The Restoration of Celia Fairchild - Marie Bostwick Page 0,56
job and nitpicked every little thing. Earlier that morning, he’d apparently told Lorne that the grade at the back of the house was wrong.
“What does that mean?” I asked. “Is it going to cost me more money?”
“No,” Lorne said. “All I’ll have to do is shovel off about two inches of dirt near the foundation. This guy acts like the building code is holy scripture and he’s God himself. He gave me a list of twelve things to fix before he’ll sign the approval—including replacing the bottom step to the piazza. According to Brett, it’s three-eighths of an inch too high.”
“Is it?”
“I know how to use a tape measure,” Lorne said, sounding offended. “But when it comes to construction, inspectors have the last word. Only thing to do is suck it up and try to get on his good side. Piddly stuff like this just ends up costing us time. I miss Carl.”
“Maybe he’ll be back?”
“Doesn’t sound like it,” Lorne said. “Well, ma’am, if you’ll excuse me, I’ve got to go rebuild a step I already built and shovel some dirt that doesn’t need shoveling.”
It was that kind of day.
At the end of it, I settled myself into Beebee’s old pink chair and took out my knitting. By the time I’d left Polly’s shop, I felt like I had the knit stitch down pat. But somehow, in the course of about nine hours, I’d managed to forget everything she taught me. When I paid my bill, Polly had thrown in an instruction book for free.
“I insist,” she’d said when I objected; it didn’t look to me like Polly could afford to be giving stuff away. “The world has enough unfinished pot holders.”
But the book didn’t help. If anything, it made things worse. When I got to the end of the row, I somehow ended up with ninety-seven stitches instead of eighty-four. Then, when I tried to go back and fix my mistake, I ended up dropping a bunch of stitches and unraveling half of what I’d done. Finally, I got so frustrated that I ripped out the whole thing and shoved the yarn back into the bag and stuffed it into one of the cubbies with all the other useless yarn.
“Thirty-eight bucks down the drain.”
Clearly, stumbling upon Polly’s craft shop was not the sign I’d thought it was. I had no plans to return, which was probably just as well. Though it was good to see her face, and to know she was still alive and more or less well, seeing her reminded me of things I’d just as soon forget. Until I’d come home, until I’d started writing letters to Peaches, and found bits and hints about the past making their way into what was supposed to be a life guide penned for a Maybe Baby, letters that now seemed to be turning into something closer to a memoir, I’d been pretty successful at forgetting, or at least at choosing not to remember. But it was harder than it had been before. Running into Polly had made it harder still.
I pulled out my computer and booted up a Christmas movie, but even George Bailey failed to cheer me up. When I got to the scene with Mr. Potter, it occurred to me that maybe George was a chump to turn down all that money and an easier life. Maybe I was too. I closed my computer.
After almost two weeks, nothing had changed. The house was still too quiet and too big. If it hadn’t been so late, I’d have phoned Calvin. Instead, I got out my journal. If I tried to go to sleep, I already knew what would happen. I’d wake up an hour later, dreaming the same dream, still wondering what it meant. Maybe writing to Peaches would help me figure it out.
Besides, it wasn’t like I had anyone else to talk to.
Dear Peaches,
Beebee used to go to the City Market every Thursday morning to see Sallie Mae, a proud old Gullah woman who sold sweetgrass baskets and honey and would tell Beebee what her dreams meant.
I wish Sallie Mae was still around. Maybe she could tell me why I keep having the dream. The first time, I took it as a good omen and Calpurnia’s blessing. But if the dream meant I was on the right path, why is she making me watch a rerun every night? I feel like there’s something more I’m supposed to do. But what?
Sallie Mae wasn’t a fortune-teller. Beebee never paid