One Mountain Away. Emilie Richards
example of Colonial Revival architecture in upscale Biltmore Forest. Built from salmon-tinged brick with imposing white pillars and decorative woodwork, it ruled over its neighbors from a rise in the center of a two-acre lot.
The house was much too large for a woman alone, which hadn’t stopped the newly divorced Charlotte from snapping it up when it came on the market ten years ago. She’d had her eye on the house for years, had even tried to buy it once before when she was still married. So when it had come back on the market a second time, she’d made sure she was first in line.
Since then, despite a sagging economy, the house had increased in value, thanks to her constant attention to maintenance and landscaping. Of course, even though she was free to gloat, there was nobody who cared. The house inspired one of two undesirable reactions. The first was awe, often tinged heavily with envy. The second was worse, something she could only tag as dismay. The house clearly sucked up money and resources without mercy or discrimination.
The house in Biltmore Forest had been a dream, a symbol, a satisfied “yes” at the end of a long, torturous road.
Or so she’d thought.
This evening she turned into the driveway with groceries tucked into the passenger’s seat. After leaving Cuppa she had stopped at Earth Fare to stock up on fresh salads and baked goods, because her refrigerator was as empty as the rest of her evening promised to be.
Right now all she wanted was to put the bags in the refrigerator without even bothering to unpack them and fall asleep in her bedroom, fully clothed. She was so tired every cell in her body had shriveled from fatigue.
She didn’t bother with the garage. She pulled into the stone-paved parking area hidden behind a bower of English ivy and turned off the engine.
“Okay, now you’re getting out,” she said out loud, then forced herself to follow her own orders.
Inside, she put away the groceries and told herself it was good to be home. But once she’d made herself a cup of hot tea and a slice of toast, she lay exhausted on the living room sofa, staring at the ceiling. In the end, as the grandfather clock tolled ten, she rose, smoothed wrinkles from her clothes, closed the front door behind her and headed back to Cuppa.
After being forced to park several blocks away on a side street, she stood outside the restaurant once more. She doubted Harmony Stoddard would appreciate reacquainting herself with a witness to her unfortunate dinner-shift encounter, but Charlotte wanted to be certain that the bad-tempered man hadn’t complained. And if someone else had spoken to the manager, the mother at the next table, perhaps, or another server, Charlotte wanted to be sure Harmony wasn’t blamed for something that was certainly not her fault.
Inside, the hostess stand was empty. Farther in a few people sipped coffee, but one of them was packing up her computer. A muscular middle-age man in one of Cuppa’s signature shirts stopped Charlotte as she continued toward the back.
“We’re closing,” he said. “Did you need something?”
“By any chance are you the manager?”
“She went home early. I’m in charge.”
“I was here earlier. I was sitting in the back, and a child at the next table slammed into my server and sent salad flying all over a man at another table. I just wanted to be sure the server didn’t get into trouble. I was right there, and it was absolutely not her fault.”
He looked surprised. “You came all the way back to tell us that?”
“And to make sure she’s okay.” She decided to level. “The man behaved badly. He didn’t apologize. I thought somebody ought to.”
“You know how rare that would be?” He ran his hand through short-cropped hair. “Who was it? Harmony?”
“Uh-huh.” She wondered how he knew.
His mouth twisted into a wry smile. “She had a bad night. I didn’t know why.”
“Is she here? Maybe I could make it a better one.”
“She left about half an hour ago, after she finished her shift.”
Charlotte felt a pang of regret. “Maybe I could write her a note?”
“Sure. Just leave it on the coffee bar. I’ll make sure she gets it.”
Charlotte wandered over and sat on a stool. She penned a few lines on a sheet of notebook paper and signed it. Then, on a whim, she added her business card and circled her cell phone number, although she doubted the young woman would call.
With nothing else to do she left the note and trudged to her car. The air was cool, and while the street wasn’t deserted, she felt utterly alone. On the street, in the city, on good old Mother Earth. She thought of the memorial service where she had not been welcome. She thought of the wary expression in her own minister’s eyes.
She thought of her granddaughter climbing to the top of a jungle gym, unaware that her grandmother was sitting just yards away watching her.
She slowed her pace. She had nowhere to go except home, and nothing to do there but think.
If she hadn’t slowed she wouldn’t have glanced into the car parked in front of her. Under the light of a streetlamp the sedan looked like something General Motors had long since discontinued. Rust etched wheel hubs. The rear door had been badly dented and someone—clearly not a professional—had tried to hammer it back into shape. Most important, as Charlotte drew even with the car, what she saw inside made her stop and stare.
The woman in the backseat, head pillowed on a blanket and another blanket drawn up around her, was all too familiar.
Charlotte debated what to do. She’d come to find Harmony Stoddard, but not like this. Before she could make herself continue along the sidewalk, Harmony’s eyes opened, and the two women stared at each other.
“I’m sorry,” Charlotte said, since only a pane of glass separated them. She started forward, then she stopped and went back. “Are you okay?”
Harmony was sitting up now, and she wiped her eyes before she moved over to the door and opened it, swinging her long legs over the side to face Charlotte.
“What are you doing here?” She didn’t sound angry.
“Well, right now I’m on my way to my car, but I was just at Cuppa to find you. I wanted to apologize. That man behaved so badly, and I wanted to be sure you weren’t in trouble for anything he did or said.”
Tears glistened on Harmony’s cheeks, and she rubbed them away with her fist before she spoke. Charlotte was reminded of her daughter as a toddler. Taylor had always done exactly that. Taylor, the daughter she hadn’t spoken to for almost eleven years.
“You didn’t have to come back. It was okay.” Harmony got out of the car and stood with her back to it.
“It wasn’t okay.” Charlotte debated what to do or say next. Part of her thought she ought to continue to her car. But suddenly the conversation wasn’t about a stranger’s bad manners anymore. It was about so many other things.
“You’re not okay,” she said. “Are you sleeping in your car tonight?”
“No…” Harmony bit her lip. “Not for the whole night, anyway.”
“Just part of it?”
“I’m…I’m staying with a friend.”
“You can’t get in? You don’t have a key?”
“That’s not it.” The young woman seemed to debate with herself. “She’s got a date. I don’t want to be there when…”
Charlotte understood. “Oh, right, I see.” She hesitated. “It’s a small place, I guess?”
“Like a closet, and I’m crashing on her sofa until I can find something better. I—” She shook her head.
“You’ve