Secrets of Harmony Grove (5 page)

Walking toward my car along the tree-lined street, I had to admit that already I felt better, more in control. Nothing about my situation had changed, but at least now I had an ally, one who would help me come up with a plan of attack.

Reaching my car and slipping inside, I tried to decide what to do next. I thought about going to see Heath, who was an emergency room doctor at Bryn Mawr Hospital just a few blocks away. I had no doubt that he would be a solid and comforting presence at this very difficult time. I knew he would believe me and support me, and maybe even offer to lend me some money if it came down to that, not that I would accept such an offer. Surely, he would be nothing but kind. Still, I was reluctant to go and see him. Just the thought of telling him what had happened made my cheeks flush with heat.

If only he hadn’t objected so strongly when I accepted the new job and immediately put myself back into debt. I knew he wasn’t the kind of guy to rub that in my face now, but he and I would both know the truth. He had told me so, financially speaking, but I had ignored his warning.

Starting up the car and admiring the gentle hum of its very new, very well-oiled engine, I decided to skip Heath for now and continue on to the one other place I could always find comfort and kindness and support: my parents’ house.

Harold and Ida Collins still lived in the same parsonage in Radnor I had grown up in, a small converted carriage house that at one point had been connected with the massive estate next door. Their three-bedroom home was comfortable but small and dated, with wood-paneled walls, vinyl countertops, and kitchen appliances at least thirty years old. As a child I had loved living there, loved coming home down the curved driveway that first swept past the estate house and its beautifully manicured lawns before ending at the little carriage house that sat hidden in the trees beyond.

Once I reached middle school, however, I began to not love it quite so much. The more aware I grew of the modesty of our means, the more embarrassed I began to feel about everything: our tiny home, our secondhand clothes, our inability to afford the summer camps and tennis lessons and shopping trips the other girls in my class seemed to take as their right.

By the time I started high school, I no longer invited anyone over, preferring to socialize at their houses instead. Whenever I had to get a ride home from a friend, I would tell them to pull over and drop me off out front. If they wanted to assume that I was walking up the driveway to the huge stone mansion clearly visible from the road, that was their mistake, albeit one I wasn’t quick to clarify. It wasn’t until I went away to college and grew up a bit and began to appreciate my parents all over again for the wonderful people they were that I realized what an enormous brat I had been.

Now that I was possibly on the verge of pennilessness and maybe even bankruptcy, I couldn’t help but think how grateful I was that the size of my parents’ hearts far exceeded the biggest mansions in the world. They weren’t in a position to help me out financially, but simply knowing I could plop down at their kitchen table and share my woes, without condemnation, to two pairs of loving, accepting, and sympathetic eyes was priceless.

Once I arrived, though, as soon as my father opened the door to greet me, I saw that his eyes were more tired and frightened and hurting than anything else. That’s when I remembered what day it was. In my mother’s ongoing battle with MS, she had gone for her quarterly treatment today, an infusion of a drug also used in chemotherapy.

After Dad’s welcoming hug at the door, he whispered that she wasn’t nauseated yet—he hoped that wouldn’t happen at all this time—but that
the body aches and fatigue had knocked her for a loop. She was lying on the couch, and when she opened her eyes and saw me, she broke into a broad smile and thanked me for coming, saying how much it meant to her that I would drive all this way just to see how she was doing after her treatment.

Though my heart was full of shame, I didn’t correct her assumption. I wasn’t trying to make myself look good; I just couldn’t bear to make her feel bad. Instead, I acted as though that had been my intention all along, and I told my dad to sit down and rest while I made us all some tea. Shoulders visibly sagging, he plopped into the chair closest to the couch, leaned his head back, closed his eyes, and blindly reached out to take my mother’s hand. In a near-simultaneous motion, her fingers simply moved to entwine with his and held on. She closed her eyes as well. Observing them, I felt that old familiar twinge of tenderness and security, the legacy of all children whose parents remained deeply and steadfastly in love.

My eyes filling with tears, I turned away and went to the kitchen to make some tea. I felt like a selfish, shallow idiot, and I knew God was using this situation to remind me that there were things in life far more important and more dire than government investigations, job suspensions, and money concerns.

Over the next hour, I devoted my energies to caring for both of my parents, cooking supper as I waited to hear back from Liz. Using ingredients I was able to dig up in the kitchen, I made a big pot of vegetable soup, and as it simmered on the old stove I threw together a batch of corn bread to go with it.

My situation was never far from my mind the whole time, though, and I kept discreetly peeking at my cell phone to see if I had missed anything. Liz didn’t call, so I decided I would give her until 5:30 before trying her. She had told me to be patient, but patience wasn’t exactly one of my virtues.

The phone finally rang at 5:17 p.m. My heart surged with hope, but then it sank just as quickly when I saw that the name on the screen wasn’t Liz but Troy Griffin.

Again?

Holding the phone in my hand, I didn’t answer it. Instead, I let it go to voice mail, thinking of how Liz had asked if Troy was trying to start things
up again. Good grief, I hoped not. Our conversation the other night had been fine, but it had been about closure, not some new opening. When the phone beeped to tell me I had a message, I pressed the buttons and listened.

Hey, Si, it’s Troy. I’m sorry to bother you again, but this is urgent. Really urgent. Can you call me back as soon as you get this? It’s…it’s important, okay
?

