Christiane Heggan - Where Truth Lies

Grace left the town behind and followed North River Road, a narrow, winding thoroughfare that led deeper into the heart of Bucks County. As the morning mist lifted, making way for bright sunshine, she understood why Steven, who had an eye for beauty, had chosen this part of Pennsylvania as his new home. And why local artists never tired of painting those magnificent landscapes.

Grace raised her visor so she could feast on the scenery. Ancient oaks and red maples bordered the road, forming a brilliant canopy of yellow, orange and russet. Tucked behind those majestic trees, centuries-old homes overlooked the Delaware River, one of the most historic waterways in the nation. It was difficult to look at this setting and not recall how history was made, right here in Bucks County.

Steven’s cottage, although small, took her breath away. Half-timbered and Northern European in style, it was barely fifteen feet wide, with wood beams on the exterior walls and cedar shingles on the roof. The windows, all leaded glass, were small, but in perfect balance with the rest of the house.

Grace pulled her car onto the graveled driveway, half of which was covered with dry leaves, and went to unlock the door. She found herself in an attractive living room with comfortable sofas and chairs in a plain navy fabric, and plush wall-to-wall carpeting in a neutral shade. A corner of the room had been made into a dining area, with a round maple table and four chairs. The high ceilings and natural flow from one room to the next made the cottage seem bigger than it was. A flight of stairs in the middle of the living room led to a second floor.

She put her suitcase down and took time to look at the mementos Steven had accumulated over the years—an antique peg hook where he had hung art work, a whimsical white gourd lamp and a garden urn that served as a side table. Family photographs were everywhere; some she had seen before, others she didn’t know. On the mantel, above the stone fireplace, was one photograph she knew very well. It had been taken in Santa Barbara, where she and Steven had attended an art festival a few months before their breakup.

The snapshot brought back vivid memories of their two years as a couple, the plans they had made to someday own an art gallery together and the young artists they hoped to discover, all in spite of Sarah’s strong objections.

As the wedding date drew near, however, Grace began to fear that as much as she tried to ignore her future mother-in-law’s criticism, the strain of that relationship would eventually affect her and Steven’s marriage.

“That’s what we call getting cold feet,” her father had cautioned. “If you’re not ready to get married, don’t do it.”

Maybe that’s why Steven’s betrayal hadn’t hurt her as deeply as she had expected. Although wounded at first, after a few days, she was able to look at the breakup as a blessing rather than a tragedy. A few months later, when Steven had called to ask if she could take a look at a sculpture he was thinking of buying, she had surprised herself by saying yes.

She was glad that he had fulfilled his dreams, Grace thought as she kept gazing at the photograph, and saddened that he had enjoyed his success for such a short time. She wasn’t sure why he had kept this snapshot, though. Sentimentality? A memento of what could have been?

After putting the snapshot back, she picked up her suitcase and carried it upstairs. The single bedroom was large and mostly white, with a four-poster brass bed and an adjoining bathroom in the same color scheme. The look was clean and uncluttered without being harsh.

Steven’s clothes hung neatly on the rack in the walk-in closet. There were shirts from Savile Row, cashmere jackets, custom-made suits and designer ties. Shoes and boots in various styles and colors were on an upper shelf.

Glad that she hadn’t packed much, she hung her clothes in the facing rack. Then, remembering that she had a date with Denise Baxter, she stripped and went into the bathroom to shower.

“Believe it or not,” Denise said, taking her role of tour guide seriously. “New Hope started as an industrial town, with mills that were busy manufacturing paper, quarrying stone and grinding grain.”

She unwrapped a sandwich and gave half to Grace. “But even in those early days,” she continued, “the beauty of Bucks County did not go unnoticed. Soon artists began settling along the Delaware River and New Hope became an artists’ colony.”

“I can see why,” Grace said. “The scenery from North River Road is nothing short of spectacular.”

“And it only gets better.”

As she ate her tuna salad on rye, Grace took in the many shops along Main Street, all filled with an assortment of merchandise—candy, antiques, rare books, gourmet food, garden decorations. Business owners had welcomed fall with planters of colorful mums outside their doors and huge corn stalks wrapped around the telephone poles.

“Some of the architecture is beautiful,” she remarked. “Do any of those buildings come with a pedigree?”

“Lots of them. For example, the Logan Inn we passed a moment ago is on the National Register of Historic Places. In fact, New Hope itself is registered as a National Historic Site. That big stone house over there—” she pointed “—is the Parry Mansion, and was once the home of Benjamin Parry, a wealthy mill owner.”

“I’ve already counted five art galleries. Wasn’t Steven worried about the competition?”

“All the time. The one that concerned him most, though, was the Haas-Muth Gallery, just up the street from the Hatfield Gallery. The owner is an artist, but he doesn’t just display paintings. He also sells Oriental rugs, which brings a lot of traffic. Steven was thinking of doing something similar, not with rugs, but maybe with antique clocks.” Her voice turned a little somber. “He never had the chance.”

“Who is that?” Grace asked, nodding in the direction of a twin-spiraled church.

“Father Donnelly. He’s our pastor. He first came here as a young priest many years ago, but the church likes to move their people around and he was sent to another parish. Now he’s back.”

She smiled at the handsome, fortysomething man watching them approach. He wore black pants and a black jacket with a white collar peeking through. “Hello, Father. Were your ears ringing? I was talking about you.”

“I’m flattered.” He rested his gaze on Grace. “You must be Miss McKenzie.”

She extended her hand. “I’m glad to meet you, Father.”

“Welcome to New Hope. I hope you’re recovered from that unfortunate incident last night.”

“Completely, thank you.”

“In that case, you might find time to attend Sunday mass?” His eyes shone with youthful mischief as he talked.

Grace wasn’t much of a churchgoer, but how could she refuse such a gracious request? “I’ll make a point to do that,” she promised.

“You’re incorrigible, Father,” Denise said. “Always trying to garner more parishioners.”

“That’s my job, Denise, as well as my pleasure. Now if you’ll excuse me, ladies, I have to make my hospital rounds. You both have a good day.”

“There goes a good man,” Denise said as the pastor walked away. “He’s been a huge comfort to me. He never preaches, never criticizes and he never pushes you to say anything you don’t want to say. He sits with me and we just talk. He gives me the strength I need to face the day.” She took a bite of her sandwich. “This morning I asked him to look at some earrings I made and give me his opinion.”

“Did he try them on, too?”

Denise laughed. “No, silly, but he would have if I had asked him to. That’s how he is. And speaking of earrings, here’s my shop.”