Hope of Cherry Blossom Lane

By Richard Weirich

Hope Hunter dreamed of becoming a professional artist like her grandmother, Henrietta Debose. As a child prodigy studying under the master oil painter, Hope was well on her way, until her 17th birthday when she abandoned her dream to marry Terrence. Their marriage lasted 21 years until his gambling addiction cost them everything.

After a bitter divorce, Hope's grandmother dies, leaves Hope's father out of her will, and bequeaths her estate to Hope, including the house on Cherry Blossom Lane. With renewed optimism, Hope relaunches her dream.

Hope has three weeks to prepare for the grand opening of the Hope Gallery. But life happens and unexpected challenges threaten to kill Hope's dream.
• Her daughter, Jessica, and 5-year-old granddaughter, Emma, move in with her.
• Jessica's abusive husband threatens to take Emma, and Hope's ex moves to town with his new wife.
• Hope's father, Marvin, contests his mother's will and gives Hope thirty days to get out of the house.
• A blizzard wipes out her grand opening.

How much is too much? At what point should she give up?

Weighted down by problems and overwhelmed by doubt, Hope concludes, "Forty-one year old divorcees weren’t meant to be dreamers."

But then - she gets back up...

Hope of Cherry Blossom Lane is a page turning contemporary fiction novel for the dreamer in all of us. A heartwarming and inspiring story about love, forgiveness, reconciliation, and hope.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Richard Weirich
• Release date: Jan 23, 2017
• ISBN: 9781370367658

Richard Weirich

Christian author Richard Weirich writes entertaining and inspirational fiction novels, daily devotionals, and nonfiction books that motivate, challenge, and help believers grow in the faith. Richard’s unique perspective on life is rooted in his many experiences as musician, radio personality, minister, and voiceover talent. Richard grew up in the Shenandoah Valley of Virginia and after high school played trombone in the U.S. Navy Band. While in the Navy, he became interested in radio, enrolled in the Tidewater School of Broadcasting and quickly landed his first radio job in Norfolk, Virginia. For 30+ years Richard was the Burt half of the popular morning radio duo of Burt and Kurt, entertaining listeners in Jackson, Mississippi; Tampa, Florida; Houston, Texas; and Birmingham, Alabama. In Birmingham, Richard prepared for the ministry at Southeastern Bible College and Samford University, which led to a fifteen-year ministerial career serving as pastor of several Alabama churches.

Book preview

Chapter One

August 1982

GRANDMA DEBOSE CARRIED a small wooden accent table to the front lawn and placed it in front of a tall, manicured boxwood hedge. She cut three red roses, dropped them into a vase, and sat them upon the tabletop.

Six-year-old Hope removed an antique Bavarian teacup and saucer from a wicker basket and arranged the ensemble in front of the vase. She had been lectured on the extreme importance of handling the 1893 family heirloom with tender loving care. Hope breathed a sigh of relief after making the successful transfer.

Well done, said Henrietta Debose. Now, what do you think about your setup?

Hope stepped back and studied the arrangement. Can we lay a rose on the table in front of the cup? she asked.

Give it a try.

After a few minor adjustments to the setup, Hope declared she was ready. She sat down on a lawn chair, grabbed a pad and pencil, and started her assignment.

How many more days? asked Hope, tilting her head to analyze her subject.

Sweetheart, you just got here. Your mother won’t pick you up until the end of August.

Penelope hates me.

Your mother doesn’t hate you.

That’s what she said.

How could a parent be so cruel? Henrietta wasn’t aware of physical abuse, but she was concerned by the demeaning and hateful behavior exhibited toward the child. She had often thought of reporting Penelope and Marvin to Social Services, but stopped short. Henrietta’s relationship with her son was bad enough.

It broke Henrietta’s heart to hear Hope call her parents, Penelope and the Captain. It wasn’t because Hope was rebellious or disrespectful. Her birth was viewed as inconvenient, the accident that shouldn’t have happened. In fact, it was Hope’s parents who encouraged her to call them by their first names.

On several occasions, Henrietta offered to adopt Hope, but the Captain wouldn’t allow it. Then let her live with me, she said. Again, her offer was refused. Marvin didn’t want to give up his tax deduction, and Penelope needed Hope to help with household chores. Henrietta challenged that rationale, The child is only six, she said. Penelope countered, The child is remarkably capable for her age. Besides, you’ll just fill her head with that art nonsense.

