“I grew up in New York, so I don’t have stories like these,” bemoaned June. “Are you a country girl, Celeste? Is that why you know how to make all these things from scratch?”
Celeste shrugged. “I grew up in Birmingham. Went to art school there too. I didn’t learn any homesteading skills until I moved to an artists’ community a few hours east of here. That’s where Bren was born.”
“I’ve read about communities like that, but they were in big cities like San Francisco or Miami,” said Nora.
“Ours was very unique,” Celeste said with a hint of nostalgia. “Instead of skyscrapers, pollution, and a frantic pace, we had a secluded forest, log cabins, and a peaceful existence.”
“Getting away from the craziness of modern life must have been nice,” said Hester.
Celeste’s expression was wistful. “Our community was meant to be a place for sensitive, creative souls. Quilters, knitters, painters, potters, musicians, glassblowers, metalsmiths, sculptors, fashion and jewelry designers, and so on.”
“Meant to be?” Nora asked. “Did it start off as one thing and turn into something else?”
“You could say that.” A curtain fell over Celeste’s features. She sighed and put her fork down. “Everything’s delicious, but I can’t eat another bite. I have room for one more glass of wine, though. Can I get anyone a refill?”
Estella raised her hand. June and Hester declined. When Celeste got to her feet, Nora asked for directions to the bathroom.
Celeste pointed at a dim hallway. “First door to the right.”
The bathroom had two doors. After locking the door to the hallway, Nora examined the storage cabinet under the sink. Other than toilet paper, everything inside seemed related to soap making. There were soap molds, bottles of olive and coconut oil, high test lye, and a set of mixing bowls. In the shower, she saw a thick bar of soap that smelled of lemongrass and a glass bottle filled with what she assumed was homemade shampoo.
Nora flushed the toilet and washed her hands with a bar of lavender soap. She then opened the second door and tiptoed into Celeste’s bedroom.
Like the living room, the space was sparsely furnished. The bed was a twin mattress pushed into a corner. Her bureau was a set of plastic drawers on wheels. Her nightstand was an overturned milk crate. On the crate was a candle, a gratitude journal, a plant, and a framed photo of a much younger Celeste giving a piggyback ride to a little girl with a gap-toothed smile. Bren.
Looking at the photograph, Nora remembered the main purpose of her visit. It hadn’t been to snoop, but to comfort and support a grieving woman.
As Nora returned to the hall, she heard Hester mention the word stones. She listened for a few more seconds to confirm that her friend was telling Celeste about the evening’s activity, and then approached the door to the second bedroom.
Telling herself that she’d just take a quick peek, she turned the knob. The door was locked. A purplish light escaped from the crack under the door, and Nora heard the rhythmic hum of machinery coming from the other side.
What’s in there?
By the time she rejoined the party, the dinner plates had been cleared, and Hester was gesturing at the assortment of paints, paintbrushes, and stones she’d spread out on the rug.
“You’ll tell us some things that Bren loved, like ice cream, and we’ll paint it on a stone. When we’re done, you can take the stones to her, keep them, or leave them outside for other people to find. It’s totally up to you.”
Celeste dabbed at her eyes and said, “I like the idea of strangers finding art. A surprise that brightens their day. What a lovely way to honor Bren.”
“It is,” agreed Hester. “You can name things from any time in her life. If she loved unicorns when she was eight, then we’ll paint a unicorn.”
Estella held out a warning finger. “Hold on there, Hester. I can paint highlights in hair. Or tiny little flowers on acrylic nails. But I don’t do unicorns.”
“How about a daisy?” Celeste asked. She smiled as she called up a memory. “Bren must have made a thousand daisy crowns for us to wear.”
As she shared other things her daughter had loved like monarch butterflies, tart apples, flying kites, and wishing on stars, there were more smiles.
By the time their stones were painted, Nora and her friends had a clearer picture of Bren’s childhood. She’d spent her whole life among artists and not only had she learned how to make a variety of saleable art, but she could also grow her own food and make her own clothes. Though this self-sufficiency marked her as an outsider at school, she had plenty of friends in the community.