She should be celebrating with and for her friend. Happy that she—after Evan the Great surprised her with a new wife—was able to fly far away.
Glad you escaped the bubble. Miss you terribly.
Could still send you a ticket??
Part of her wanted to say yes, she’d catch the next plane west. But she seemed to be in Catawba for a reason, beyond caring for the Sutton house. Perhaps it was to recapture the memories with her mom. Perhaps she could even dig a little deeper into her mom’s story beyond Via Belle.
Love the idea but I think I’m supposed to be right here.
Then you should stay where you belong.
Hugs from PA.
The last text lingered on the screen, refusing to push through with the lack of service. Marcia and her mom were like sisters, and Kelsey was the closest thing she had to a sister as well. Even when their lives steered them different directions, she was forever grateful for her friendship.
Water trickled down a slope on the far side of the creek, dripping into the stream. Marcia may not know of a lake near here, but the one in Harper’s memory was hidden between trees, on a similar slope.
Rolling up her jeans, she ducked under a branch and then hopped rocks like a frog across lily pads, the cool river brushing her toes. When her Tevas found the muddy bank on the other side, she skirted around the trees and traced a thread of water uphill.
Then she saw it. The lake from her dreams. Reeds clustered around its edges and trees stood guard on three sides, their uniformed branches elegant and strong. White blossoms sprinkled across the water like powdered sugar, and leaves cluttered the shore, awaiting a return flight.
If only she had a camera. She’d try to capture its essence on film. The memories that took her right back to the joy of younger days when her mom was still alive and Harper felt as if she’d never have to grow up.
A neat row of flowers grew along a pathway on this edge of the shore, their blossoms curled, the stems cleared of any weeds.
Who had been tending this place?
As a girl, the lake had been Harper’s alone. In fact, it had never occurred to her that someone could own a body of water. ButLady of the Lakeseemed a fitting title for Via Belle. She must have found a wellspring of fodder as she presided over this place.
Sitting on the grass, Harper pulled her knees to her chest like she’d done more than ten years ago, mesmerized at how her memory morphed into reality. Almost like she was supposed to be here in this time and place. Providential, according to Marcia, but for what purpose?
To discover a new dream.
Whispered words, a prompting of heart, as if God had breathed it inside her.
But what was His dream?
A turtle paddled toward a cluster of reeds, a spark of light gleaming on its shiny back, legs striped with yellow and red, splashing like it needed to stretch after weathering last night’s storm, its wake melding quickly into the surface. Wild turtles, she’d read, could live at least thirty years. If so, it was quite possible the same creature swam by the last time she’d been here.
Standing, Harper stepped slowly toward the water’s edge, not wanting to startle the animal with her intrusion. With the sun behind her, the lake still, the reflection warped Harper’s face like a fun house mirror. Ridiculous is what she looked like in its glass. Inept and confused. Like it knew, whether or not she felt ready, that she needed to grow up.
Her chest tightened at the thought, the details of adulthood overwhelming. Paying bills. Buying a car. Finding insurance on a miniscule budget. Stop dabbling with her story ideas and find a real job.
The turtle disappeared into the cluster of reeds, and she wished she could hide away too. Crawl into her shell with the notebooks and pens that gave her life. She didn’t need a turret to live in her story world.
A cloud blocked the sun, and as her reflection disappeared, she saw something metal under the surface, partially buried in silt like it had been stirred up by the storm.
Harper pushed away the sediment with a stick and retrieved the small, muddied object, rubbing away layers of mud and algae in her palm until she saw a shimmer of gold on the rectangular piece. A bracelet charm, she thought, except it had a small bar on the back. Like a fastener to slip through a buttonhole. Someone must have dropped it by accident, a long time ago judging by the grime.
She continued flaking off muck until two rows of tiny, engraved letters slowly worked into a name.
SIMON
FARROW
Was someone searching for it? The gold was probably valuable and perhaps sentimental to this man or someone who loved him.
She set the fancy button on a flat stone to dry, hoping its owner would return to find what he’d lost. Then her gaze swung west, to the peak of Via Belle’s tower above the trees, much closer here than at the gate. A harbor for the woman’s heroes and villains alike, the walls probably bulging as it tried to contain her many words.