Henrietta dedicated herself to creating a Shangri-La for Hope, an environment of unconditional love, positive reinforcement, and learning.

Hope ripped the page from her pad and wadded it up. It’s not right, she said.

What’s wrong with it?

The shadows were wrong.

Why?

I messed up.

No. Shadows change with the movement of the sun. Draw the moving parts first.

Henrietta kissed Hope on the top of her head. You’re doing great. Keep it up.

Hope looked up at her grandmother and smiled. Why can’t I live here forever?

Someday you will.

Promise?

I promise.

The assignment was to complete six drawings of the same subject. Later they would analyze each one and determine how to make them better.

It thrilled Henrietta that her granddaughter shared her passion for art. The child was obsessed with learning and her teacher was determined to teach her everything she knew.

* * *

A girl, a head taller than Hope, leaned against her bicycle on the sidewalk and watched the child prodigy work. She giggled when Hope squinted her eyes and stretched her arm to measure her subject.

Funny way to have a tea party, said the girl.

Not a tea party, said Hope, irritated by the intrusion.

My name’s Linda. We moved into the big house at the end of the street.

Hope continued to draw, determined to complete her work.

I’m seven, said Linda. How old are you?

Hope frowned and squinted again.

Linda laughed. Does your face hurt?

No, snapped Hope.

What’s wrong with your eyes?

Nothing’s wrong with my eyes. I’m drawing a picture.

Linda climbed off her bike and opened the gate. Can I see?

Suit yourself.

For a moment, Linda stood behind Hope and observed. Seemed to her that her newfound acquaintance was wasting a good day, better suited for playing with dolls, riding bikes, or having a tea party. What was so important about drawing? And without crayons. How boring.

Looks like a waste of time, said Linda.

Not to me. I would do this all day if my grandmother would let me.

How come?

Because someday I will be a famous artist, just like Henrietta Debose.

Linda wasn’t impressed. You want to play?

When Hope ignored her, Linda took action. She grabbed Hope’s pencil and ran. Can’t catch me!

Round and round she went, taunting Hope as she ran.

Hey, shouted Hope. Give me back my pencil.

Then came a crash — as the rare china cup and saucer scattered in a gazillion pieces on the brick walkway.

Oops, said Linda, standing over the remains.

Hope’s eyes were bigger than the Bavarian saucer before it had broken. She jumped to her feet to survey the damage. Grandma Debose will kill me, she murmured.

Henrietta Debose’s scream from an upstairs window could be heard all about Cherry Blossom Lane. Hope burst into tears and then Linda panicked, hopped on her bike, and hightailed it for home.

Hope’s little body quaked in fear, saddened she had destroyed her grandmother’s treasure, and horrified at the severe punishment to come. Would it hurt as bad as her daddy’s belt? Or would she be sent to bed early without supper, locked in her room, and forced to stay in darkness until morning. Worse yet, would her grandmother tell her daddy about what had happened? She knew the pain he inflicted for minor infractions. This would be worse. Much worse.

Grandma Debose threw open the front door and rushed down the porch steps. She stopped in front of Hope and knelt down, wrapped her arms around the child, and held her close.

It’s okay, sweetheart. Accidents happen.

I’m so sorry, bellowed Hope, tears racing down her cheeks. It was your favorite.

Oh, no, protested Grandma Debose. You are my favorite.

But you screamed. You’re mad at me.

I was afraid you had been hurt. I’m not mad, just glad you’re all right. Let’s get a broom and clean this mess up, and then you and I will have lunch. How about that?

That day, Hope learned a different love that was so much better than anything she had experienced from her mother and father. It made her feel safe, secure, special, warm, and wanted. If only she could live here forever on Cherry Blossom Lane.

Chapter Two

March 2017 - 35 Years Later

THIS WAS THE FIRST DAY of her new life. In the six months since her divorce, Hope Hunter had struggled to survive. Twenty-one years of marriage and all she had to show for it was an outdated wardrobe and a 2001 Ford Explorer with an odometer reading that rivaled her ex-husband’s gambling debt. Three hundred thousand dollars to be exact.

The vehicle had served her family well for fifteen years, and it was the only item of value to survive the bankruptcy. Somehow, perhaps by divine intervention, the Explorer was left off the court’s repo list and awarded to Hope in the divorce settlement. Now, if the old SUV had a little more life in her, Hope would arrive safely at her destination.

It was just like her grandmother to come through for her. The very thought of that great lady brought a smile to her face. The happiest times of her life had been spent with Grandma Debose on Cherry Blossom Lane.

