Home to Big Stone Gap (23 page)

“I have you.”

We climb into bed, and it wouldn’t matter if it were a park bench: I’m in the arms of my husband, and we’re in a place he’s dreamed of since he was a boy. There is nothing more satisfying than reading about a place in storybooks and then one day making the leap from those pages and into real life, every detail as vivid as it lived in our imaginations. This trip will be more than a tonic for Jack; it will be a new start, and boy, does he deserve one.

Rosalind Stoneman had told us the most scenic way to get from Glasgow to Aberdeen was by train. She explained that she and her husband would be able to meet us at the station before showing us their house and departing themselves. They’ll be stopping in London to visit their children before heading on to the U.S.

Early the next morning, Jack and I climb aboard, hoisting our bags onto the metal shelves overhead. We sit across from each other with a small table between us. The train is beautifully appointed, with deep brown leather seats, polished wood panels, and a patterned sisal rug on the floor. The windows slide open (just like they do in the movies!). As the train pulls out of the city, we look ahead and see a castle on the hill in the distance, and it’s as though we’re traveling back in time. Its majestic granite walls seem a border unto themselves. The dormers and peaks jut up into the sky like daggers. The slits in the stone have rows of tiny bars. “Look, Jack, no windows.”

“Would have been a bad idea to let the enemy see in.”

As we head out to the countryside, we sweep past farms, nestled in the rolling hills like jewels. A herd of sheep gathers by a stream flowing down into a gulley and beyond. Their white coats stand out against the soft palette of spring.

Winter is slowly making its exit, and the fields are sprouting pale green, not yet the lush emerald color that Rosalind promised will come. But it’s the sky that enchants us. The mountains back home make the sky overhead seem small, doled out in portions where the peaks let light in, but here the sky seems a broad and limitless canvas. It’s stippled with swirls of soft peach, and over the hills, we see a hem of ruby red on the horizon, with streaks of lavender against white clouds on the field of bright blue. The explosion of color overhead plays against the taupe tones on the ground, like rubies, opals, and emeralds set in copper.

When the train reaches the North Sea, it runs along the cliffs of the coast, giving us a perfect view of the water. There’s a dramatic drop from our perch down to the beach. The shoreline appears ancient, its edges scribbled along the water’s edge. The sand itself is rocky, jutted with shards of black stone on brown sand. In the middle distance, the gunmetal-blue sea pitches a fishing boat to and fro on milky waves. The moors are covered in tall brown grass, with hints of beige where the heather will grow soon, and I can’t help but think of
Wuthering Heights.

Jack points. “Look, seals!”

There, on a series of flat rock formations by the water’s edge, two seals are draped, dipping their fins into the water. There aren’t many of us in the train car, but we all crowd the windows to watch them. We are startled when the door between the cars flies open, and in comes a concession cart, its shiny aluminum sides a sharp contrast to the muted decor.

The server’s name is Iris (so says her name tag). “Tea?” she asks. Jack and I each ask for a cup, and she gives us several packages of shortbread to eat with it.

“Are you American?” she asks.

“Yes, we are.”

“Scottish descent?”

“Yes, ma’am,” Jack says proudly. “I am.”

“Where are you going?”

“To Aberdeen.”

“You must go to the Cairngorms. It’s what I hope heaven looks like. Oh, the pinewoods. You’ve never seen anything like it.”

“We won’t miss it.”

After she goes, Jack adds the park to the list of things he wants to do. I take the notebook and look at his list. “We only have six weeks, honey.”

“Don’t worry. I’ll pack it all in.”

I know Rosalind immediately when the train pulls in to Aberdeen. She waves to us from the platform. She is small and trim, with bright red hair that tumbles out of her scarf in a ponytail. She’s around my age, but she has that forever-youthful quality that only theater people possess (Theodore is another example). Her face is quite beautiful, with a small, upturned nose and a wide, warm smile. There’s a hint of dusty pink rouge on her cheeks, which makes her blue eyes pop.

“Welcome!” she says, extending her hand. “Donald stayed home; forgive him. He is a slow packer. We’ll be on our way once we show you about the house.”

