“Do you know how to reach Carlette now?” Ivy asked. “Do you know if her father did make it back from Vietnam?”
“No, honey,” Mrs. Huddleston said sadly. “I honestly don’t know if he did. They moved away, I think it was right before we started third grade. Somewhere in South Carolina where Mrs. J had family of her own. We were both real tore up about it, because up until then, we were inseparable. We were pen pals for a while, but then I guess one of us quit writing.”
“Did you save any of her letters?”
“I did,” Mrs. Huddleston said. “Saved ’em up in a Whitman’s Sampler candy box, but who knows what happened to that? I wish I had more answers to give you.”
Ivy’s shoulder sagged a little, and Mrs. Huddleston gave her knee a sympathetic pat. “How are you liking Four Roses Farm? I sure hope you’re going to keep up Bob and Betty Rae’s tradition.”
“Dressing up as Santa and Mrs. Claus?” Ivy laughed. “I don’t think so.”
“No, no. I mean, getting the place all lit up for Christmas. My gosh, the two of them worked on those decorations year-round. Lights everywhere! My husband used to say you could probably see Bob’s lights from outer space.”
“Daddy used to load all of us up in the van and take us out to the farmhouse to see all the lights,” Phoebe put in. “Everybody in town did the same thing.”
“A couple of people have told me about that, but Christmas lights aren’t really my thing,” Ivy said apologetically. “I was just telling my real estate agent, Ezra, I probably won’t even get a tree.”
“Oh,” Mrs. Huddleston said. “That’s a shame. I think everybody needs a little Christmas spirit in these times, don’t you?”
“Maybe next year,” Ivy said vaguely. “And speaking of time, I’ve probably taken up enough of yours for today.”
“Right,” Phoebe said, catching Ivy’s signal. “I’ll see you tomorrow, Mom.”
“Wait!” Mrs. Huddleston said, jumping to her feet. “You didn’t even taste my cake yet. And I baked it special for you, Ivy. I’ll just wrap it up for you. Cake to go!”
“You shouldn’t have,” Ivy said. “I don’t really eat a lot of sweets.…”
But Mrs. Huddleston was already bustling around out in the kitchen.
“Wait’ll you taste this cake,” Phoebe said. “I’m on a strict diet, but I promise you will go crazy when you taste it!”
“Here we are!” Mrs. Huddleston said, triumphantly thrusting a foil-wrapped parcel into Ivy’s hands. “My S’mores Butterscotch Caramel Choco Dump Cake!”
“Yum!” Ivy said, feeling queasy. “Can’t wait!”
“And I just now remembered Carlette’s mama’s name. It was Diana. Diana Jones.”
Chapter 5
Sunday morning dawned colder, but clear. Ivy pulled on jeans, boots, and her warmest jacket. “C’mon, Punkin!” she called. “Let’s go walk the back forty!”
The dog cast a baleful eye in her direction. He was content by the fire she’d built.
“Oh, come on. It’ll be fun. You can chase some squirrels.”
Woodsmoke curled through the air, and dead grass and acorns crunched beneath her boots as she toured the property. In a sunny patch near the back porch she found what had surely been a beloved rose garden, but now the bushes looked stunted and unloved. Someday, Ivy thought, she would have roses in this spot: pink, yellow, white, and coral roses.
Oak trees, evergreens, and tall pines were dotted around the landscape. A huge camellia bush was planted a few yards from the back porch and she leaned in and plucked a delicate pink blossom, tucking it behind one ear. There were towering holly bushes too, bristling with clusters of fat red berries that contrasted with their gleaming leaves.
“All mine,” Ivy whispered, turning to Punkin. But the dog was racing and romping around the property, chasing squirrels and having the time of his life.
Not far from the camellia bush she found the remains of a vegetable garden. Dried cornstalks and forlorn tomato cages promised that this had once been fertile ground. Nearby was a rustic shed that covered an ancient-looking tractor and an assortment of rusty rakes, shovels, and hoes. Just beyond the shed she found the chicken coop.
Rather, what was left of it. One side of the coop seemed to have collapsed under the weight of a tin roof, and a spindly tree had taken up root inside the coop, pushing through a hole in the roof.
“So … chicken coop rebuild,” Ivy said aloud. Her bargain farmhouse was seeming like less and less of a good buy every day. According to what she’d read online, her chicks would probably outgrow their cardboard crate within two or three weeks. They needed a real coop, with room to run around in, perches to sleep on, and nesting boxes. She could already feel her bank account shrinking.
She was walking back toward the house when she heard what sounded like hammering—coming from the house.
“Punkin! Here, boy. Punkin!” She whistled, and the dog raced back to her side, tail wagging, tongue lolling. His sleek white coat was dotted with burrs and leaves and mud and he looked supremely happy.
Ivy spotted the black Jeep in the driveway as she rounded the side of the house. There was a man on the front porch, and he seemed intent on hammering something into her door.
“Hello?”
Ezra Wheeler looked up from his project. He wore a leather tool belt around his waist and had a screwdriver jammed beneath the front doorknob.
“Oh hey,” he said easily. “I wondered where you’d gotten to.”
“What exactly are you doing?” Ivy demanded.
“You mentioned the lock needed to be replaced. I had some time to kill today, so I thought I’d stop by and take a look. The screws on this doorknob are stripped. Good thing I picked up a new knob, just in case.”
“You bought me a new lock and now you’re installing it? Is that the kind of thing you do for all your clients?”
He shrugged. “Just the ones who buy a house online without ever actually seeing what the property looks like. Guess I’m feeling a little guilty that you got sucked into this big of a fixer-upper.”
“Oh, I get it,” Ivy said. “You feel sorry for the poor dumb city girl. But I assure you, I entered into this transaction fully aware of what I was buying.”
“No!” Ezra protested. “Yesterday, you asked if I knew a handyman. I do. Me. Look, why do you want to make a whole big deal of this?”
Ivy looked at him. His warm brown eyes seemed earnest.
“I’m just not used to strangers doing me favors,” she admitted. “First you moved out all that old furniture, and now you show up to fix my front door.”
“It’s no biggie,” he said. “Also, I’m not a stranger. I’m actually your neighbor.”
“What? Where do you live?”
“Half a mile down the road here,” Ezra said, pointing south. “That’s how I got this listing. I’d been driving past this place since I moved to Tarburton, and I was wondering who owned it. It’s a gorgeous piece of property, as you’ve probably figured out by now. I looked up the tax records and contacted James Heywood and asked if he was interested in selling the place. He said people had been asking about buying it for years, but he wasn’t quite ready to let it go. I just happened to be in the right place at the right time.”