The Memory of Butterflies: A Novel
Grace Greene
PROLOGUE
My daughter, Ellen, will graduate from high school this year.
The closer we get to graduation, the harder the past is coming at me, kicking like a living creature and forcing its way back into my life. With it, it brings happy memories but also those that were gladly forgotten—including the memory of how I lost my Ellen seventeen years ago, then found her again.
I grew up in Virginia, in the woods of Cooper’s Hollow amid the leafy green shadows of Elk Ridge. The rough banks of Cub Creek cut through our land from north to south such that one was never far from the music of its dark water.
Our small house had sheltered many generations of Coopers, including those resting in the family cemetery on the hill opposite the house. I never wanted to be anywhere else except for a brief time, eighteen years ago, when I, myself, was about to graduate from high school. Six years after that, our home in Cooper’s Hollow burned down, and we were forced to move into town—we being Ellen and me.
The nearby town of Mineral wasn’t big by most people’s standards, but from my perspective, it certainly was. Moving into town was scary, in part because Ellen was kindergarten age. I’d never wanted to draw attention, and it would be noticeable if she didn’t start school. It was time for it anyway, and it turned out that when it came to school and being around teachers and other children, Ellen was like a lively duck landing in a sparkling lake—it was made for her. I’d taught her some at home, and the school administrators, recognizing her quick mind, moved her into first grade early. Our new life was a perfect fit for Ellen. So, while I talked for the next dozen years about rebuilding our house and going back to live in the Hollow, I never actually got around to doing anything about it. Instead, I settled into the daily life of being a mom, working at my pottery business, and even volunteering at church and with the ladies’ auxiliary. How my grandmother would’ve laughed at the idea of my toting a homemade pound cake or a pasta casserole to a function! But you fit in as you can where you find yourself, and residing in town was social. Very different from living in the Hollow.
For these last several years, I’ve been biding my time, waiting until the timing was right for both of us—for Ellen to graduate and begin her college career and for me to return home to Cooper’s Hollow permanently—to finally face the past.
CHAPTER ONE
I always knew Ellen and I would be separated one day. Not forever, of course, but time moves on, and children grow up. We’d visited her first-pick colleges early in her junior year, and once she made her choice, there was no changing her mind. The University of Virginia was closer, but Ellen wanted to attend Virginia Tech along with most of her friends. Those college visits had happened last year when her graduation had seemed distant. Now the reality of it was smack in my face.
I’d been fighting a growing melancholy over the last few months, and one morning I woke up and knew it was time for me to move forward, too, as my Ellen was doing. The plans I’d been making since leaving Cooper’s Hollow, plans I’d put off for the benefit of my daughter, would now come to life. My dreams were now in the sure hands of Roger Westray. With his expertise and his unfailing friendship, I never doubted he’d get this done for me.
Roger, sandy-haired and blue-eyed, was waiting for me at Dell’s Diner near his office. I parked my car in the paved lot between his office and the diner and went inside. Roger already had the blueprints and was working on the construction plans for the house. This was no ordinary house he was preparing to build for me. We were blending rustic with modern while keeping the flavor of the original homeplace by salvaging and incorporating the old logs and stone at the site. I wanted more space, too, and definitely more luxuries than the original house. Living in town had given me a taste for conveniences I wasn’t willing to do without.
Roger waved his pencil at me as I entered. His preferred table was the corner booth next to the windows on the shady side. He was friendly and sociable, but he always preferred to face the room. He’d never said much about it, but I understood from remarks here and there that it was due to his years in the army. He liked to see what was coming at him. This morning it was me, and he waved.
“I hope I didn’t keep you waiting,” I said, smiling as I took my seat opposite him.
He grinned and raised his coffee cup in salute. “You’re late.”
I looked past the counter with its stools and at the digital wall clock over the order window. “I’m on time. That clock’s fast. It always is.”
The diner was less than half-full. The morning was moving on. The chatter was low and seldom, and the clatter of dishes and activity back in the kitchen sounded relaxed.
Roger reached into his leather case to pull out the plans.
“What do you have for me?” I leaned forward, eager to see.
We were interrupted as Shelby approached the table, and I sat back.
“Morning, Hannah. Coffee?” She placed a white mug in front of me and set a napkin and spoon near my hand.
Shelby had waitressed for Dell’s longer than I’d been coming here for coffee and the occasional meal. Before that, we’d attended the same high school. The schools were regional here in the country and served a large area, so we’d known each other but hadn’t been close friends. I didn’t know the details of her personal story any more than she knew mine. What we did know was that high school was a generation ago now, and neither of us was quite where we thought we’d be all these years later. But waitressing was honest work, and a smart waitress was a treasure. The café wasn’t known for its cuisine, but the food was tasty and inexpensive, and the atmosphere was congenial.
“Yes, thanks,” I said. “And a sweet roll, too.”
“You got it.” Shelby whisked away.
“Is that your breakfast?” Roger asked as he moved his cup and saucer to the side and ran a napkin over the already clean table before laying out the papers.
“You’re one to talk.”
He shrugged. “On second thought, it hasn’t done you any harm that I can see.”
“Flatterer.” He was right, though. I must’ve been some kind of throwback genetics-wise, not at all like my grandparents. I had a natural tendency to be slim and was delighted that despite being in my late thirties, I could eat pretty much whatever I wanted without repercussions. It was a silly thing to be proud of, and definitely of no particular credit to me, but my “atta girl” list was pretty short, so I didn’t scruple about including it.