top of page

 

CHAPTER ONE

 

SEEDS OF HOPE

​

 

Emily Hawthorne stepped cautiously into the overgrown

garden, her auburn hair catching the last rays of the sun as

her boots sank into the soft, untamed earth. Dressed in her

usual earth-toned blouse and jeans, she looked ready to engage with

the land—a stark contrast to the polished attire she’d worn in the

city.

 

The cool air carried the familiar scents of damp soil and wild

herbs mingling with the subtle sweetness of honeysuckle. She

reached out, brushing a hand across the tangled vines. The leaves

beneath her fingers seemed to shimmer faintly, their emerald edges

catching the fading sunlight in a way that felt too deliberate to be

natural. A soft breeze, carrying a fleeting whisper of laughter and 

the fleeting scent of roses that wasn’t there a moment before. A tangle

of memories surfaced, vivid as the wildflowers pushing up through

the weeds. Her grandmother, Cora, had once guided her small hands

over these very plants, pointing out which needed care and which

could be left to grow on their own.

 

The sun slipped lower, casting the mountains in a hazy blue hue.

Emily paused on a thorny branch, feeling it prickle against her skin,

and exhaled, absorbing the garden’s silent welcome. She dug her

fingers into the soil, tightening her grip as she remembered her

grandmother’s whispered stories of fairies and hidden magic. It all

felt distant, yet close enough to touch.

 

Her mind wandered back to the magical summers of her youth

spent under her grandmother’s loving care. The days when the world

was brimming with possibilities, and the air itself seemed infused

with wonder. Her grandmother would lead her through the garden,

her voice a soft melody as she spoke of the garden fairies and the

enchantment that filled every corner of the land. “These fairies,”

Cora would say, her eyes twinkling with mischief, “they protect our

garden and help it grow. You just have to believe, my dear.”

 

Emily smiled, a bittersweet feeling rising in her chest as she

recalled those carefree days. She would spend hours searching for

the elusive fairies, convinced she saw a flicker of wings or heard their

tiny laughter. The garden had been a world of magic and joy, where

her childish heart was free to dream and imagine, and her grand-

mother’s stories painted her life with vibrant hues of fantasy and

hope. But as she grew older, that magic slowly faded into the back-

ground, overshadowed by the demands of adulthood and the practi-

calities her mother so often imposed.

 

Claire Martin Wren was a practical woman who believed in hard

facts and tangible results. She often scolded Emily for what she

termed “living in a fantasy world,” trying to steer her daughter away

from what she considered childish nonsense. Over time, Emily’s visits

to the farmhouse became fewer, and the vivid colors of her childhood

dreams dulled into the sepia tones of memories.

 

Her thoughts drifted to a conversation she had with her mother

just a few months ago, a memory she couldn’t seem to shake. Emily

rubbed her temples, noticing the familiar tension build as she

recalled her mother’s words. She was sitting in her living room,

surrounded by the noise of the bustling streets outside. She had just

ended a tense conversation with Mark about their latest failed

attempt at IVF, feeling lost, suffocated by the walls of her own home.

On impulse, she picked up the phone and called her mother, seeking

solace or perhaps understanding.

 

After their normal exchange, Emily asked, “Mom, do you

remember grandmother’s garden? How she used to talk about the

fairies and all that magic?”

 

The line was quiet for a moment before her mother’s sigh cut

through. “Those were just stories,” Claire said, her tone softening.

“Your grandmother had a way with tales, but they were for children.”

Emily’s jaw tightened. “They felt real to me. I need that… I need

something that feels right again.” Her voice faltered, but she kept

going. “That’s why I want to go back to the farmhouse for a while.”

“Back there?” Her mother’s disbelief was audible, almost sharp.

“You have a life here. A career. What do you expect to find in that

empty house?”

 

Emily had looked out the window, her grip tightening on the

phone. “Maybe a part of myself,” she replied softly. “I’ve lost some-

thing here, Mom, and I think it’s there.”

 

Another silence. She could almost see her mother, lips pressed

together, a frown creasing her brow. “Life isn’t about running off to

chase fantasies, Emily. You’re not a child.”

 

The words stung, but Emily took a steady breath. “Maybe that’s

exactly the problem. Maybe I need to believe in something again.”

This time, her mother didn’t respond. When the silence grew

heavy, Emily ended the call herself, feeling the tension dissolve,

replaced by a quiet, unfamiliar determination.

 

As the memory faded, she blinked and refocused on the present,

her gaze falling upon the quiet of the garden. Inheriting her grand-

mother’s old farmhouse, an unexpected bequest from a past that

seemed both distant and deeply ingrained, offered a temporary

refuge. But more than that, it provided a chance for Emily to recon-

nect with the joy and magic she remembered from her youth. She

hadn’t come to Blue Ridge Haven just to escape her pain. She redis-

covered the part of herself that still believed in magic, in the possibili-

ties that once seemed so endless.

