...she was very unexpected
Emily
I took up my residency the next week. It was early June and the weather was golden.
I spent the first few days taking inventory of the house and grounds. The house was in a better state of repair than I remembered, but then, my thoughts were clouded since I left in bitterness and anger—went away to college and never came back—except, of course, for the funeral and the disposition of what remained.
It was sad. We never reconciled. And it was both of us really—our stubbornness. But I was determined to make it on my own and I did—I made millions in Internet marketing before the credit crisis and the economic downturn that followed.
So, now here we are—both interred in our separate limbos—she, possibly at peace, and I pondering whether to rebuild the ancient ruins and restore places long devastated.
As for our relationship—well, that boat has sailed and burned, and yet, I hope she’s found her own Valhalla.
“That’s a lovely gesture—interring your mother’s remains in the place she loved so well.”
I turn to see a beautiful young woman smiling at me, standing beneath the windy trees in a shimmering current of shadows.
“I’m Emily Winterhill, your mother’s gardener—you must be her son.”
“I am,” I smile, bemused by her directness and beauty.
“I hope I didn’t interrupt your solitude, Mr. Lennox, but thought we should meet.”
“Yes, of course,” I stammer. “You didn’t disturb me—and please, call me Jonas.”
Her eyes shone with a strange light I couldn’t quite define, but they fascinated me. She had such a dramatic beauty—honey coloured hair and dark brown eyes. I was completely taken with her.
“I saw you walking the path to the pond. Were you aware the deed to the property entitles you to launch boats—row boats or sail boats if you wish?”
“Really? Well that’s something to keep in mind,” I laughed.
“I trust you’ll find the grounds have been well maintained—your mother took great pains to ensure the black oak savannah is properly tended with prescribed burns.”
My interest was piqued. “You mean you actually light fires on the property?”
Her eyes brightened again reminding me of the sun behind a sky of scattered cloud, brightening and dimming on cue with the wind.
“Oh yes, I have to set carefully controlled fires that burn close to the ground and consume dried leaves and twigs. The burning mimics the natural wildfires that occur in these ecosystems.”
“The practice seems really curious,” I remarked.
“Perhaps,” she smiled, “but necessary. The fire turns the leaves to ash and that becomes fertilizer for the black oaks. The trees have evolved to become fire dependent. Do you know their acorns have a very hard shell the flames soften, allowing the seeds to germinate and replenish the savannah?”
I whistle softly. “I didn’t know that.”
“Oh yes, that’s why the estate is called The Ashes—it’s a two acre part of a much larger ecosystem and your mother took every effort to conserve it.”
“I'm impressed,” I told her, and I really was. I had no idea Mother was involved in conservation. I was as ignorant of my own flesh as I lacked insight into the history of the house.
“I better get back to my chores,” the girl said. “Maybe we can chat again.”
“I’d like that—thanks for the information about the savannah—that’s really fascinating.”
She flashed a bright smile and pushed her wheelbarrow along the path in the direction of the front gardens.
I wanted to tell her she was also fascinating, especially to a confirmed bachelor with the habits of a recluse.
Who knew there was beauty in ashes?
Maybe a two-week stay in the house might not be the trial by ordeal I anticipated.