And that was it, just a few short sentences, punctuated by the huffs and puffs of a man on the move, as though he were running and out of breath. Against my better judgment, I decided to return his call, though before it was over I planned on telling him to not contact me again.

I gave the simmering soup a stir, peeked at the corn bread in the oven, and then stepped out the back door for some privacy. Sighing, I called him back.

“Sienna!” he answered. “Thanks for returning my call.”

“No problem,” I replied, using the clipped tones of one who had other, more important things to do. “You said it was urgent.”

“It is. Listen, have you ever heard of something called a Fishing Tree?”

I blinked, wondering if the man had lost his mind. This was his big emergency? Some sort of word game? I pictured him running on a treadmill, bored and killing time by calling me.

“You gotta be kidding. What are you doing, Troy, working a crossword puzzle? Watching a game show?”

“No, of course not. This is important. Just tell me, do you know what that is? Where it is? A Fishing Tree?”

“I’m sorry, but I do not have time for this.” On Monday night when things were good and all was still right with the world, I hadn’t minded hearing from Troy. But today, when I had been so vividly reminded of the impact our relationship had had on my finances and my life, I could barely tolerate the sound of his voice. “Troy, I have to go.”

“No, wait! Please! It’s…it’s about your grandfather. About those papers of his.”

I hesitated, trying to realign my thinking.

“What do you mean? What’s going on?”

“It’s hard to explain. In the papers, he says something about a Fishing Tree. Wait—hold on. Just a second.”

As I listened to the sound of him fumbling with the phone, I made my way to the wrought iron bench next to the weeping willow and sat, wondering what this was all about.

“Sorry, Sienna. I’m afraid I’m not feeling so well. Like, dizzy. Real dizzy.”

“You’re not driving, are you?”

“No, no, I’m outside. In Harmony Grove. Been out here for hours, trying to figure out which one of the bazillion trees in here is the one your grandfather would have called the Fishing Tree.”

I closed my eyes and began pinching the bridge of my nose. I knew he had called me from the bed-and-breakfast the other night, but I hadn’t realized he was still there. And I sure couldn’t fathom what this city boy, who had zero interest in the outdoors, was doing in the lush, wooded grove that had been designed and created by my grandfather. Most important, if this was about Troy trying to get in touch with his inner outdoorsman or something, what was so urgent about that?

“You probably have heatstroke, Troy. That can happen, even when it’s not all that hot. If you ever actually went outdoors, you would know that.”

“Ha-ha. Yeah, I know this might sound a little out of character, but I was reading through your grandfather’s papers about this thing he kept calling the Fishing Tree and I just got really curious about it. Oh boy, hold on. I think I’m gonna be sick.”

Pulling the phone from my ear, I tried not to listen.

“Sienna? Are you there?” his voice said loudly after a moment, so I put the phone back to my ear.

“I’m here. But I’m thinking that if this really is important we should talk later, when I don’t have to listen to you losing your lunch.”

“I didn’t throw up, I just had to sit down. Maybe I’ll be okay now.”

Through the phone, I could hear the crunch and snap of autumn leaves as he settled himself on the ground. Was he serious? This was his big emergency? Wandering through the grove and hunting for a certain tree?

My irritation at this man bloomed into full-blown anger. I had no one to blame for my financial mess but myself, but at the very least I didn’t feel
like sitting here listening to this city boy play country rube when I had such bigger things going on in my life. Surely, this was the very picture of self-centeredness, that if something was important
to him
, then it was important, period.

I said as much now.

“Whoa, Nelly. Hold on, calm down. You sound angry. What’d I do?”

Was he kidding me?

“Troy, I don’t have time for this! Today was an absolute disaster for me. You…you have no idea.” Though I probably shouldn’t have shared with him the details of that disaster, I couldn’t help myself from driving the point home in a rant. “A few hours ago I was suspended from my job, my brand-new job at one of the top advertising agencies in Philadelphia. The suspension is without pay, and right now I’m facing the distinct possibility that if something doesn’t change very soon I could end up having to declare bankruptcy.”

“Suspended? You mean like a leave of absence?”

“Yes, an involuntary one. They even had the security guard escort me from the building.”

“Why? What did you do?”

Somehow, the way he asked that question only served to make me even more furious.

“I didn’t
do
anything, Troy, I was just summoned to the boss’s office like a kid getting called in to the principal. I was told I was being suspended, without pay, until further notice. Apparently, I’m under investigation by the U.S. attorney general’s office for reasons unknown, at least to me.”

That seemed to stop him cold. Then, after a long moment of silence, he spoke.

“Say that again, Sienna? The U.S. attorney general’s office is investigating you but you don’t know why?”

“That’s correct. Liz is looking into it, but so far she hasn’t gotten back to me.”

“Wow. I sure didn’t see this coming. I wonder how they found out.”

Maybe it was his words or something in his voice, but suddenly the hair on the back of my neck began to stand on end.

“Found out what, Troy? Does this have something to do with you?”

He didn’t answer at first. Instead, I heard only more crunching and shuffling, as though he was getting back up, and then the rhythmic crunch-crunch of footsteps through fallen autumn leaves.

“Maybe you’re right, Si. Maybe this isn’t the best time to talk. Why don’t I give you a call later?”