Page 76 of Winterset
“Miss Lockwood, I was teasing. I don’t mind. Your drawings likely improved their value. They are lovely.”
She blushed. “Thank you.”
“I noticed you like to draw flowers.” The books were filled with them.
“Actually, I prefer to paint people. Portraits. Capturing a person’s likeness and the feel of their soul on canvas is magical.” She smiled softly.
“I don’t think I’ve ever felt so much passion for anything.”
Her eyes sparked with mischief. “You are passionate about your hats.”
“Why, Miss Lockwood. Did you just call mevain?”
She shrugged playfully. “Only if the hat fits.”
“I daresay it does.” I laughed.
We continued in companionable silence until we reached a stone angel. At the base, an inscription read For Eleanor Lockwood.
It was a touching monument, but I was a bit surprised to find something so permanent here, seeing as the Lockwood’s had only been letting Winterset, but it didn’t bother me.
Miss Lockwood looked up at me and must have seen my wonder because she said quietly, “My father had this statue made and placed here in the garden in my mother’s memory. She died in childbirth.”
“I’m sorry you never knew her.”
“Me too,” Miss Lockwood said. “Had his death not been so sudden, I’m sure he would have had it removed upon quitting Winterset. I would understand if you—”
“It’s lovely,” I said and meant it. “It must stay wherever you are.”
“Thank you, Mr. Jennings.” She gave me a grateful smile and turned back to view the statue. “I may not have known my mother, but my father kept her memory alive with this garden. While we planted and pruned together, he told me stories about her. I can still see the crinkle of his eyes and hear the smile in his voice when he used to talk about her. I would giveanythingto see my father one last time and to meet my mother.”
Her words struck me with unexpected force. She spoke so genuinely and with so much love. I’d never felt that way for anyone before, and certainly not for my father. I could barely meet her gaze, ashamed of the emptiness I felt in comparison.
She looked up at me. “You look upset. Have I said something wrong?” she asked.
“No. It’s only ... I have been to many places, seen many things, and met many people, but I have never experienced the kind of passion and love that you just expressed. You speak of your parents, your art, even this garden as though they are the air you breathe, and I feel ... envious.”
“I assure you, my life is nothing to envy,” she said softly.
My heart squeezed.
There was so much I didn’t know about her. But I wanted to know more. I wanted to knoweverything. I had so many questions, but I couldn’t ask her outright. Her walls were as high as this garden’s, and I had to climb carefully if I didn’t want her to retreat.
So, instead, I said, “That is a beautiful memory. Thank you for sharing it with me.”
We continued walking through the garden. It felt nice to walk with her like this. It was easy between us. When she let down her guard, she was witty and clever and sweet. The gentle rustle of the willow leaves and the soft sounds of the pond mirrored the peace between us.
Yet as we rounded a bend in the path, the weight of my responsibilities crept back into my mind. Specifically, the ghost-story reading I’d agreed to host loomed over me like a shadow. How could I host such an event when I was so concerned about Miss Lockwood’s well-being?
“What are you thinking about?” Miss Lockwood asked, breaking my reverie.
“Nothing important.”
“Your brow says otherwise, Mr. Jennings.”
She was observant, as always. “I was just thinking about the ghost-story reading I am supposed to host.”
“I forgot about that,” she said softly.