Jack loads our bags into the back of the van. It’s a beat-up old Volkswagen, painted bright orange with white accents. It has a stick shift—I hope Jack can manage it from the driver’s seat on the right side of the car. As we wind through Aberdeen, Rosalind chatters, telling us of her favorite restaurants and museums. There is nothing cramped or citylike about this place; it has breathing room. There is definitely plenty of antiquity among the modern. His Majesty’s Theatre opened in 1906. It’s named after King Edward VII and sits next to a sleek shopping mall; gardens, with the first crocus peeking through the brown dirt, are planted next to parking garages. I know I’m going to love this place: I can feel the possibilities as we drive through. From the front passenger seat, I look back at Jack, who is taking it all in.

I explain to Rosalind what she can expect in Cracker’s Neck Holler. It’s hard to believe, but she’s as excited to visit our home as we are hers. “This is Spencer Drive, and we’re at 145. Here we are.” Rosalind makes a quick right turn in to their driveway. “We’ve known the neighbors a hundred years; Arthur Kerr is our close friend. He’s next door at 147. He’s handy when anything goes wrong with the plumbing, and he’s an excellent bridge player. If you don’t know how to play, I’m sure he’d love to teach you. He visits a lot. I hope you don’t mind company.”

“Not at all,” I tell her. With drop-in visitors, Aberdeen is sounding an awful lot like Big Stone Gap.

The house is situated on a winding street that seems to go on forever. There is no sidewalk, just a walkway lining either side of the white gravel street. The house is adorable. It’s stone, with dark green wooden shutters, a front door that has wrought-iron details (including a scooped handle where the doorknob goes), and a gingerbread window filled with rose-colored stained glass straight out of a Hans Christian Andersen story.

The front yard is wide and deep. There are several flower beds carved into the grass, with a rickrack of bricks defining the borders. There are two circular gardens and a long rectangular bed in front of the porch.

“Oh, these are the gardens?” I ask Rosalind.

“These are just wild beds.” Rosalind points to a mess of leaves that look like tangled lumps of green yarn without their blooms. She smiles. “The sun and rain are all they need. The real garden is out at the back.”

I look at Jack, who winks at me. “I’ll take care of it,” he whispers. Okay, put gardening at the top of the list.

Donald Philip Stoneman greets us at the door, dressed for travel. I went online and ordered a few of his plays to read before meeting him; he’s a beautiful writer. The multiscene family dramas feel like a little of Chekhov and a lot of Samuel Beckett. Donald is a modern playwright, but he looks old-school. I laughed when I read the last line of his impressive theatrical bio:
D. P. Stoneman still has all his teeth.

“Mr. Stoneman, I’m a fan of your work,” I tell him sincerely.

“Thank you, dear.” His green eyes crinkle shut when he smiles. He’s lanky, with a shock of white hair, a bulbous nose, and a nice grin. He appears to be about ten years older than his wife. He extends his hand. “It’s a pleasure to welcome you to Stone House.”

“That’s funny. We call our home ‘stone house’ too.”

“Well, then, it is all fated, isn’t it?”

Donald and Rosalind take us on a tour of the house. “Say hello to Sir Charles Randolph Wright.” Donald points to a black-and-white cat who appears to be about the same age as our Shoo. Sir Charles is absolutely bored at the sight of us.

Rosalind laughs. “Mr. Personality.”

The living is done on one main floor; the second floor is accessible by a ladder, and it’s strictly for storage. There is a large, comfortable living room at the front of the house, with a fireplace open on both sides. To the right of the fireplace is a short hallway that leads to two bedrooms. The guest room is simply adorned, with two twin beds and a floor lamp and straight-backed chair between them. The master bedroom is a bit more ornate, with a double bed, a large bureau, and an easy chair for reading in the corner. The one bathroom is off the master bedroom, and it’s almost the size of the bedroom. It has a claw-footed tub and a bench. The commode is behind a screen covered in an ivy-print wallpaper.

We make our way back to the living room. On the other side of the fireplace is the kitchen, a well-appointed room with a wooden table set for four in the center.

The loveliest element of the house is a glass conservatory on the back. There is another table and set of chairs here (for all that bridge playing, I suppose). Plants grow lushly in their pots, set neatly against the glass. “This is our herbarium.” Donald chuckles. “I encourage you to use the herbs when you cook. They are identified with markers. See?” He shows us the handprinted stakes in the dirt. “I am partial to rosemary. When you bake chicken, just pull some of these leaves and sauté them in butter, then dress your bird,” he advises. “Delicious.”