Henrietta Debose taught art at Harmony Springs High School for thirty years. And ten of those years, at least the summer months, were devoted to teaching Hope the intricacies of fine art.

Hope was the spitting image of her grandmother and not just in physical appearance. Hope shared Henrietta’s passion for oil painting. When other children her age were watching TV, Hope was pouring over art books and practicing her grandmother’s art lessons. At 12-years-old, Hope had surpassed the abilities of Henrietta’s advanced high school students. It was a given that Hope was destined for greatness. But things don’t always work out as planned.

In the eleventh grade, Hope fell in love with a handsome senior, the most popular boy in his class. As a result, her summer vacations at the house on Cherry Blossom Lane ended that same year, as did her dream to be the next Henrietta Debose.

On the day after her high school graduation, Hope and Terrence eloped and used her meager savings account to rent an efficiency apartment in Norfolk. It only took three months to deplete their financial resources, causing them to turn to their families for help. Hope’s mother had recently died, and she knew her dad wouldn’t help. And Terrence’s family, still angry about the elopement, refused to get involved. The only relative to offer support was Grandma Debose.

Terrence didn’t want to move to Harmony Springs. Referred to the small northern Virginia town as Hooterville, but it was their only choice. The arrangement lasted eighteen months, longer than any of them had hoped. As Henrietta put it, That boy is getting on my last nerve. Terrence wasn’t blessed with the neat gene, never picked up after himself, and spent so much time in the shower that Grandma Debose had to install a timer.

By the tenth year of their marriage, Terrence had risen from bag boy to district manager for the SaveMore grocery store chain. Hope never questioned his surprisingly good income. He called it bonus money. When the extra income stopped, Terrence attributed the downturn to a slow economy, and a changed bonus structure.

Then one day her wedding ring showed up missing. A month later, a moving van pulled up in front of their house. The man that rang the doorbell presented her with a court order for the removal of all their possessions. Frantic, she called Terrence for an explanation. But he wasn’t there. Haven’t seen him since yesterday, said his secretary. When Terrence didn’t come home, Hope called the police. Three days later, they found him at a motel in Iuka, Mississippi.

Hope felt stupid. The signs of impending doom were there. Unpaid bills. Strangers calling in the middle of the night. And the most telling of all, Terrence had gone into a deep depression. She tried to get him to talk about it, but he always explained it away. He blamed everything on his new boss. Expects too much of me, he said. Nothing I do pleases him.

Hope tightened her grip on the steering wheel and then pounded it with her fist. No matter how hard she tried, she couldn’t put those painful thoughts out of her mind. Abandoned by the man she had lived with for twenty-four years. She had given up everything for him including her dream of becoming an artist. Hope raised his children while he gambled their lives away. Terrence Hunter never lifted a finger at home. Washing clothes, cooking meals, and cleaning house were women’s work, he said. His job was to bring home the bacon. He left out the part about — throwing away the bacon.

Hope Hunter, you’re losing it, she said to herself. Pull yourself together, girl. Personal pep talks had become routine as of late. She would have preferred hiring a counselor, but she had no insurance, another casualty of Terrence’s addiction.

Going back to Harmony Springs was a mixed blessing. It would be wonderful to experience the simpler life of a small town. And there was no place on earth that felt more like home than Grandma Debose’s house. But the thing that made living there so special was gone. Hope still hadn’t come to grips with a world without her precious grandmother.

Listen to me going from one depressing thought to another. My reprobate ex-husband to my dearly departed grandmother, not to mention my poor daughter and granddaughter living in a house with an abusive drunk. And that’s just for starters.

The city limits marker for Port Royal signaled the beginning of the end of her journey, which distracted her from her melancholy. In twenty minutes she would be in Harmony Springs. Hope had planned to stop at the Denny’s in Port Royal, but it was now a used car dealership. Grandma Debose took her there often for the most delicious hot fudge sundaes imaginable. She had been thinking about digging into that creamy delicacy ever since she left Richmond.

For the first time in her life, Hope was doing something for herself. It felt good to be dreaming again, but she feared that her best years were already behind her. Was she crazy to think she could start an art career at forty-one?

When she first received notification that her grandmother had willed all her earthly possessions to her, Hope felt unworthy. The gift should have gone to her Daddy. But her guilt was short-lived, squelched by a cursing tirade from her father. He insisted that Henrietta wasn’t of sound mind when she made out her will and demanded that the estate be turned over to him, the rightful heir. Thus far, Martin Debose had not made good on his promise to take legal action against her.

