostly, I worked by hand on the kitchen table where I could stay close.
After she left us, though I did some work in fits and starts, it was too hard to give it consistent effort. After Ellen found the butterfly pot, I’d fiddled with the clay a bit, teaching Ellen and entertaining Gran. I hadn’t gone back to the clay with any degree of dedication until after we’d settled into the house on Rose Lane and Ellen had started school. That’s when I rented the storefront, mostly because I didn’t have space for the pottery wheel and the kiln and the clay at the house. I’d set up the shop and thought I’d do great work with the modern facilities and lots of hours to dedicate to it, but I hadn’t. I sold a few pieces to design agencies and such and gave some lessons. Not much to show for so many years.
It would be different when I was working in the Hollow again. In this cabin, I’d make the leap to more authentic creativity. But the building needed work. The old propane lines . . . everything—it all needed overhauling and updating.
Yet someone had been working in here. Cleaning it, and what else? The old half-finished clay pieces had been arranged neatly on the shelves—and the shelves looked sturdier. I went closer, noting the similarity of the pieces. A row of small figures, almost cherublike. Little girls. Some were more finished than others, but it was a strange lineup. All the stranger because I didn’t recall doing this many. That would have been when we were grieving. I turned away.
The antique potter’s wheel was still in its corner out of the main floor space, and it appeared unharmed. Someone had cleared out the old fireplace, the hearth—both unused for decades. Before my time, at any rate. A chair was situated by the hearth. Not the same chair Gran had used. This one was in better shape and well padded.
The mantel over the old hearth, the massive mantel, had also been cleared of junk. The few glazed pieces I’d left in the cabin were lined up there.
Roger. It must’ve been Roger. He touched my heart. He often did.
I owed him much more than I could repay. He offered support and steadiness. With minimal encouragement, he would offer more. There were times when I wondered if I could accept what he offered without feeling guilt. I would be short-changing him. He deserved someone with a ready heart. That wasn’t me.
Standing there with a sigh fresh upon my lips, I heard a sound behind me.