“Donald, hurry along. We’ll be late for our train,” Rosalind reminds him.

We follow Donald out the conservatory door to the backyard. It isn’t a yard; every inch is marked and planted. There is a small path around the outer edge to walk, but the expanse is pure garden.

“This is the vegetable garden. If I do my job this time of year, the vegetables last all summer, and what we cannot consume, we put up for the winter. Don’t be shy; there are plenty of yams, onions, and potatoes down in the basement. If you don’t mind, as the weather warms, there are some seeds to plant, and if you’d be so kind, I would like you to get a head start on my lettuce. This is an organic garden.” He points next door. “Old Arthur has a garden too. If you have any questions, he can help you. We make our own batch of compost, and we alternate-plant to keep the soil rich. He can explain all of that.”

“I’ll take good care of it,” Jack promises.

We walk Rosalind and Donald to the front porch and help them put their bags in the taxi. “Have a wonderful time in Big Stone Gap,” we tell them. We wave until they disappear down the lane. I turn to Jack. “What do you think?”

“I’m going to build a fire.”

I put my arms around him. “I think I love it.”

There is nothing like a new setting to revive an old marriage. Jack and I get up early every morning and take long walks, strolls, really, where we stop and look at architecture and gardens as though the city of Aberdeen were a feast prepared just for the two of us. We talk about everything. Jack is much more loquacious than he is at home, what with work and general exhaustion. It’s not that we ignore each other there, but we’re so familiar with each other’s rhythms. This is the perfect spot to reinvent how we treat each other. It’s reconnecting us. We sample the local cuisine: Jack falls in love with haggis (not me), and I fall in love with proper tea at four in the afternoon.

There is a familiar rap on the front door. “Come on in, Arthur!” I call out.

Arthur Kerr is a handsome eighty-year-old who moves as though he’s fifty. His girlfriend, Edith Emerald Turner, is a Scottish beauty of sixty who runs the local painting club where they met. Arthur has already become a regular visitor here.

“Where’s Jack?” he asks me.

“He’s at the university library. He thinks he’s close to finding his family’s roots.”

“Everyone in America is Scottish, eh?”

“Lots.”

“I’ve always wanted to be Italian.”

“Why?”

“It’s warm there, and the food is good.”

“Two excellent reasons.”

“And there’s a third: the women. I don’t have to tell you about them.”

“Arthur, are you flirting with me?”

“At my age? I hope so.”

“I accept your kind aspersions,” I say. I pour the hot water from the kettle into the teapot. I arrange some delicate butter cookies from the local bakery on a small plate, and on another, four small sandwiches made with fontina cheese, cucumber, and white bread. I put these on a tray with our plates, cups, and two linen napkins. “Come on, Arthur, let’s go to the conservatory.” Arthur pulls out my chair at the table. I sit. He sits across from me.

“Jack and I took a ride up the coast to the fishing villages. We stopped at Cullen.”

“Delightful.”

“I love the colors of the houses on the sea—pumpkin and turquoise and bright lilac. Why do they paint them such vivid colors?”

“To be seen. It’s a style called paintworks. The paint is treated with different elements to make it stronger; it actually coats the house against the weather. Some folks put finely ground sand in their paint, while others texture it with a resin that makes it so thick you almost have to wallpaper it on. It’s quite ingenious, really, and practical.”

“It’s so quiet on the coast. It’s undiscovered, isn’t it?”

“It never gets too warm up there, so the thundering herds stay away. Aberdeen is a busy place because of the university—it always has been. Of course, the university is five hundred years old. Everyone knows someone who attended sometime in their family history. Have you visited the grounds?”

“No, but Jack keeps telling me I have to go.”

“You must.”

“I got an e-mail from Rosalind. They’re having a wonderful time. Last week they went to a Baptist tent revival. I couldn’t believe it.”

“They are good travelers. They do a lot of it. She danced with a folk troupe in Russia when they visited Saint Petersburg. Old Roz will try anything.”

“How long have they been married?”

“Thirty-five years.”

“Wow.”