“It’s a good thing Alice is coming over tomorrow. You’re no creative help.”
11
The early morning sun was slung low over the water, a slash of heavy clouds hovered above it, as though it threatened to keep the sphere from rising any higher. Annie decided she had picked the best time of the day for a quick walk among the beach roses to check how close they were to perfect ripeness. As she gently squeezed a hip, a gust of wind tore at her. The hips were almost ripe for picking, and the day seemed ripe for rain. A good day for working in the house.
“Don’t ripen too fast, you rose hips. I still have some setup to accomplish.” Annie moved farther down hill, noting she’d have a bumper crop to cook up, if she found Gram’s recipe and equipment soon, and if she could harvest the hips before they went mushy. Wind swirled around her again, setting the hardy beach roses swaying side to side like the ladies in the Zumba class at the community center. As Annie hiked back up the hill, she marveled at the strong beauty of beach roses. No hothouse flowers for this hill, tended by a diligent gardener keeping pests at bay. No human caretaker, anyway. And yet the blooms’ charm matched those of cherished rare flowers to Annie.
Annie paused at the boot scrape, which had stood beside the back porch steps as long as she could remember, and wiped the bottom of her shoes clean. A horn beeped twice—it was Alice on her way to her first Princessa and Divine Décor parties of the day. Annie put a hand up to wave, but ended up clapping it to the top of her head instead, as yet another blast of wind tried to snatch her cap. Alice better hold on tight to her samples while she’s unloading today! Annie thought as she darted inside to the kitchen.
After fortifying her resolve with a cup of Irish Breakfast tea, Annie climbed the stairs to the attic with a bucket filled with microfiber cloths and a spray bottle of wood cleaner dangling from her arm. As she stood in the doorway of the attic, the clouds scuttling across the sun gave a strobe effect to the dim light coming in through the window. “Thank you, Grandpa, for wiring the attic for electricity when you bought Grey Gables,” Annie whispered, pulling the string on the ceiling light fixture.
She wove through the stacks to the baker’s rack, realizing she would need to clear a wider pathway to the door, or she’d never be able to maneuver the rack anywhere near it. But the first thing to be cleared was the rack itself.
Annie set the bucket and spray down on the floor next to the rack. Wanting to avoid any flying objects this time, she looked around for something to climb on to ensure the top of the rack was completely empty. She spied a sturdy-looking bench pushed up under an old vanity and slid it over to the rack. Resting her right knee on top of the bench, Annie leaned her weight onto the bench to see if it was as sturdy as it looked. There were no groaning or splintering sounds, so she grabbed a couple of cloths and the spray bottle and climbed up on the bench. There was nothing there but enough dust to stuff a duvet. One cloth was sacrificed in collecting the majority of the dust. Annie sprayed the other with the wood cleaner and wiped away the remaining dust and grime, leaving behind the pleasant smell of cedar wood and bergamot essential oils. Stepping down off the bench, she dragged it back to the vanity table and moved on to the next shelf.
A solid wood crate occupied the left side of the shelf. Annie tested its weight by grasping it by the wood trim and lifting it up a couple of inches. The crate proved lighter than she expected for its size and was easily moved. Lowering it to the floor, Annie removed the lid to find a garland of red, white, and blue fabric. Pulling a couple of handfuls of the garland from the crate, Annie saw rosettes were attached about every four feet. She had seen this garland every Independence Day during her childhood, when her grandparents celebrated the blessings of America’s freedom by festooning Grey Gables’s expansive porch. She wished she had found it earlier in the summer to carry on the tradition, but she was determined to find a place for the crate where she would be able to locate it the next summer. For the time being, Annie slid it under the vanity bench.
The next occupant to be relocated from the baker’s rack was a bushel basket bearing the stamp of Bailey’s Orchard, Whitefield, Maine. It bristled with gardening stakes and plant markers labeled in Betsy’s handwriting—basil, thyme, sage, oregano, lavender, zucchini, green peppers, and such. Annie carefully removed the basket from the shelf and set it to the right of the vanity, hoping she’d remember to use them next planting season.
“Two shelves down, two to go.” On the third shelf, a dark gray, open-blade fan stood atop a rectangular cardboard box, sitting a few degrees to the left. Annie saw that the base of the fan extended across a ridge made by the flaps of the box, having been alternated and tucked in rather than taped. She moved the metal fan to the top of the vanity where it stood as straight as a West Point cadet during inspection. Inserting several fingers into the tucked flaps of the box, Annie pulled up and let out a soft “Yes!” of triumph when she realized what was inside. Betsy’s canning jars, the very size she and Annie used for the rose-hip jelly. Not one jar was missing a ring or lid. Tucking the flaps closed once again, Annie carried the box and set it next to the attic door to bring down to the kitchen when she was done. Heightened curiosity spurred her on to the next item, a round tin the color of dairy cream with brown speckles. The words “Charles Chips” in the same cream color stood out against a splotch of dark brown. Many a childhood summer evening was spent on the porch listening to the waves, sharing stories, and passing the speckled tin of potato chips between them—Gram, Grandpa, and Annie.