Hope shouldn’t have been surprised by the gift. Her grandmother adored her and had often said, one day all of this will be yours. But Hope reasoned that Grandma Debose was referring to a time in the distant future when her father willed the property to her. And there was that special request. Promise me, she said, that you will put your God-given talent to good use.

Over the years, Hope continued to paint whenever she could. But there was never time for giving her craft the attention and focus required to be successful. Now she would have access to her grandmother’s north-light studio, her art supplies, and art library.

Zeke Plummer, an old friend of her grandmother and a contractor, was handling Hope’s renovation plan. She had no way of knowing Zeke’s age. In his seventies, at least. When Hope called him, it was just for a reference, but he insisted on doing the job himself. And his offer came with a price she couldn’t turn down.

The two-story wood frame house required a fresh coat of white paint. The front porch badly needed repair. However, the biggest expense would be involved in converting the second floor into a living area, including a kitchen and a den. Downstairs would be transformed into an art gallery. The only room that didn’t need attention was the art studio in the attic. Hope wanted everything the way her grandmother had left it.

It had been a dozen years since her last trip to Harmony Springs. Her daughter, Jessica, had just turned eight. Hope recalled the fun they had at the Cherry Blossom Festival, riding paddleboats and soaring in a hot air balloon.

Zeke told her that Harmony Springs had experienced a revival, a weekend getaway for the rich folks around the Washington beltway. Cherry Blossom Lane had become a showplace of specialty shops and, as Zeke put it, fancy pants restaurants. His description boosted her confidence in her plan for an art gallery. Now, if she could just come up with a good name for the place.

Sure enough, things had changed. A mile outside Harmony Springs there was a new Holiday Inn Express and across the road, a Hampton Inn was under construction. Soon after, she passed a Walmart and a Taco Bell, which worried her. Not that there was anything wrong with those modern additions to the landscape, but she was concerned that the influx of chain businesses might spoil the quaintness and uniqueness of her favorite town.

A billboard on Main Street caught her eye. Could it be true?

The Last Cherry Blossom Festival in Harmony Springs Park

Saturday, March 18

"Out with the Old and in with the New!"

Hope couldn’t imagine a last Cherry Blossom Festival. She hoped there was another interpretation that was alluding her at the moment. That however, was an issue for a later date. Uppermost on her mind was the reason she had come, her new home and business on Cherry Blossom Lane.

From Main Street, Hope turned right onto Center Street and soon after, left onto Cherry Blossom Lane. First word to come to mind, wow. It had always been a lovely street lined with Cape Cod and Colonial style homes, and white picket fences.

Since her last visit, most of those wonderful old homes had been converted into an assortment of colorful specialty shops and restaurants. The only thing missing were the cherry blossoms that were just budding. In three weeks, they would be in full bloom. Her grandmother had created many paintings of those gorgeous trees. She said they represented rebirth, new beginnings, and hope. The blossoms only last two weeks, she said. A reminder that life is short and we must make the most of it while we can.

Gone were the names she remembered like Ophelia Smith, Mr. and Mrs. Bagley, and her grandmother’s best friend, Ilene Chadwick. In their stead, business names like Ware’s B&B, Heaven Scent Candles and Soaps, Dorothy’s Gourmet Chocolates, English Garden Flowers, Forever Antiques, The Perfect Gift Shop, and Le Bistro Francais. A fitting setting to start her new business. Then it hit her — The Hope Gallery. Perfect.

And there it was. The ninth building on the left, Grandma Debose’s house, 118 Cherry Blossom Lane. But her excitement turned to disappointment when she saw the condition of the place. Zeke promised her that the home would be move-in-ready — today. The scaffolding on the side of the house and the stacks of wood on the front porch sent a different message.

If Hope had ever seen Zeke, she couldn’t recall. However, it seemed logical that the elderly man sitting on the porch with a lunch pail in his lap must be him.

He stood up when he saw her and waved. Hey, missy. You must be Hope.

Hope stepped out of the vehicle and stretched while contemplating what she had gotten herself into. Zeke?

That’s me. Been called that for eighty-one years. Wasn’t expecting you until tomorrow. Zeke crammed his half-eaten sandwich into his lunchbox and slammed the lid. Ran into a little trouble with the plumbing upstairs. Slowed us down a bit.

Hope navigated around a tarp and a stack of paint cans and climbed the stairs. How bad is it?

