worth one sentiment of women.
—Voltaire
Emily
I finally came home again—returned to familiar ground only to inter mother's ashes and settle the affairs of her estate.
I had no intention of staying but was dismayed to learn mother had made it a condition of her will that I spend a fortnight living in the house I loathed so much.
Much as I railed against the prospect, it was a form of closure I suppose.
Accordingly, I grudgingly accepted my lot and determined to make the best of it.
I took up my residency in the house the next week. It was early June and the weather was golden.
I spent the first few days taking inventory of the mansion and grounds. The house itself 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—made millions in Internet marketing before the credit crisis and the economic downturn that followed.
So, now here we both were—each interred in our separate limbos—she, possibly at peace, and I pondering whether to rebuild the ancient ruins and restore places long since devastated.
As for our relationship—well, that boat has finally sailed and burned, and yet, I hope she’s has somewhere found her own Valhalla.
“That’s a lovely gesture—interring your mother’s remains in the place she loved so well.”
I turned 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 smiled, 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 stammered, “but 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 that the flames soften, allowing the seeds to germinate and replenish the savannah?”
I whistle softly. “I didn’t know that.”
“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. And it was then I realized 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," I reassured her, "and 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.
It occurred to me that maybe a two-week stay in the house might not be the trial by ordeal I anticipated.