 

In the farmhouse’s solitude, surrounded by the untamed beauty

of the land, Emily understood that this separation was not just neces-

sary but transformative. It was a chance to rediscover herself outside

the identity of a woman grappling with infertility and a failing

marriage, to find solace in the land her grandmother had once

tended with love and care. Standing there, the weight of the years

pressing in on her, Emily felt a surge of determination. Her hands,

though unused to the rigors of gardening, were ready to dig into the

earth, to reconnect with a legacy that had lain dormant for too long.

 

The garden was not just a forgotten plot of land. It was a bridge to

her past, to the joy and magic she had lost along the way and was

desperate to regain. The vibrant arts scene, the community’s warm

embrace, and the breathtaking beauty of the mountains that cradled

Blue Ridge Haven seemed a world away from this neglected spot. Yet,

as Emily stood there, a figure of resilience framed against the back-

drop of decay and potential rebirth, she embodied the very essence of

Blue Ridge Haven—a place steeped in mystery and ancient magic.

 

The decision to stay and restore the garden didn’t come as an

epiphany but as a quiet realization that perhaps healing could be

found nurturing life from the soil. The town of Blue Ridge Haven

seemed to call to her, a reminder of the world just beyond the

shadows of the past. Tomorrow, she would begin the work of clearing

away the weeds, of breathing life back into the garden—and into

herself. It was a daunting task, but in a community where art and

nature danced in harmonious balance, Emily sensed the stirrings of

a second chance. A return to the magic she once believed in and to

the joy that could give her a reason to embrace life again. The

distance from her sorrow would allow her to see their struggles from

a new perspective. There was hope in the possibility of new begin-

nings, not just for the garden, but for her own life, with or without

Mark.

 

Wandering through the quiet farmhouse, her gaze fell upon the

walls adorned with photographs of flowers she had taken during her

stays at the farmhouse—a silent testament to her grandmother Cora’s

love for the garden and its myriad blooms. One particular photo

caught her eye—a delicate iris, her favorite flower, captured in the

golden light of dawn. It was more than just a photo. It was a memory,

a piece of her childhood wrapped in the warm hues of summer

mornings spent in the garden, searching for fairies and listening to

her grandmother’s stories.

 

With a gentle touch, Emily took the framed photo off the wall, her

fingers tracing the edges as if to unearth the stories it held. As she

flipped it over, a letter slipped out from behind the frame, its edges

worn with time. It was addressed to her in her grandmother’s hand-

writing. Her heart quickened as she unfolded the paper, Cora’s words

flowing like a whisper through time.

 

My dearest Emily,

 

I always knew you’d be drawn to the iris—it’s as resilient and beautiful

as you are. If you’re reading this, it means you’ve found your way back to

the place that holds our family’s heart. The garden knows no season, only

neglect. It’s now in your hands, my dear, to breathe new life into it, to

nurture it back to its former glory.

This garden is not just a plot of land. It’s a legacy of love, patience, and

perseverance. I leave it to you, not as a burden, but as a gift—a chance to

find healing, to rediscover yourself amid the beauty of nature. Let it be your

canvas, Emily. Plant new seeds, tend to them with care, and watch as new

life takes root, both in the garden and within you. There is magic here,

ancient and powerful. It was the power to heal, to renew. Trust in it and in

yourself.

 

With all my love,

Grandmother Cora

 

Tears blurred Emily’s vision as she finished reading. The letter

was a relief. A guiding light from her grandmother, urging her to

embrace the garden’s potential for renewal. Clutching the letter close,

she knew what she needed to do. Tomorrow, she would begin

reclaiming the garden, armed with Cora’s wisdom and the promise of

new beginnings. The garden was more than a project. It was a path to

healing, a second chance at life’s unfurling beauty.

 

The act of clearing the garden, pulling weeds, and planting new

life could become a metaphor for her own healing—a reclamation of

lost hope and renewal of spirit. With each new bloom that fought its

way through the soil, Emily hoped to find pieces of herself she’d

thought were lost forever. As she thought back to her childhood, she

remembered more of her grandmother’s stories, the whispered

secrets of the garden fairies, and the magic that once was so real. The

garden, like her, was in a state of becoming, transforming under the

gentle care of patience and perseverance.

 

Her mother might still dismiss these old tales as childish

fantasies, but Emily had an unshakable bond to the magic of the

garden—a legacy that was as real and rooted as the ancient trees

around her. 

​FOLLOW ME

  • Instagram
  • Twitter
  • Facebook Social Icon
  • Twitter Social Icon
  • YouTube Social  Icon

© 2023 by C. Deanne Rowe. Proudly created with Wix.com

bottom of page