These old houses have strange plumbing. Took me better part of a day to figure out how to run a line into that bedroom where you wanted your upstairs kitchen. Put us behind on painting the exterior and replacing the floorboards on the porch. Other than that, we’re pert near done.

So I can still move in today.

No, ma’am. Don’t expect that would be advisable. The water’s turned off and we can’t get it back on until the city inspector comes out and gives his blessing.

How long will that take?

He’s coming out before the end of the week.

So — maybe tomorrow?

I wouldn’t count on it. The Water Department boys aren’t known for their speed at getting things done.

Best guess. When can I expect to move in?

Well, we’ve still got to sand and stain the upstairs floors. Two days for that. Another day to finish the sheetrock in the upstairs kitchen. Zeke slipped off his ball cap revealing a shiny dome. We’ll have you in by Saturday.

Four days? Hope couldn’t imagine where she would stay. She couldn’t afford more than a night in a hotel. Even that would stretch her limited funds. She had about $10,000 left from her grandmother’s estate. The remaining $20,000 was designated for the renovation. Then she had a frightening thought. Would these extra days throw her project over budget? How much more will this extra time cost me?

Not a penny more than what we agreed upon. Come on inside and take a look at what we’ve done.

It was hard to believe Zeke was eighty-one. His voice sounded the part, raspy and weak. But his body was lean and fit.

Sheets were draped over the furniture and the house smelled of fresh paint. Gone was her grandmother’s dated wallpaper. The clean white walls made the old living room look larger.

It’s wonderful, Zeke. Removing the dining room wall made a huge difference. Just what I wanted.

We’re lucky it wasn’t a loadbearing wall. She ripped right out of there like she was tired of standing. Zeke stood by a new panel of switches near the doorway. This here is where you control the lighting for your gallery. Push this one to turn on the overhead lights. This dimmer control activates your floods for your paintings.

Hope gave it a try, putting the dimmer through its paces. This is so cool, she said, grinning with delight.

Zeke strolled into the area that was once the dining room and motions for her to follow. I think you’ll like what we’ve done with the kitchen.

We? He said we. A saw roared from the floor above clarifying his meaning.

That’s my boy, Harold, yelled Zeke, attempting to be heard over the noise. Best floor man in the Shenandoah Valley.

It was obvious that Zeke was proud of his work. He caressed the butcher-block island with his fingers. We sanded her down. Smooth as silk, he said, still raising his voice to be heard.

Hope looked around the room, amazed at how her renovation plan worked out better than she had imagined. The downstairs kitchen with its newly painted white cabinets and new appliances would be the perfect area for preparing her paintings for hanging and providing refreshments for her guests.

I’ll bet that old wallpaper had been in here since the fifties, said Zeke, patting the wall. We like to never get that stuff off. But she sure looks pretty now.

You have done an amazing job. I was worried that all these changes would change the feel of the house. But — if anything — it’s better.

Zeke still wasn’t finished with his tour. Let’s head on upstairs and take a look at your apartment. Just watch your step up there. It’s a work in progress.

The deafening sound of the power tool had stopped, replaced by heavy boots stomping on a wooden floor. When they arrived on the landing, she saw two men.

Zeke introduced them. This here’s my son, Harold and his boy, Jonathon. Fellows, this here’s, Hope Hunter.

They exchanged pleasantries and then Zeke led her from room to room. The bedroom where Hope stayed when she visited was now the kitchen. A wall between her grandmother’s office and a second bedroom had been removed. The enlarged room was to be her den and the remaining bedroom, the master. Grandma Debose’s old bedroom on the entry level would be used as a guest bedroom.

She couldn’t have been happier with the results. Before she left to find a lodging, she asked Zeke if he knew of good sign maker who worked cheap.

You’re looking at the best one I know about, he said, revealing a perfect set of pearly whites. There ain’t much to do with wood I can’t do. What kind of sign would you be wanting?

A nice sign for the front yard with the name of my business, The Hope Gallery. Hope paused to consider a tagline. And right under it — Fine art for fine people.

Zeke walked outside with her and told her to get him a photograph of a sign she liked. Might take us a week or two to get to it, he said. We’ve got some other projects.

How much?

Like I told you. Your grandma and me were friends. We’ll just make your sign a part of our deal.

Now, Zeke. I can’t have you do it for nothing.

Then bake me a pie or something. Where do you think you might stay for the next few days?

I wish I knew.

If you don’t mind me making a suggestion.

Please.

