“It’s for Mom,” Viola said softly.
The Chancellor Theater was soon to be renamed in memorial as The Eleonora Hunter Playhouse. My mother had spent her life devoted to that theater, raising money, directing plays, running theater camps, sewing costumes, everything…and Viola and I had done most of it alongside her. The Executive Director position, about which several of the board members had already approached me, sounded like a dream job. And it was…a pipe dream. Dad had me screwed down so tight with the winery, and the new restaurant, that I’d never get loose. I sighed. Losing Mom to cancer earlier that year had hit everyone hard. The theater had lost their most devoted patron, and we’d lost our most devoted parent.
“Yeah, you’re right. I’ll do it for Mom. To hell with what Dad thinks.”
Chapter 3: Julie
An hour later, my car glided into the little lakeside village of Chancellor. I was right. It was harvest festival. The town was brimming with people. The streets around the main square had been blocked off for the festivities. I drove up and down the narrow side streets, many of which were bumpy cobblestone, before I found a parking place five blocks from Magnolia Lane.
I opened the trunk, grabbed the signs, and headed down the street.
Chancellor was a quaint little village. The small liberal arts college sat like a multi-turreted castle above the town, looking down on the town and lake. The land all around Chancellor, however, was surrounded with vineyards. The scent of grapes was in the air. The breeze—today at least—was also perfumed with the sweet scents of kettle corn, fried dough, wine, and pumpkin spice. Every parking meter was bedecked with scarecrows, corn stalks, and pumpkins. They’d strung garlands of witches’ hats from lamp post to lamp post, crisscrossing the street. A band was rehearsing “Witchy Woman” on a stage nearby. Kids dressed in Halloween costumes—though the actual holiday was still a few days away—ran around, plastic pumpkins brimming with candy. Food vendors, craft vendors, trade demonstrations, and other attractions lined the streets.
As I walked down Main Street, dodging around princesses, pirates, super heroes, and even dogs dressed in costumes, I passed a large white tent adjacent to a wooded park. A sign noting “America’s Best Ice Wine Challenge” hung over the entrance. Signs for Blushing Grape Vineyards were plastered everywhere. Inside, I saw people dressed to the hilt sipping wine from slim glasses. I veered out of the way when a horse-drawn wagon full of laughing children passed by, trying not to tromp on the groups of college students who were sitting on the street working on chalk paintings. I paused to look at a few of them. The designs featured Chancellor scenes: the lake, the vineyards, the college, but I also saw some of the students drawing mermaids, witches, and faeries. Chancellor was definitely turning out to be more interesting than I expected. We hadn’t visited the little town often, but one year Mom and I had come during the Christmas season to visit their Yuletide Christmas bazaar and watched The Nutcracker at the local theater. I remembered sipping hot chocolate and watching people ice skate at the makeshift skating rink near the town center. It was one of the few times I remembered my mother looking truly happy. Most of the time she just looked harried. The ballet, however, was what had left an impression on me…but not in the way you’d expect. The next morning I woke up determined to make sugar plum pudding. I still remembered how good the house smelled as I prepared the dish. I remembered Chancellor being fun, and it still was. The quaint little town’s energy was so alive.
For just a moment, I stopped to watch a gorgeous candle maker with shoulder-length curly blond hair dip a long taper into a vat of wax. He glanced at the crowd as he explained the candle making process. When he spotted me, he winked. He was around the same age as me and wore a pair of jeans that were ripped at the knees and a red and black flannel shirt. Shelves lined with jars of organic honey, beeswax candles, and lip balm sat at one side of his display. I smiled at him. He replied by tipping his head toward me. Then I headed down the street. To my surprise, I was actually close to the property. I caught sight of the sign for Magnolia Lane just over the roof of a vendor tent. Ducking under ropes, and shimmying between two tents, I finally stumbled upon Serendipity Gardens.
The little Tudor cottage, with pale yellow stucco siding, dark timbers, and a massive stone chimney near the large front window, sat tucked just off Main Street at the corner of Main and Magnolia. I propped the signs against the broken down fence and lifted the handle on the worn white picket fence gate. The yard was covered with knee-high golden rods, purple asters, black-eyed Susans, Queen Anne’s lace, and other wildflowers. I gently pushed open the gate and approached the house. It was a charming fairy tale style place, but it showed its age and disuse. The windows were shuttered, the window boxes overgrown. There was a small porch on the front of the house, but its crumbling roof was in need of repair. To the right side of the little house was a charming Victorian-style greenhouse that appeared to be attached to the building. Several of the glass panes were broken and it looked like a jungle was growing inside.
I stepped onto the porch carefully, the old wood groaning as it took my weight. The green paint on the door was flaking off in chunks. Leaning along the side of the house was an old sign that read Serendipity Gardens. Reaching into my purse, I pulled out a wrought-iron key. It was then that I realized the top of the key was shaped like a heart. A faded red ribbon had been tied to it. I grabbed the door handle and was surprised to find that it was, in fact, a glass door knob. It shimmered with amethyst color.
I slipped the key into the lock and turned it. Pushing the door open, I went inside.
The place was adorned with old baskets, hand-painted watering cans, and had an antique cash register sitting on the counter. Overhead was a chandelier trimmed with multi-colored beads. The vaulted ceiling, with its large beams, had been painted to look like a forest canopy. Sunlight glimmered in and caught the light on the dusty chandelier, casting blobs of colored light all around the room. The image was breathtaking. The little place was simply…divine. Perfect. Dusty tables dotted the room. Clearly, they’d once been display tables. An old baker’s rack sat in one corner. At the end of the counter was a beveled glass bakery display case. While it was covered in an inch of grime, it was truly quaint. Along the wall sat an armoire. Its lavender-colored paint had faded and worn off, giving it a shabby chic appearance.
Just to the side of the armoire was a set of double glass doors leading to the overgrown greenhouse. I peered through the glass and looked inside. Ivy was trying to take over the place. A vibrant-colored indigo bunting fluttered in through one of the broken panes and back out. A russet-colored butterfly flitted through the space like a fey thing, owner of a forgotten kingdom.
I was in love.
I slid my finger along the dusty shelving as I headed toward the cash register. The place was filled with so much character, so much potential. Who in their right mind would turn it into something as bland as a college administrative building?
I moved behind the counter, pushing aside the faded cherry-print fabric separating the shopfront from the back room. Immediately, I walked into a kitchen. It was a perfect 1950s style kitchen. It looked like it had come straight from the set of the I Love Lucy show. There was a refrigerator, a massive old-fashioned stove large enough to hold ten pies, a pot-bellied wood stove, and deep, cast iron sink. In the center of the space was a butcher table. The space could be turned into anything: a pizza joint, a café, a restaurant. The possibilities were endless. Serendipity Gardens indeed! Who had, I wondered then, Mrs. Aster been?