Wild Orchids Read online

  The next day was chaos. I didn’t count them, but I think there had to be at least fifty men in and out of the house that day. I had three strong men from a moving company rearrange what furniture was still in the house after the auctioneer’s trucks left, and I had plumbers, carpenters, and a wallpaper hanger for Newcombe’s bedroom. While we’d been at Lowe’s I’d jotted down the name and number of a plain blue-on-blue wallpaper that had big urns and flower garlands on it. It looked masculine and simple, although to my eye a bit funereal, but I thought Newcombe would like it. The wallpaper hanger measured, picked up the in-stock rolls, and hung it over the old wallpaper. I knew this wasn’t the proper way to do it—the old paper should have been steamed off first—but this was an emergency. I was afraid Newcombe was going to have a heart attack in that bedroom. Or give me one from hearing his constant complaining.

  While repairs were being made, I had three crews with their steamers cleaning the curtains, rugs and upholstery, plus removing the mold from the kitchen.

  While all this was going on, Newcombe locked himself and his new electronic equipment in the library and said he was going to put it all together. The two times I looked in on him, he was sitting inside a deep circle of books and reading. He looked divinely happy.

  At about three an extraordinarily handsome young man came to the back door and started talking to me, but I was so busy directing workmen that I didn’t at first recognize him. He was Nathaniel Weaver, the boy from the overturned car.

  I got a pitcher of lemonade and some cookies out of the new refrigerator and we went outside to talk. He’d come to thank Newcombe, but I said he was busy. Actually, I didn’t want the two males to talk about what had happened because I was afraid my premonition might come up.

  Nate kept looking around the two acres of weeds and broken garden ornaments in a nervous way. I thought that being near a celebrity like Newcombe was what was making him jittery, and I was about to tell him that Newcombe was a normal, ordinary person when Nate blurted out, “Do you need someone to clean this place up for you?”

  I didn’t grab his hands and kiss them—nor did I put my hands on his face and kiss his lovely full-lipped mouth—but my gratitude made me want to. The child—all nearly six feet of him—wanted a weekend job and he seemed to think that clearing out two acres of weeds was something he could do.

  I don’t know what made me do it—heavens but I hope it wasn’t some “second sight” lunacy—but I made one of my lame jokes. I said that now all I needed was someone to sell the hundred-plus—I’d started to count them, but quit at one fifty—Statues of Liberty in the house and I’d be in Nirvana.

  That dear, beautiful boy told me that he lived with his grandmother (parents dead) and Granny went to flea markets in the area and sold things over the Internet on eBay.

  That’s when I did kiss him. It was a sisterly sort of kiss—on his lips, true, but it was a light, quick kiss of gratitude—and from the look on his face I think he was used to females of all ages kissing him. By six P.M. he and I’d filled Newcombe’s new pickup with boxes full of the accumulation of years of souvenir hunts, and Nate and I shook hands—no more kissing—on the deal.

  But that night I almost got into a fight with Newcombe because I’d allowed someone to borrow his brand-new 4 x 4.

  That surprised me. “I thought you were a writer,” I said. “I thought that all those books of yours were against men who loved trucks.”

  “Control, not trucks,” he said, and I pretended I didn’t know what he meant. Of course I did know but I just didn’t want to lose a fight.

  Men are such strange creatures. He didn’t mind that I was spending thousands of his money to fix up a house he hated, but when I lent his new pickup to a kid whose life he’d saved, he got angry.

  I guess males understand each other, though, because at ten-thirty that night Nate returned Newcombe’s pickup, and the two of them disappeared into the library until two A.M. I went to bed, but about four times I was jolted alert by wall-shaking blasts of music. Obviously, they were putting together the new stereo equipment.

  At two A.M., I heard a car outside and from the chug-chug sound of it I was sure it was Nate’s rusty old Chevy Impala. Minutes later, I heard Newcombe come up the creaky stairs and go into his bedroom. I’d been in bed for hours, but only when I knew he was safely in his bed one room away from me did I allow myself to fall into a deep sleep.

  On Thursday morning a boy knocked on the door and handed me a thick envelope. It was addressed to Newcombe in a beautiful old-fashioned handwriting that could have been done with a quill. I took the envelope to the kitchen, where he was eating his usual stevedore breakfast and reading a stack of instruction manuals, and handed it to him. I was pretending to pay no attention to the letter, but I was actually watching him intently.

  He wiped his hands before touching the envelope. “I haven’t seen stationery like this outside a museum.”

  I quit rinsing dishes and sat down by him, curiosity eating at me. “Look at that handwriting. Do you think you’ve been invited to a cotillion?”

  “Hmmm,” he said as he started to stick his finger in the side and tear the envelope open.

  Paper like that deserved to be slit, not torn. I handed him a knife.

  He cut the top off the envelope, started to open it, but, instead, put the envelope down on the table and picked up his fork.

  “You don’t want to see who sent you what?!” I asked.

  “Maybe,” he said as he put a bite of waffle in his mouth. “And I might even want to share the information with you—but on one condition.”

  Here it comes, I thought. Sex. I gave him a dirty look and started to return to the sink.

  “Stop calling me Mr. Newcombe,” he said. “Start calling me Ford and we’ll open this together.”

  “Done,” I said as I sat back down at the table.

  The cream-colored envelope was lined with light blue tissue paper and inside was an engraved invitation. Engraved, not thermograph, that imitation engraving. Someone had used one of those tiny engraving tools and carved into brass that there was to be a party on the lawn of the town square on Friday afternoon.

  “Tomorrow?” I asked, looking at him. What in the world did I own that was good enough to wear to an engraved-invitation party? On the other hand, it was Ford’s name alone on the envelope. “Nice,” I said, getting up and going back to the sink. “You’ll have to tell me about everything that happens,” I said in my absolute best I-didn’t-want-to-go-anyway voice.

  When Ford didn’t say anything, I looked back at him and saw that he was staring at me as though he was trying to figure out a puzzle. But he didn’t say anything. After he finished eating, he put his dishes in the dishwasher and went upstairs to the room he’d said he wanted for his office.

  Since he’d left the invitation on the table, I looked at it. “The Cole Creek Annual Tea” it was called, and I could imagine ladies in pretty summer dresses and picture book hats—just what I’d imagined when I’d first seen that lovely little square with the white bandstand in the middle of it.

  As I picked up the invitation, a piece of paper fell out. It was the same heavy cream paper as the rest of the invitation, and written in the same beautiful copperplate handwriting that was on the outside. The note said “Please bring your houseguest with you.” It was signed Miss Essie Lee Shaver.

  I loaded the dishwasher in a split second, shoved the door closed, and, even though I had workmen everywhere, I ran upstairs to my bedroom to look inside my closet. I’d never owned many clothes, but when I was near my friends I didn’t need to. Autumn delighted in dressing me as though I were one of the fifty or so dolls she kept on her bed. I owned only one dress, an old, flowery cotton thing that had a rip in the skirt.

  Taking the dress out of the closet, I sat down on the bed. Could I repair the tear?

  “Didn’t you tell me there were boxes of old clothes in the attic?”

  I looked up to see Newcombe—Ford�€