Down at the end of the street is Ware’s Bed and Breakfast. Mrs. Ware will treat you right.

Chapter Three

INSIDE HER SUV, HOPE HAD STUFFED the remains of her failed marriage. Thanks to Terrence, there was no furniture to move, just her clothes, toiletries, family photo albums, cooking accessories, and her paintings. But getting to the stuff she needed for an overnight stay in a hotel would be next to impossible, unless she removed everything, which is what she did.

Hope was running on adrenaline, energized by the excitement of seeing her grandmother’s home that was now — her home. She went right to work, carrying in armloads of her belongings and storing them in Henrietta’s downstairs master bedroom.

Zeke ordered his grandson to offer assistance, but Hope wouldn’t hear of it. Since very few of her personal effects were in boxes, she preferred to handle the chore herself. She also didn’t want anybody touching her paintings. An unintentional fingerprint or a scratch might damage her future livelihood.

As she carted in the final load, Hope considered the possibility of rejecting Zeke’s notion that she couldn’t stay there without running water. She could make it a night without a bath, couldn’t she? Impulsively, when nature called, she walked into the downstairs bathroom. There she encountered a more important water-related issue. So much for her brilliant idea. Back to Zeke’s plan.

Hope brought fifty dollars with her, which she had intended to spend on groceries to last her through the week. It had been at least five years since she had stayed in a hotel. She recalled complaining to Terrence about the outrageous price of seventy-five dollars a night. There was no telling what rates were now. Multiply four nights by seventy-five dollars. Good, Lord. One night was all she could afford. Zeke was going to have to get the water turned on sooner.

There remained one more thing she wanted to do before she departed. She had failed to visit the most important room in the house, Grandma Debose’s art studio.

Thought you’d already left, said Zeke, as she appeared on the upstairs landing.

I forgot something important.

Thinking there might be a problem, Zeke’s son and grandson stopped working.

Problem? asked Harold in his booming deep-toned voice.

Forgot to check out the attic, said Hope, opening the stairwell door.

We weren’t supposed to do anything up there, were we? asked Zeke.

No, sir. I just wanted to see it.

It’s your castle. Have at it.

She had forgotten how badly the steps squeaked. Her grandmother used to say she was thankful for those creaky stairs. That way nobody can sneak up on me whilst I’m painting, she said.

Opening the studio door was like stepping into a time capsule. She was twelve-years-old again, looking in wonder as Grandma Debose created a masterpiece.

Above Hope’s head was Henrietta’s pride and joy, her skylight, perfectly situated for northern light. Hope didn’t ask, but she bet that Zeke had something to do with the installation of that great window in the roof.

Her grandmother was a perfectionist. Everything had its place. Like always, her brushes were protected and properly stored. Her palette was clean, and her paints were stowed in the tiny drawers of a sideboard cabinet.

Henrietta pinched pennies but never with her art supplies. Only the best would do. If you’re going to paint like a pro, she would say, you must work like a pro. Never skimp on your art materials and treat them with love and care.

Hope stood at a window overlooking the front yard. She gazed across the street to what was once the home of the McDougals. They took such pride in their home. The lawn of the white Cape Cod house was a showplace, always perfectly manicured. Mrs. McDougal’s colorful flower garden was a frequent source of inspiration for Grandma Debose’s paintings. But all those gorgeous roses, peonies, and hydrangeas were gone now, replaced by a parking area for the customers of the Cup Cake Cottage.

At the opposite end of the attic studio was a closet in which Henrietta stored her paintings. If any of her grandmother’s finished work remained, Hope planned to display them in her gallery. Not for sale but as a tribute.

After swiping her hand through several unpleasant spider webs, Hope found more treasures than she could have imagined. Dozens of paintings by Henrietta Debose. But there were also some surprises. Her grandmother had kept all of Hope’s paintings. On each, Henrietta had stamped the completion date.

It was good for Hope to have a chronological representation of her growth as an artist. In recent years, she believed her work had become stagnant, uninspired, and not on par with what she used to do during her summers on Cherry Blossom Lane. Happily, she was wrong. She had improved substantially since her teens. The stress of life had blinded her to reality.

The art books were still there, in serious need of some dusting, but otherwise in excellent condition. She grabbed one her old favorites, featuring the works of Anders Zorn. Dusted it off and slipped it under her arm.

Briefly, she sat down at her grandmother’s easel and reminisced. Except for a few cobwebs, everything was in its place, just as it was thirty years ago. Even the old necklace with